by Sue Orsen
We were under the Tuscan Sun and much of the time we were trying to step out of it and into the shade. 
The Tuscan Sun was very hot and the Tuscan Sky was very blue.  Temperatures hovered at the high end of the Fahrenheit 80's.  Drenching humidity filled the famous Italian boot from toe to top.  We enthusiastically welcomed occasional breezes off the Tiber River or the Adriatic or Mediterranean Seas.
Only on our very last day in Italy, on our way to the airport in Milano, did we wake to a cool dawn, an overcast sky, and then raindrops dribbling down the side windows of our tour bus.  For a change, everyone was silent.  It seemed that Italy was crying because we were leaving.  Was it already over?
The sun had greeted us and warmed us at every ancient site -- from the majestic ruins of the Coliseum and the Catacombs of Rome to the Abbey of Montecassino, from the remnants of Pompeii to the sanctuaries of Sorento and the haunting Isle of
Capri.
The sun had greeted us from the rumbling Funicolare in the hilltop town of Orvieto to the verandas in Assisi, from the Pieta of Michelangelo and Florence to San Gimignano in the heart of Tuscany, from the strolling street of Chioggia to the gondolas and sinking islands of Venice.
We in turn had greeted the sun each morning as Mhairi our tour director taught us to sing a little ditty together.  "Singing is good for the soul," she said, "and that's why singers are not cruel people."  And so we chimed with her ...

Oh, the sun has got his hat on
Hip, hip, hip, hooray!
The sun has got his hat on
And he's coming out to play!

There's no place to begin except at the beginning, and so shall it be!  If you've got a heart for history, a soul for sentiment, or a palate for pasta, you might enjoy this story where each day was as clear as Chianti and each night was as mellow as Merlot.

From the Schipol Airport in Amster-dam we flew to Rome and eventually came to meet Mhairi Maclaren, whose roots and home were Scottish and whose tongue was adept in several languages, including Italian!  Mhairi delivered us to the Hotel Villa Pamphili on the outskirts of Rome, not an extravagant place but also not wanting, once we figured out how to keep the air conditioning working.
There were 45 of us on the tour from across the USA, including the six of us longtime Minnesota friends - the Flora's from Fridley, the Pauly's from Chanhas-sen, and the Orsen's from Victoria.
Mhairi was an entertainer as well as historian who kept us riveted by her stories and knowledge of past and present.  "It's been very dry," she said.  "We're losing our horse chestnuts."
As we bumped down the narrow cobbled streets lined with old three and four-story buildings - almost everything is old in this old country - she said, "Most people in Italy, especially in Rome, live in apartments.  The tiny balconies are their gardens."  We observed the crowded pots and plants that were not suffering from their dense quarters.
She added, "People in Italy don't leave home the way they do in America. 
The sons especially love their mother's cooking."  Mhairi did not use the phrase "Mama's boys," but that's what came to mind.
Since we were to spend four days in Rome, she warned us, "If you are in the center of Rome, I cannot vouch for your safety.  It's every man for himself."  She noted that Rome is notorious for pickpockets.  She didn't say what percent of Rome's 3 million population might be so afflicted. 
At a restaurant that very first evening we were plied with song and wine and pizza, as much as anybody wanted. 
Click here to continue Under the Tuscan Sun.