Bella Siena

Photo by: PhillipC

I poured my morning cup of coffee, grabbed my stack of food magazines, and went to sit in my Springy sun-filled (finally) sun room.  Before I could put my coffee down, my May 2009 issue of La Cucina Italiana slipped off the top of the pile and landed wide open to a beautiful spread of Il Palio in Siena, Italy. My heart leapt. Siena is the beautiful town where I spent the best six months of my life. And Il Palio is the glorious horse race that has occurred twice each summer for more than 350 years in the Piazza del Campo. Il Palio is a dangerous race where jockeys ride bareback, where 90 degree corners must be turned, and where horse - not man - is winner. In fact, a horse can win even if the rider falls off.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been to either race because at the time I felt sunning myself in in the Greek isles was more fun (it was fun, but I should have scheduled in at least one race). Seeing the pictures of Siena and the Piazza del Campo brought back so many memories of friendship, food, love, and even politics:

The fountain where darling Daniele professed his love me, only to have me turn him down. Poor guy. I was gentle, though.
The corner of the square where my girlfriends and I, sitting on our coats studying, were trampled by a swarm of journalists. At the center of the swarm was the Soviet dissident Andrei Sakharov. Coats and homework were trampled, but at least we had an interesting excuse to give our professor!
The little café where we’d sip aqua minerale con gas (sparkling water) and nibble on the free bread sticks.
Long laughs over wine or sangria at Bar Centrale or Re Artu.

The article also reminded me of the wonderful meals our friend Claudio would make us. Many of which I still cook to this day: Penne con Panna e Salciccia (penne with cream and sausage). He taught us the delectability of pasta drizzled simply with garlic infused olive oil, which seemed to be our standard meal at the end of the month when the money ran out. He also taught us that we were using far too little salt in our pasta water, and that, no, not all pasta is the same.

Best of all, the article reminded me of the times I’d sit in the Piazzo del Campo thinking of all the laughs, the professed loves, the glasses of wine sipped, and friendships that had formed over the centuries in that same little spot where I sat.

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