The hills are olive
By Jennifer Wells with photography by Paolo Destefanis
A week of honest toil and gourmet food in the groves of Tuscany
THE MEDITERRANEAN WINTER is moving in, westerly
winds and a greying landscape. The train rolls out of Rome's
train station under a heavy sky, as if the heavens are signalling
a hunkering down for winter. After all, the grapes have been harvested.
It is time to rest.
Not quite yet.
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In my purse, I have my husband's handy-dandy pocket
Berlitz, copyright 1954. "Please ask the orchestra to play 'Torna
a Sorriento,'” the book offers among its list of helpful phrases.
Per piacere, chieda all'orchestra di suonare "Torna a Sorriento.”
I am so prepared for this Italian adventure.
In my suitcase, I have a brand-new pair of wind-resistant
gloves, the kind of gloves that would be precisely right for a long,
cool cycling journey. This is not their intended purpose. Rather,
I hope they will be suitably supple for the ever-so-gentle task of
picking olives. For, while the grapes are done, the olives await
not only their harvest but the transformational offering up of
their transcendent golden oil.
I settle on the train and write in my journal: "Silver green.
What is the word for that?”
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