Porchetta, the Arno, and Peccioli

9/7 – Buti to Peccioli – 18.94

September 7th was a Sunday, and as such, the majority of my walk was lonely, through what felt like a ghost town. Particularly striking was a long straight road, featuring billiard table showrooms, motorcycle part factories, and large birch tree farms, all completely devoid of human life. I pushed past this row of commercial-industrial establishments, smiling to myself at how this area, very much in the middle of Tuscany, would be the last place a visitor would expect to see. Now that I think back on it, I find it rather exhilarating, but in the moment I must admit that it was a bit dreary.

Porchetta

Then I saw the van, much like the ones used to serve lunch at construction sites. He sign advertised “porchetta,” which I immediately knew to be some sort of pig product, and therefore of intense interest to me. I approached the van, and there it was, a roasted pig sitting on the counter above the glass display case, shimmering in its porcine glory.

I asked the friendly lady for a porchetta sandwich, and commented on the ghost town I had just passed through. She was obviously curious to see a traveler in those parts, and asked me what the story was. I told her, and saw her heart melt in front of me. “Whatever you do,” she said, with feeling, “remember to call your mother, because she must be sick with worry.” “I do,” I said, “every few days. She is worried sick, though, no matter what I tell her.” “That’s what mothers are for,” she nodded, and told me about her own children and their travels. She then gave me the sandwich at a discount, and made sure that I realized it was a good one. I thanked her profusely and took a seat to enjoy my slice of heaven.

Sandwich, you think. With the usual fixins: bread, pork, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, two kinds of cheese, avocadoes, sun dried tomatoes, sesame seeds, roasted pepper, hummus, tabouleh, sauerkraut, mustard, kalamata olive tapenade, sal-peppa-ketcha (UPenn alums will understand that one), and a ginormous pickle on the side. Wrong! We’re talkin’ bread and pork, period. When you see a sandwich here, and it says speck and brie, or mozzarella and tomato, don’t open it to see if they added too much mayo. You got what you asked for, and that’s it, basta! So it was with my porchetta sandwich; she sliced off heaping chunks of pork from the dead, seasoned carcass, stuffed a piece of bread with the glistening morsels, not forgetting to throw in some glazed and salted skin, and voila! Man, I wish I could have taken a picture of that pig and the lady, but alas, it was not the time or the place for such frivolity. I only got a picture of the sandwich, and as I took it in a hurry, it came out pretty blurry. So you’ll just have to use your imagination and picture the Italian version of Lunchlady Doris heaping on an extra portion for this out-of-place walker. Now, if you don’t like pork, I probably just made you vomit your lentil-paprika-eggplant-shitake sandwich with baba ghanoush-tzatziki-sriarcha sauce. However, if you’re like me, and would choose pig as the only animal you’d eat from now on should you have to choose (Mel, I know you’re with me on this), then this was the ultimate reward for a desolate stretch of road.

Passing the Arno, Tuscan countryside

Thanking Lunchlady Giuseppina (I’ve forgotten her real name, but that was the flavor of it, anyways), and replying once again that I would call my Mother frequently, I continued to Pontedera, crossing the famous Arno on the way. This river (pictured) happens to pass through both Firenze and Pisa, and I had for one second a pang of regret for having skipped both. Then I thought better of it, felt glad to see this river at a spot very few others would ever see, and kept on walking.

Past Pontedera, I began to see large expanses of sunflowers, dead and drying in the sun (and can't find the picture of it to share with you, oops). I was a little bummed that I missed the dazzling spectacle of thousands of sunflowers in full bloom, but remembered that starting earlier would have meant missing the wildflower explosion I witnessed in Valle D’Aosta. Nothing could beat that.

Still, there is a certain consulting company to which I had previously applied that features a photo with thousands of sunflowers and one head and shoulders above the rest. I would have loved to take a picture in the middle of one of those sunflower fields, standing head and shoulders above the flowers, and then send it, along with my resume, to that consulting firm. I can picture the look on their faces now as they open that jpeg, and the moment of realization hits them. It was not to be, unfortunately, though I did have a good healthy giggle about it.

A long, tedious stretch later, I was finally within view of my resting point for the day, Peccioli. I took advantage of the conveniently placed gazebo to LIE (not lay, can’t fool this old dog, not again) down for an hour or so, and was soon ready to tackle the last stretch of hill.

Peccioli

I arrived just as the bells started to chime, at 6:00 PM, and was immediately taken with this charming little town. A coffee at the local bar bought me the whereabouts of a hotel and an Agriturismo. A quick call to the hotel ruled it out as a viable option, and I quickly made my way to the Agriturismo, eager to reach it after a long day’s hike. I walked down where they had told me to walk, but when I had walked a good half-mile, I turned around to make sure I was not walking down the wrong road. A talk with the local old men, by now undisputed in their position as best information givers, convinced me that I had not gone for enough, so I headed back down, admittedly frustrated.

I took a turn down a dirt road, feeling that this was surely it, and walked another quarter mile, ending up on a farm which was clearly not what I wanted. Then the rain started to pour hard and fast as the surprised farmer explained the correct path. I helped him unload his truck, seeing that he needed a hand in this sudden storm, and turned back up the dirt hill, now thoroughly wet.

Around a bend about 75 feet from where I had stopped in the first place, I now saw the clear indications for the Agriturismo. I had just finished my longest walk of the trip, 18.94 miles, without counting that last stretch. The Agriturismo was expensive, as they only had a matrimonial suite (heard that one before) but I was now thoroughly out of options.

It was now dinnertime, so back up the hill I went to town, and landed at a pizzeria/dessert store/wine bar. I had a calzone, my first of the trip and a bit out of place for the region, but absolutely delicious all the same. When I had eaten my fill of the calzone, salad, and delicious house red wine, I sat and people-watched a bit.

As the waitress gathered my plates, she suddenly asked, apropos of nothing “are you a walker?” I was not wearing my “please ask me about my walk across Italy t-shirt,” since it was dirty at the time, so I was quite taken aback that she had guessed so accurately. I asked her if she saw me on the road somewhere, but she hadn’t. As I found out, Lorella was the owner of the restaurant, and an avid walker. She had caught on early to the “Nordic Walking” craze, which uses trekking poles and a specific walking rhythm and posture.

Within seconds Lorella and I were in full, excited conversation, sharing stories and laughing about the coincidence. She shared with me her recently-finished book, a journey through cypress-lined paths in Tuscany, linked with her life experiences, philosophy, and Nordic walking. I thought this sounded like an excellent idea for a book, and was impressed by her presentation, as well as her inside knowledge of the area, which after all was her home base.

By now, the restaurant was completely closed, but I sat around with Lorella, her mother, husband, and two of her girlfriends for quite some time, laughing about coincidences and feeling, for the thousandth time, extremely fortunate. Lorella vowed to help make my walking experience a fruitful and unforgettable one, and I believed that she would; it was clear that once she made up her mind to help, this lady meant it. I love this kind of person, one who sticks by their word and is tireless in their desire to help others. May I be the same way all my life…

Having agreed to walk together tomorrow morning for part of the walk to Volterra, she insisted on offering the fabulous dinner free of charge, and we parted friends.