Under the Tuscan Sun
A few years ago, when I was still in high school, I traveled to Europe. It was the summer after September 11th. I was 15. The trip spread out across Europe: England, France, Italy, and Greece. It was, perhaps, my first time traveling by myself, and even though I’d been through the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport a dozen and a half times before, it was weird navigating through the crowds without my mom and sisters in tow.
The other People to People delegates and I spent about ten days in Italy, maneuvering through the country on a huge touring bus. Our summer theme song was “Wonderwall” by Oasis. Our tour guide sang with an accent.
I remember that Sheryl Crow’s “Soak up the Sun” just came out. A friend of mine bought it in Paris.
I was surprised when I landed in London. After years in Minnesota I was a little naive when it came to cities, especially foreign ones. They took us around the sites: the London Bridge, Westminster, and Parliament. There was so much history it was hard to keep track. We had a curfew (I was always too tired to do anything unlawful).
I always look back at that trip. I always felt that there was so much to see but never enough time to see it. I could spend a year in France and never see all of the art lying within its museum walls. If anything, the trip was a nice introduction. It was overwhelming sometimes. When we were in the Vatican, I never knew where to look. There were statues, paintings, unique door handles, and the marble floors (there aren’t words). Plus, it was interesting watching the people look at everything: in the Sistine Chapel people couldn’t talk but some cried. It was that inspirational. Compared to Mauritania, it was a different world, perhaps even on a different planet.
Yet that trip, my first long stint away from home, didn’t prepare me for Mauritania.
In my trip to Europe I traveled across countries, but I didn’t travel stuck in the back of a Taxi Bruce (an unregistered taxi) with 11 people in a 7 person car. There were paved streets in Europe, not winding roads that twisted around Acacia Senegal trees and herds of Camels. People here don’t wear seat belts. I would never trust myself driving.
I tasted different cuisine in Europe, but I never had to eat so much couscous or every meal with my hand. I now get excited for instant anything: drink mix, soup, pasta sauce, salad dressing–you name it, you’ll want it in Mauritania.
In Europe we stayed in hotels with hot water and air conditioning. We had ice in our drinks and could drink water from the faucet. There was no reason to filter water or to put bleach in it.
Three weeks’ in Europe isn’t close to 27 months in Mauritania without electricity, running water, or cheese. You have time to watch things here. You have time to catch up on your reading. You drink a lot of tea.
I am reading Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes.
It makes me want to go back to Italy and really experience the culture.
It makes me want to spend an afternoon making jam with my Aunt and Grandmother.
It makes me crave August in Minnesota when our dinners consist of things right from the garden.
After reading it, I crave homemade zucchini bread, ice cream, pesto, and a bottle of wine.
I am homesick for the kitchen, for the farm, for home.
Reading this novel makes me realize that loving home isn’t really a bad thing. I always like this quote: “Today I belong here; tomorrow if I don’t it doesn’t mean that I never did or that I never will again. My home travels with me.” But even though my home travels with me, it’s now in Taiba. I miss my family. I miss the willow tree, the barn, the lilacs. I will always be at peace at the farm: hanging laundry to dry, plucking a chicken, reading on the roof, watching storm clouds from the hay loft, pulling pig weed, and throwing grain to the cows.
How many people are able to benefit from the fruits of their labor?
How many people can pick apples from their own trees and vegetables from their garden? Who can sustain themselves with food they’ve grown or raised?
As a kid I always complained. I was a pebble in my mother’s shoe. We hated waking up early to feed the cows. We worried we’d go to school smelling of hay and with cow manure on our shoes.
Were we hicks?
Coming from Minneapolis Delano seemed like a different country.
Coming from Delano Mauritania seems an universe away.
At least I know where my food comes from. At least I know you don’t name cows you’ll be butchering later. At least, I can find comfort here in Taiba, amongst herders and gardeners. I smile when I carry water, when my tomatoes ripen, when the women make basse from sorghum. They always seem surprised when I say I have cows in the States, when I don’t spill the water all over my clothes, when I don’t complain.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living in the Western United States. The other Peace Corps volunteers and I were recently watching Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman on a trip to Dakar. Peace Corps is kind of like that show. When you enter the Peace Corps you seem to go back a few centuries. I recently made soap with my friend Lily. Plus we all catch crazy diseases like dysentary, for example.
While reading about Tuscany, I realized that I am amazed by the slow concept of time in Tuscany, of trades like fresco painting and brick building. I want to embroyder tableclothes, walk through forests collecting pine nuts, and roast chessnuts on an open fire. I want to make my own honey, wine, and cheese. I realize that this is abnormal for someone my age, who is supposed to be obsessed with reality TV, Facebook, and Twitter. Am I old fashoned? Maybe. But, I’m okay with tthat. Individual milestone don’t have to coincide with pop culture.
So what if I think living on a farm when I’m older is paradise? So what if I want to grow my own sweet corn and make my own jam? It’s my life. I am in control of the direction it goes. I’m navigating.
So that’s why I smile. I realized, finally, that I’ve found my Tuscany. It’s actually in Delano. When I’m surrounded by my family, eating outside on our porch, drinking a glass of wine, and watching the sunset, I am satisfied. This summer, I’ll be home again. I’ll be able to smile when I drive down the gravel driveway and walk through the orchard. As Josh Verdes says,
“I’ve done my time in this crazy world. / What trails have I left behind? / No matter what I’ve done I know I can always come home. / So take me home, from the beach to the bay. / Take me home the good okay which way. / Take me home because there’s nowhere else than I’d rather be / than to go back to the place that made me, me.”
I may not be in Tuscany, but the sun that shines there shines here for me as well. It shines for everybody. We each have our own Tuscanies. Mine is the corn and the alfalfa fields of my childhood home, the mazes in the hayloft of my aunt and uncle’s farm, playing baseball with the cousins, drinking an ice-cold root beer float, cut-off shorts, and red sneakers. We all should find our own Tuscanies: our paradises in this world. More often than not they’re not that far away, perhaps in our own back yards.
