Although I had registered as a Hertz No. 1 Gold Europe Preferred Member, the agency would not deliver the car to us at the hotel, and we had to take a cab to Hertz in downtown Florence. Of course, the CEO of Hertz International will be receiving a Letter From Farklempt.

The prospect of leaving Florence in a car was something we dreaded, but it wasn't bad at all. You just drive as fast as you can. The road signage is surprisingly excellent, throughout Italy. To get to the center of a town, you just follow the signs with a target on them. To leave a town, you follow the signs that say "a tutti diretzione."

We took the Chianti road, winding through the hills of Chianti, rolling hills that can become rather steep and long, a two-lane road with many hairpin turns, often without guardrails. I loved it, while Carol hung on with white knuckles and gritted teeth.

There was very little traffic. Lots of bicyclists, all on road bikes, all wearing tight lycra silks without helmets. I was astonished at how easily they could climb two-mile long steep hills, staying in the saddle, not looking the least bit strained, without a granny gear. In my prime, when I was an excellent and strong biker, I could never have made those hills. We had a Renault midsize with a 5-speed shift. I love French cars--they have that soft cushioned ride that is unmatched by any others, a bit spongy, but still surprisingly nimble. the seats are high, beautifully constructed, and the most comfortable in the business. I remember my old Peugeot so fondly. If they only sold them in America, I'd buy one in a minute and get over my krautophilia. The scenery was gorgeous, the trees and flowers were in bloom, a honeysuckle-like scent bringing on sigh after sigh. Waves of bright red poppies in rolling fields of green. We stopped in Montefioralle, a tiny hilltop circular town, birthplace of Amerigo Vespucci, built as an defensive outpost to protect Siena from marauding Fiorentinos.

We drove to San Gimignano, the picture-book hilltop town, filled with tourists, but with lots of room.
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San Gimignano was the inspiration for Puccini's Suor Angelica. Much climbing and walking, but the boots were holding up. We had a wonderful lunch at the top of the hill at Osteria delle Catene,small and quiet. We had a fabulous mezzolitro of Chianti, as always acqua minerale frizzante,medieval soup made with saffron, a critical item in the medieval economy of San Gimignano, pasta with pumpkin sauce, and an antipasto. Then we drove to Monteriggiano, an ancient Roman fortress town, built to protect Siena from invaders.
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We drove to the Hotel Castagneto in the outskirts of Siena, situated in an olive grove, looking across to the skyline of Siena. We were welcomed by the Frangioli brothers, Franco and Lorenzo, look-alikes for Uncle Junior Soprano. We got to talking, my Italian having picked up a bit by now, and it turns out that they have a cousin in Westerly, Rhode Island, Anna Giulia Gruccia. During World War II, an American aviator bailed out over Siena and parachuted onto the property of the Francioni family. Anna Giulia's father hid him away from the Germans. When the war was over, he went home and returned to wed Anna Giulia at a great ceremony in town, taking her back with him to Westerly as the first American war bride. He gave me her phone number, and I called her when I got home and e-mailed her Lorenzo's photo at the desk.

Our room ($70/night) was large, clean, and comfortable, with a stunning view of the city.
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We tried to find out if Shabbat services would be held the following morning at the synagogue of Siena, but the phone was answered by a machine. We asked Franco, who started calling Jews in town (there are 50). He was very distressed that Jews don't go to their own church, as he went to his every Sunday. We parked just outside the wall of the city (most towns do not allow parking inside), and were guided into the city by a lovely couple just finishing high school.

Siena is much less formal than Florence. Florence closes down early, but Siena is a party town, more casual, less high-style. Everyone seems to know everyone else. The neighborhoods form contradi,which are social, quasi-religious, sports clubs, each with its own coat-of-arms and marching band.

Twice a year, the contradi compete in Il Palio,a go-for-broke horserace around Il Campo,the large central plaza. The Paliobegan centuries ago as a headlong rush by members of the contrati against each other, using poleaxes and truncheons. Today, it is a more civilized horserace, marked by attempts to abduct the opposing jockeys the night before, attempting to fix the race in any way possible.

We ended up at a restaurant recommended by Nino, La Chiacchiera,which means "the chatterbox." We had a reservation, and they put us at a table for four. A few minutes later, they seated two men at our table. One was younger, with the classic Tuscan look--long thin face, dark hair, long straight nose, and prominent eyes. He could have stepped out of any of the paintings we had seen over the past few days. We had a pitcher of red wine, acqua minerale frizzante,ravioli with zucchini, and a fabulous dish of tripe, one of the great dishes I have ever eaten. You heard it right: tripe, or as they say trippe.I had ordered tripe once before, thirty years ago at La Côte Basquein New York. I had read that Jackie O. used to go in there and order Tripe à la mode de Caën,so I thought I should try it. They brought me a large bowl of intestines floating in a red gravy that looked like it had been brought directly from the autopsy room at Bellevue. I couldn't touch it. I made such a face that the waiter, a man of great kindness, said, "This happens all the time, sir," took it away, and brought me something else. But here, it was the hallmark of Sienese cuisine, and I had to try again. The pieces were sliced up thin, so that you couldn't tell what they actually were. They were tender, delectable, and the sauce, spicy with garlic and truffles, was out of this world. Our tablemates egged me on, urging me to add molto formaggio e pepe(Parmesan cheese and dried red hot peppers). I threw the stuff on with abandon, crying out, like Tosca, Muori! Muori!"For dessert, we had vin santo(a trademark Tuscan fortified sweet wine, that is like sherry, a bit too oxidized for my taste) and cantucci,small almond biscuits (mandelbrøt).At the end of dinner, we were quite sloshed, and considered ourselves lucky to have found our car again. We knew it was in a parking lot near a large statue of a horse, and we kept asking people we met, "Scusi, ma dove ha un cavallo?"--"Excuse me, but where is there a horse?" We got a lot of strange stares.