Arezzo looks different to me now. I came to Italy during my college years, but I stuck to the touristy stuff. We took a day trip through Arezzo, during which I snapped some pictures for my family and promptly got back on the bus. Maybe I was just too young to appreciate it. I couldn’t have cared less about architectural or family history back then, as I had more important matters on my mind, like the hotness of the Notre Dame rugby team, who’d joined our tour group down in Rome.
The Angelini side of my family is originally from Arezzo. However, we didn’t have this magnificent view from the mountaintop because we lived in the valley below. We were farmers, descendants of the old Mezzadri system. The padrone, or boss, lived on the highest peak, where, from his palazzo, he would oversee the harvest of the olive trees and the yield of the grapes. The farmers exchanged their labor for food and lodging on the padrone’s land, and even the children helped pick the crops. From the looks of this valley, I would have been very happy to be a serf, walking through these deep green fields under a bright blue Tuscan sky.
“Let’s go,” Gram says and climbs back into the rental car. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” I slip behind the wheel. I’m driving a stick shift for the first time in twelve years. The last stick I drove was Bret Fitzpatrick’s, on his 1978 Camaro. “I’m going to have biceps of steel when this trip is over.”
I drive carefully into town as there are no sidewalks, folks just cross the streets willy-nilly, anywhere they please. Arezzo is a haven for poets. The baroque architecture with its ornate details is the perfect backdrop for artists to gather. Tonight, young writers type on their laptops on the steps of the public square and on tables under the portico of an old Roman bath that now houses offices and small shops. There is a feeling of community here, one I wouldn’t mind being a part of.
The incline up to the hotel is steep, so I gun it. As I reach the curve of the road behind the square, Gram asks me to stop.
She points to a small peach-colored stucco storefront with dark-wood-beam accents. “That’s the original Angelini Shoe Company.” The old workshop is now a pasticceria that sells coffee and sweets.
“It was also the homestead. They lived upstairs, just like us,” she adds.
The second story has glass doors that lead to a balcony filled with terra-cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums. “No tomatoes, Gram.”
She laughs and directs me up the street to park outside the Spolti Inn, a rambling hotel built of fieldstone. I help Gram out of the car and unload our bags. My grandparents stayed at this inn every time they traveled to Tuscany on their buying trips.
The staff of the hotel know Gram, as do the locals. Some even remember her great-aunts and -uncles, Gram tells me. Most custom shoemakers get their leather from Lucca, while Gram insists on Arezzo, where our family has used the same tanner for over 100 years.
As we climb the steep stone steps to the entrance of the hotel, Gram lets go of my arm, pulling in her stomach and straightening her spine. She takes the banister. With her brown hair and peasant skirt, black cotton blouse and sandals, she could be twenty years younger. It’s only when her knees give her trouble that you notice her age.
We pass through a small, open breezeway lined with an eclectic mix of marble planters spilling over with edelweiss, daisies, and bluebells.
“Signora Angelini!” the woman behind the desk cries.
“Signora Guarasci!”
The old friends greet each other with a warm embrace. I take in the lobby. The front desk is a long mahogany counter. There’s a slotted wooden box holding the room keys on the wall behind it. It could be 1900 except for the computer next to the sign-in book.
A deep sofa, covered in gold-and-white damask, is anchored by two ornate floor lamps and an overstuffed gold chenille ottoman that serves as a coffee table. The overhead chandelier is white wrought iron with cream-colored linen shades over the bulbs.
Signora Guarasci is a petite woman with small hands and thick white hair. She wears a blue cotton skirt with a pressed white smock over it, gray tights, and open black leather clogs, a more stylish version of the plastic ones that Roman wears in the kitchen of Ca’ d’Oro. The signora embraces me as Gram makes my introduction.
While Gram catches up with her old friend, I take our bags, climb the stairs, and find our rooms. I unlock the door to number 3, place my suitcase by the door, and look over my new surroundings. The spacious corner room is painted sunflower yellow with off-white trim. There’s a high, soft double bed with six fat feather pillows and a pressed black-and-white-checked coverlet. There’s an antique oak library table under the windows. An old gray rocking chair is positioned near a white marble fireplace, both looking like they have been here for a hundred years. I open the windows and a cool breeze blows through, turning the long white muslin draperies into billowing ball gowns. The walls of the open closet are lined in cedar, which gives the room a green, woodsy scent.
The bathroom that connects my room to Gram’s is simple, with black-and-white-checked tile, a deep ceramic tub with a shiny silver handheld nozzle, and a marble sink with an antique mirror over it. A large bay window on the far wall looks out over a garden. Privacy shades are pulled to the top. The signora has left the window open, letting in more of those fresh spring breezes.
I go back out into the hallway, pick up Gram’s luggage, and unlock the door to room number 2. Gram’s room is twice the size of mine, done in china blue and white, with windows the length of the room, and a full seating area with two low chairs and a sofa covered in white duck fabric.
“How are the rooms?” Gram asks as I skip back downstairs.
“Gorgeous. Now I see why you stay here.”
“Wait until you taste the signora’s cooking,” Gram says.
Signora Guarasci enters the lobby and claps her hands together. “Now, you eat.”
I help Gram up off the very soft sofa. She takes my arm as we go into the dining room.
“When we go home, I’m making an appointment with Dr. Sculco at the Hospital for Special Surgery. You’re getting your knees replaced.”
“I am not.”
“You are, too. Look at you. You’ve got mod hair, good skin, and a great figure. Why should you suffer with bad knees? They’re the only thing about you that’s eighty years old.”
“My brain is eighty.”
“But nobody can see that in a pencil skirt.”
“Good point.”
We take our seats at a table by the windows that overlook a small pond at the back of the house. Every table is set with cutlery, pressed napkins, and small vases of violets even though we are the only patrons in the dining room.
Signora Guarasci pushes through the kitchen door carrying a tray with two ceramic crocks of soup and a basket of crusty bread with a tin of butter. The signora pours us each a glass of homemade red wine from a decanter, then goes back into the kitchen.
“Perfetto! Grazie.” Gram raises her glass.
“I like having you with me, Val,” Gram says. “I think this is going to be a great trip for both of us.”
I taste the minestrone made of pork, root vegetables, and beans in a thick tomato broth. “This is de-lish.” I put the spoon down and break off a piece of the warm crusty bread. “I could stay here forever. Why would anyone ever leave?”
“Well, your grandfather had to. He was six years old when his mother died. Her name was Giuseppina Cavalline. Your great-grandfather called her Jojo.”
“What was she like?”
“She was the most beautiful girl in Arezzo. She was about nineteen when she walked into the Angelini Shoe Shop and asked to speak with the owner. Your great-grandfather, who was around twenty-two at the time, fell in love at first sight.”
“And what about Jojo? Was it mutual?”
“Eventually. See, she had come by to order custom shoes. My father-in-law, so eager to impress her, trotted out samples of the finest leather and showed her the best designs. But Jojo said that she didn’t care if the shoes were fashionable. Your great-grandfather thought this was very odd. What young woman doesn’t love the latest styles? Then she turned and walked across the room and your great-grandfather saw that she had a very pronounced limp. And she said, ‘Can you help me?’”