**NEW: Uncovering the Mysteries of Tuscany Tour Guide Dario Castagno (Free Italy Travel Advice)**
I
wasn't quite sure what to expect upon meeting the famous
(or should I say infamous?) Dario Castagno.
I had some idea of his
personality
based on what I had read in Too
Much Tuscan Sun,
however, it was Robert Rodi's comment in the epilogue that
stuck out in my
mind. “Dario's reserve, as it happens, is of the
most attractive kind to vulgar
Americans luck us: It's Old World. He's a gentleman
in the original sense of
the word.” Could this be the same man that told me
I'd recognize his car
because it'll be the filthiest one in the parking lot? I
guess I'd have to find
out for myself…
He called me five minutes before we were supposed to meet, just to make
sure
our meeting was still on. I asked him if he had already arrived and he
said, in
a perfect British accent, “yes, but don't
rush…I always arrive early.” Isn't it
national law that in order to be Italian, you have to arrive half an
hour late
to every appointment? Was this man really Italian? I was beginning to
have my
doubts.
He was right about one thing; his car was, in fact, the dirtiest car on
the
street. I would soon discover, however, the reason behind its perpetual
filth.
We shook hands and as I climbed into the passenger seat and he advised
me to
not let my clean black pants touch the outside of the car, which surely
would
have been detrimental.
As we drove further away from the city, the traffic thinned and the
hills
opened up to one amazing view after another. With classical music
playing in
the background, an Italian station he always listens to, Dario began
explaining
where Siena
ended and the Chianti
region began. As we drove along the
winding
country road, he said, “on this side of the road, the wine
produced from these
grapes is called Chianti, but on the other side of the road, it can be
called
Chianti
Classico [which is sold for
much more money and is considered
of better
taste and quality], even if the grapes are from the same
vine.” Maybe the
grass, I mean, the vine, really is greener on the other side. Or maybe
this
demonstrates yet another facet of the enigmatic laws in
Italy.
As we drove further into the Chianti toward his village of Vagliagli,
which he
informed me translates to “valley of garlic”
(hopefully there's also a “valley
of mint” near by), I noticed that he salutato everyone that
we passed. I asked
him if he actually knows all the people he says hello to. He responded,
“Yes, I
know everyone.”
“Everyone?” I inquired. “Or just everyone
in this particular area?”
“No, no...Everyone.”
I was beginning to believe him.
Along the way he had mentioned that he always arrives early,
yet was
proud of the fact that he doesn't wear a watch. He then
proceeded to tell me
exactly, to the minute, how much time we had until his lecture at 6
p.m.
I was
astonished at his innate sense of time! Maybe all this time living in
the
Chianti hills had made him a man of nature, one who could just look at
the
position of the sun in relation to the horizon and know exactly what
minute it
was. My amazement was interrupted when he pointed out the clock above
the
dashboard. Doh! What was perplexing, however, was that the time it
showed was
blatantly incorrect. When I asked him about it, he said he always knows
exactly
what time it is, all he has to do is add two hours and subtract ten
minutes,
unless of course it's daylight savings, then he only has to
add one hour. Was
he joking?! Did he seriously calculate the time every single time he
looked at
the clock?! I asked him how long it had been 2 hours and 10 minutes
off. He
said it had been at least a few years now, he just hasn't
gotten around to
changing it. I was getting the sense that maybe he gets a thrill from
making
life more difficult than it should be.
We drove a little further and the road became more of a rugged dirt
path than
something intended for a car to traverse. As the dust kicked up and the
road narrowed,
I realized why his car was in the condition it was in, especially in
regards to
the ½ inch of Tuscan soil covering the tires and doors. He
stopped the car at
the top of a hill that overlooks the entire Tuscan countryside. With
the sun
already sinking in the sky, the landscape was breathtaking. He stepped
out of
the car and said, “Welcome to my office.”
…Excuse me? Sure enough, next to a
beautiful old tree sat a picnic table, perfectly shaded by the
outstretched
branches. Talk about a corner office with a view…
He says the only real difference between the Chianti of the
1970's and the
Chianti of today is that many of the abandoned farmhouses have been
perfectly
restored to the way they used to look. So, in essence, the region is in
better
shape both economically and aesthetically. Yet 80% of the land is
covered in
forest (which I was able to see from the view of his
“office”), and will remain
that way as long as the laws remain unchanged.
The sun drooped even lower in the afternoon sky and we headed over to a
fantastically restored farmhouse now called the Hotel
Belvedere San
Leonino
where every Monday evening he gives a presentation about the history of
Siena's
Medieval horse race. He presents the history of the Palio to a members
of
Backroads tours,
which offers walking and biking tours all over the world. Dario
himself, is
also an avid cyclist.
Once everyone arrived and the murmur of chitchat died down, Dario began
to
introduce himself, his books, Siena, the Palio, and his pride and joy:
the
Noble Contrada of the Caterpillar. Now, granted, Dario is not a very
large man,
and is by no means loud or intimidating, but when he spoke, he captured
everyone's full and undivided attention. There was not one
wondering eye
(except for mine, of course, as I observed the expressions on the
others'
faces). It was as if he was telling us the meaning of life, yet he
probably
could have been reading the phone book to us and no one would have paid
him
less attention. And amazingly, this went on throughout the entire talk.
At the end of his presentation, he showed us some clips from a video he
collaborated on about the Palio. During the film, I noticed that he
left the
room for about 10 minutes, and while I wondered what his motive was for
stepping out, I held my tongue. After everyone had left and we walked
toward
the car, he mentioned to me that he had gone out to admire the glowing
sunset
over the Tuscan hills. I should have guessed it would be something
utterly
romantic.
To finish off the evening, Dario had suggested that we go to dinner
(which I
was definitely in favor of considering I had eaten exactly two green
olives
since lunchtime and the stars were now shining brilliantly).
“Pizza?” he asked
as I grabbed my coat and purse. I enthusiastically agreed.
“There's a place not
to far from here where I like to go.”
We drove around the winding curves of the Chianti until we came upon a
small
collection of stone buildings, which, to my surprise, he referred to as
a
village. We pulled up to the local pizzeria on the corner. As we walked
in, he
greeted everyone we passed by name, and even ran into several friends;
they
said they had just finished eating but would have waited for him if
they had
known he was coming. “That's okay,” he
said in Italian, “tonight I'm here with
a guest.” I would find out later that this was the first time
in a very long
time he'd dined out with someone other than himself. How
could a man, so well
known by everyone in Siena and even the surrounding villages, lead such
a
secluded life? Apparently I had penetrated his suit of armor without
even
knowing it. Since he had informed me earlier that he knows
everyone…everyone… I
assumed that he was a social creature. Perhaps it's the fact
that he does know
everyone which gives him incentive to keep his life as private as
possible.
As we sat down to order dinner, he ordered his
“usual,” a margherita
pizza with
buffalo mozzarella and a heavy sprinkling of hot pepper baked in,
accompanied
by a glass of red wine. I opted for the tamer margherita pizza with
buffalo and
basil, and a glass of white. Over the course of conversation, which was
now
being spoken almost completely in Italian, he began recounting me
stories that
aren't even in his newest book, Too
Much Tuscan Wine .
One story, in particular, completely captivated me and kept me
guessing
all the way until the end. Then, once the missing piece of the puzzle
was
revealed, this story that had been comical and entertaining all the way
through, now brought tears to my eyes. My jaw dropped as I let the
entire story
sink in. It was at this moment that I realized that Dario
isn't world-famous
because of his writing abilities (which are actually quite good);
rather, he's
stolen the hearts of millions with his gift of storytelling. It's an
art that
he has mastered, and that is what makes him “Old
World.” It now made sense to
me why it didn't matter if he's speaking or writing
the words, people respond
to the way his stories unfold. And even when the story is finished,
there's
this complex sensation of satisfaction and a desire to hear more. That,
I
believe, is why his books are so popular.
Like a ruby red glass of Chianti, it's not the taste of the
wine as you're
drinking it that matters, but the flavor that lingers on your tongue
even after
you've swallowed it that counts. Dario's words
leave a lasting impression, a
delightful aftertaste, if you will. And as for the “Old
World” reserve that Robert
Rodi had described, I didn't see it. I saw a man who is open,
real, and not
afraid to voice his opinions (especially when it comes to the Pisans).
In fact,
it was statements like “I'm not ashamed to admit
that I took part in beating up
our [double-crossing] jockey” that assured me he has
Italian blood running
through his veins, even if he does always arrive early and speaks with
a "reserved" British accent. --Laura Cimperman
The Details You can learn more about Dario
through his Web site www.dariocastagno.com.
If you would like to arrange a personal meeting with Dario, he meets
guests for lunch
at the Relais
Borgo Scopeto in Vagliagli.
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