A few stops before Stuttgart

PETER BUFFA

“Attention, please -- keep your arms and legs inside the car at all

times.” That’s good advice at the Magic Kingdom, but an even better

one where I am right now, on a super-speed train from Milano, to the

lake country and the Tyrol, through the Swiss Alps, then on to

Stuttgart, the city of cars that cost a fortune, pretzels that you

can walk through, and beers that take two men and a schnauzer to

lift.

BEYOND A TUSCAN SUN

Where did we leave off? Wait, I remember. When we last spoke, it

was “Arrivederci, Roma -- ciao, Toscana.” It’s easy to see why people

are bonkers for Tuscany, especially Americans. It is a strikingly

beautiful place of storybook farms and rolling hills, separated by

fields of sunflowers that go one forever. Anything you’ve seen and

fantasized about in “Under the Tuscan Sun” or “My House in Umbria” is

a pale copy of the real thing. We stayed in a remarkable place called

“Podere Dionora” (Farmhouse Dionora), just outside Montepulciano. We

found it courtesy of our neighbor, Lorna Pizzorni, who stayed there a

few years ago and said it was a small corner of paradise right at the

intersection of beauty and tranquillity that would change our lives

and stay with us forever. As it turned out, that was a little bit of

an understatement. Dionora has only six rooms, each with its own name

and look, bursting with Tuscan antiques, terracotta floors and stone

fireplaces.

The place is the life’s dream of it’s two owners, Mario and

Giulio, who each worked for years as managers of five-star hotels

before opening their own place. They’re also very proud of the fact

that Michelle Pfeiffer and her husband, David E. Kelly, stayed there

not long ago. A spectacular breakfast whipped up by Mario’s mother is

served every morning in a solarium with a view that would be silly to

try to describe. Dionora is booked up to a year in advance for the

high season, and people come from around the world to have their

weddings there, assuming the relationship outlasts the waiting list,

which ain’t easy.

WHILE IN FLORENCE ...

From there it was on to Florence, the city of Dante, food to make

a grown man cry and of course, fine arts, where Michelangelo’s

“David” is only the beginning. By the time you stagger out the door

of the Uffizi, which houses one of the largest collections of art in

the world, you are consumed with guilt that “Oh my God, look at

that!” has turned into “Da Vinci? Fine. Rafael? Yeah, whatever.”

“Uffizi,” by the way, is Italian for “offices.” The Uffizi was the

sumptuous headquarters of those infamous Renaissance nasties, the

Medicis, who had lots and lots of gold but not a single scruple among

them.

One stop in Florence my wife and I will not miss, no way, no how,

is a restaurant called “Il Latini.” It’s been run by the Latini

family since the early 20th century, and we were first sent there by

friends nearly 25 years ago. It’s not the finest or the most elegant

restaurant in town, but it is definitely the most fun, in that town,

this town or any other town. It’s on a hard-to-find side street, and

I use the term “street” loosely. You’ll know when you’re there by the

line of people waiting outside. Latini was always popular, but after

it was featured on a travelogue about Florence on the Food Network

last year, it went platinum. Don’t be discouraged by the line.

Inside, it’s a cozy setting of wood tables beneath massive legs of

prosciutto and provolone cheese hanging from the beamed ceiling. But

the real action is outside, on the long, hungry line. While you’re

waiting, the owners walk up and down the line with tray after tray of

wine, fresh bread, parmigiano reggiano and prosciutto.

Within 30 minutes, everyone in line is on a first-name basis,

knows where everyone else is from and is feeling no pain. We waited

just over an hour on this trip and by the time we got through the

door, I was fully anesthetized and thought anything anyone said in

any language was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Once inside,

it’s family seating and they’ll let you know which family is yours if

you didn’t come with one. Both the chefs and the waiters seem to make

it up as they go along. Your waiter, who is much too busy to talk, is

constantly dropping off different antipasti at your table, no charge,

in addition to the large bottle of Chianti already there, also no

charge, to give you something to do until he has time to deal with

you. By the time he actually stops long enough to say, “Buona sera.

Una cosa da bere?” (“Good evening. Something to drink?”) You’re ready

to say, “Il conto, per favore.” (“Check, please,”) and the night

hasn’t even begun.

AN ELECTRIC CITY

From Florence, it was on to Milano to see Leonardo da Vinci’s

“Last Supper” and a few cousins, not necessarily in that order. I

like Milano. It doesn’t get the attention from the thundering hordes

of tourists that other Italian cities do, but it’s a lot if fun.

Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” has gotten a big up-tick from the global

frenzy over “The Da Vinci Code,” by Dan Brown. The Duomo, Italian

shorthand for the major cathedral in any city, is second only to St.

Peter’s in the “Most Breathtaking Performance by a Church” category.

And Milano exudes much the same electricity as New York, which might

also explain why I like it.

Milano is the core of the reactor for Italian design and fashion

and is bursting with the flagship stores of every la-la label you’ve

ever seen on a ridiculously overpriced dress or suit, handbag or

shoes. The streets are filled with models, of both genders, rushing

from one assignment to the next. The Galleria, a stunning mall

beneath a soaring stained glass roof that soars 10 stories high, has

been impressing shoppers and strollers from around the world since

the 19th Century and is the model for every high-end mall in the

world. Milano’s Via Monte Napoleone is way beyond fashionable, puts

Rodeo Drive to shame and is living proof of J. Paul Getty’s warning:

“If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.” In fact, with

the euro beating the living daylights out of the dollar right now, I

am trying really hard not to ask what anything costs, or buy it just

to be safe. In fact, when we get back, I think I’ll do a travel guide

called “Italy on a Thousands Dollars a Day: You Can Do It If You

Try.” Yikes. All right, then. We’re gliding into the Stuttgart

station right now. Guten tag, auf weidersehn -- I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].