Under the Tuscan Rain

It was just like the movie. But with no sun.

So, imagine Diane Lane in a monsoon, saddled with three mud-splattered kids,  hopped up on lollipops, sabotaging wine tastings and kami-kaze puddle diving.

And it was as cinematic as that.

Upon our arrival at the charming agriturismo Casale di Santamettole, nestled in the sodden foothills of a rural Tuscan village, we were greeted by our gracious host, Emanuele, who effortlessly carried off that second-skin-snug-fit Euro jean thing.

How do these straight men do it? I'll never know.

Anyhow, cue Colson's emergence from his backseat Britax lair, shedding Goldfish crumbs from his potbelly. When all of the sudden, he spies the family cat and threatens, "I am going to get that cat. I am going to kill that cat."  Kill. that. cat.

Perfecto!

Ciao Emanuele. Nice to meet you. Thank you for welcoming us and our sociopath children into your lovely home.

Ironically, it is Colson who has a greater affection for animals than St. Francis.  And the situation is generally more like the one in Athens: We chased him. He chased a cat, yelling: "I am going to get that cat. I love that cat. I love you, cat!!!!!"  

(The cat remained unconvinced.)

I assured our gracious host in saran-wrap jeans that Colson's love for cats is fierce. And hard to express (in ways that makes sense.)

And so we trod through the lawn-swamp towards our romantically, rustic accommodations. Because nothing says romance like spooning with your babies. All of them. Each night.

Confession: Standing in line for Michaelangelo's David, I finally made the realization that Firenze and Florence are the same city.  Shameful. *Sigh*

Yes, I know- Am I even qualified to educate my own children?  We'll just have to wait to see how that plays out.

Anyhow.

Florence (masquerading as Firenze on maps and street signs everywhere) is just lovely. With that whimsical beauty of Medici fame, the birthplace of the Renaissance still boasts a elegant artistry esteemed by residents and tourists alike.

Save for my own bambini. 

Whose general posture towards celebrated renaissance art is "Ain't nobody got time for that."

One glaring exception to their own rule was within the hallowed halls of the Accademia Gallery, where the imposing sculpture of David is confidently poised with marbled toes gripping the pedestal. Wearing nothing but a smile. *wink*

Just kidding. He's not evening smiling.

I think my friend Rick (Steves, that is) puts it better:  The renowned shepherd king was "clothed only in confidence."

So Goliath's Florentine nude nemesis got my kid's attention. 

Which really proves the talent of Michaelangelo. (Or their love of nakedness)

Later,  we (and by "we", I mean my friend Jamie) discovered the best pizza in Firenze, a little hipster joint called Simbosi. Now, normally, I discount pizzerias that tout their organic integrity.   Clean eating and pizza seem an unpalatable union anywhere but at this quaint wood-fired oven eatery.  

Go there. And then try to tell me I am wrong. Impossible.

The rain was fairly relentless. But so were we.

We ran for trains we nearly missed. We stood in lines we could have avoided. We dodged mo-peds and security guards and gypsies we barely saw coming. And we ate  organic pizza that probably cures cancer.

It was like a romantic comedy without the romance. Memorable, heartwarming, wet: Under the Tuscan Rain. 

Psalmist. Shepherd. Nudist. King.

Pizza at Simbosi. Don't hold the organic thing against them. 

Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore 

Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore 

It stopped raining for a hot minute so we could take this photo. (And for no other reason)

my men. 

In front of the lovely Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore 

This looks like a clothing ad. In Firenze. 

Oh, Chuck. 

Two beauties in front of a beautiful baptistery

One more time. . .Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore 

The entourage