The Reluctant Tuscan

Table of Contents

 

“. . . a midlife adventure involving the repair of a house and a marriage, and a lighter view of Italy that suffers no snob appeal . . . disarmingly funny.”

—
The Arizona Republic

 

“Doran's brutally funny accounts . . . are enough to keep readers hooked until the last page.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Moving to Italy has many delights and many pitfalls—Phil Doran's charmingly laconic memoir gives us both, with the delights winning out as they undoubtedly do. Bravo!”

—Charles Nicholl, author of
Leonardo da Vinci: Flights of the Mind

 

“Tuscany's gain is Hollywood's loss. Just when you thought everything had been said about Italy, along comes Phil Doran with his hilarious take on how he was dragged kicking and screaming into paradise.”

—Lila Garrett, Emmy and Writer's Guild Award-winning writer, producer, and director

 

“
The Reluctant Tuscan
is the sort of travel narrative that is both hilariously funny and informative, comic and poignant, savory and sweet. Think Frances Mayes and Dave Barry, sprinkle with parmesan and olive oil, and you'll soon know the irresistible quality dancing on Doran's page.”

—Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, author of
Pen on Fire

A TV producer for more than twenty-five years, Phil Doran worked as a writer-producer for such shows as
Sanford and Son
,
Too Close for Comfort
, and
Who's the Boss?
; as a writer for
The Wonder Years
; as well as writing episodes of
The Bob Newhart Show
and writing for variety-show stars Tim Conway, the Smothers Brothers, and Tony Orlando. He received an Emmy nomination, a Humanitas Award, and the Population Institute Award for his work on
All in the Family
. He has also written for the
Los Angeles Times
. He and his wife divide their time between Tuscany and their home in California.

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

 

First trade paperback printing, April 2006

 

Copyright © 2005 by Phil Doran All rights reserved

 

Gotham Books and the skyscraper logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-11768-2

1. Tuscany (Italy)—Description and travel. 2. Tuscany (Italy)—Social life and customs.
3. Doran, Phil—Homes and haunts—Italy—Tuscany. I. Title.
DG734.23D67 2005
945'.5—dc22 2004053926

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by
any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

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without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only
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The events in this story are true. I have, however, taken the liberty of changing the names of some of the places and all of the people to ensure their privacy. If this kind of thing bothers you, I urge you to keep reading and when you are finished, please allow me one question:

Did you have a good time, honey?

 

P.D.
Somewhere in Tuscany
APRIL 2005

My heartfelt thanks to Lauren Marino, Hilary Terrell, Betsy
Amster, and Barbara DeMarco-Barrett for editing,
facilitating, agenting, and mentoring this book.
Grazie mille.

I
had a machete in my hand and I was thinking about using it on Henry David Thoreau. You know, that guy they made you read in school who popularized the notion that we should find solace in nature. Maybe I was doing this all wrong, but I had been hacking my way through nature all morning and all I had to show for it were blisters, sweat, and a shooting pain up my arm. I didn't think I was having a heart attack, but if I were, it would have been more amusing than dealing with a hill covered in underbrush so thick it made this little corner of Tuscany look like a Brazilian rain forest.

Of course the land was only part of the problem, because at the top of this hill sat a three-hundred-year-old stone farmhouse we had just bought. Perhaps
house
was too grand a word to describe this crumbling heap of rubble. In fact, the dwelling was so insignificant, it didn't even have an address. Folks around here simply jerked their thumbs in its direction and referred to it as
il piccolo rustico
. An apt description, because it was certainly rustic and definitely small. Just the perfect size for its current occupants, the scorpions and the spiders.

I gathered up my tools and began the long trudge uphill. When I had started, the morning sun was slanting low through the olive trees, casting gnarled shadows across the hill. But as the day grew warm, a low, silvery-white haze descended over the countryside. The Tuscans call this
il sfumato
, which comes from the Italian word for smoke. And as my wife, Nancy, pointed out to me at the Uffizi Gallery, artists as far back as the Renaissance have been suffusing their canvases with its pearly glow.

I gazed out, realizing how integral
il sfumato
had become to my very perception of Tuscany. It made me feel as if I was looking at life through a fine linen bandage that blurred the edges, softened the colors, and cloaked the undercurrents of intrigue that threatened to engulf us.

My feet crunched on a floor of pyracantha berries and I stooped to pick a weed. I stuck it between my teeth in a jaunty Huck Finn pose that greatly belied how I felt. We had invested most of our savings in this house, but in our attempts to make it livable we had managed to alienate our neighbors, infuriate the local government, and generally outrage the normally serene citizens of this fair land.

So much fuss over such a crummy little house. Stone walls splitting apart where ancient mortar had decayed into dust. Wood beams so riddled with wormholes, they looked like they had been peppered with birdshot. A wide crack running up one of the exterior walls had caused part of the roof to cave in and stove over. There was no electricity, water, or gas, and only the vaguest rumor of a septic tank buried somewhere. Even if everything ran smoothly, we could finance a lunar probe for what it was going to cost to restore this place.

I stopped to breathe in a dizzying mixture of rotting humus and wild jasmine and thought about the chain of events that had brought me here, and how this run-down, neglected little house in Tuscany had become a metaphor for my life. Call it a late-life crisis, but in my mid-fifties I had turned my back on my career and on a way of life that had sustained me for the previous three decades. In the process of forging a life here, I struggled to rediscover myself, my wife, and our life together.

And like many improbable adventures, it all began with a phone call.

 

 

“You're pregnant.”

“I bought a house,” Nancy said.

“You what?” I gripped the receiver in astonishment. “Where?”

“Here. In Italy.”

I rolled my eyes and whimpered.

“I think we could really be happy here.”

“I'm happy
here
,” I said. “And how could you buy a house without me even seeing it?”

“I had to move fast. But you'll see it now. How soon can you get here?”