Bourn_HoneyMoon

“Your destination is on the left.” The beautifully digitized voice was the only conduit to my bride’s and my two-hour expedition from Rome through the vast Tuscan mural.

Having lost access to my internal clock, I succumbed to a fertile and tumbling landscape of Trequanda, jettisoning us onto a gravel road via a sign that read, “Il Renello”. Easing closer to the farm, we traveled toward a rustic and sunbaked guest cottage, nestled next to an olive grove backdrop. A shower of emotional cheek pecks ensued, courtesy of a petite and jovial Italian woman. “Hello. My name is Rosella” were the only words I understood before and after a deserving slumber.

Wrestling my eyelids ajar, I awoke to rays of honeymoon splashing my wife’s face. Crickets had relieved the birds of their chirping duties. Had we slept the entire day? An alluring aroma hijacked my heightened senses. I negotiated my way through the dark like a prowling cat, en route to a nearby window. There I gazed through the wrought-iron frame and zoomed in on an expansive and illuminated crumbling, stone patio in the distance.

Laughter and clanking glasses filled the air, followed by a sharp gurgle from within me. As a light went on, my wife peered at me with pointed intentions. We “Tazzed” our way into some clothes like a couple of Looney Tunes and charged the scene. Before us were a vibrant smorgasbord of fresh fruits, vegetables, wines, breads, and a melting pot of good people.

“Attack, attack!” shouted a tall and slender Italian man. “Welcome friends. My name is Giacomo. Please, attack!” he offered, pointing to the impressive spread. Surveying the table, I counted four languages being spoken simultaneously, but the language of food translated everyone’s thoughts. Across the table from me, a small German boy bit into a fleshy tomato that sprayed everywhere. Intrigued, I followed suit and indulged in the sweetest, freshest tomato I’ve ever consumed.

After nearly three hours of eating eight courses, to include homemade pasta and pizza, to say I’d had enough would have insulted the hosts and my taste buds alike. I swayed like a “Mortal Kombat” character in the throes of defeat, as the slim, Italian farmers finished us off with their personal stash of cheeses, fresh made desserts, and homemade Vin Santo. Ashamed of what we had done, we excused ourselves with a heartfelt "grazie". My soul mate and I gazed at each other as we loafed back to our cottage knowing we were in the right place.