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ONE SUMMER, TO CELEBRATE my 50th birthday, we rented a villa outside Lucignano, Italy with our good friends, the Pattersons. It was called Villa Sara, and I had no expectation other than it would be in Tuscany, and there was a pool so my son would be happy. We were all happy. From my three small bedroom windows each about the size of a shoebox, I could see a real-life landscape rising before me and at the top, a Medieval hill town. If you exited our front door, walked down the drive, turned right and hiked up the hill, you reached Lucignano. Along the way you would pass green-gold grapes in the vineyards, silvery olive trees that rustled in the breeze, and maize-colored houses and apartments, each with a burnished terracotta roof. Cypress trees poked like tall pencils into a deep blue sky. Lucignano was quaint with few tourists, mostly older residents, like the men who gathered for a game of cards and coffee on the square. If you went out to dinner, you’d better plan on spending the evening. Nothing was rushed. And children came along for dinner no matter the hour. There were no iPads, no babysitters to whisk them away, they just nibbled bread sticks while waiting on pasta and then gelato, and then came the walk back home fortunately, down the hill... Subscribe to Anne Byrn: Between the Layers to unlock the rest.Become a paying subscriber of Anne Byrn: Between the Layers to get access to this post and other subscriber-only content. A subscription gets you:
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