Day 10: Montepulciano

Who let the dogs out? How many wine glasses should there be on your dinner table? How many similes are too many similes?

Today was our last day in the Val d’Orcia. To commemorate it, we thought we’d take a strenuous bike ride north to Buonconvento and then have a dinner/wine tasting in Montepulciano. Just to be clear, at no point did our plans include getting attacked by rabid dogs.

Things started very nicely. Here are the first two things we saw on our ride.

Not too shabby! Except that the house in the picture on the right had dogs. Big ones. When we got to the house 5 or 6 of them barreled at us, barking loudly.

We have rancher friends, and those friends have ranch dogs, so we are not unfamiliar with being greeted by a pack of barking dogs. These dogs were different, though. These were the Angelina Jolie of ranch dogs. These dogs were your vegan friends after being told by your brunch spot that they are out of oat milk. You know how you feel at the end of the night when you go to put away the remaining dishes in the dishwasher only to find that your partner has somehow fucked things up and loaded dishes in all the wrong way and you totally have to unload and reload the dishwasher the right way? That’s what these dogs were like. They weren’t barking to say, “ciao.” They were barking, “I’m going to eat your femur.”

This is a terrible picture. That’s because the other four dogs had surrounded me and were becoming increasingly more aggressive. Like when you’ve been waiting in the “12 items or less” line for five whole minutes and suddenly realize that the person in front of you has 15 items in their cart. Or your temperament when the person walking in front of you on the street just stops. Doesn’t move over to the side, or even apologize. Just stops. And usually just stares at their phone. Or even worse, a map. Who carries maps anymore? These dogs were getting aggressive and I didn’t have time to get a good picture. Sue me.

We (I) totally panicked and turned off the road and ended up riding onto someone’s farm. In my defense, there was no way to tell the difference between “tiny country lane” and “tiny private road that leads to the barn.” After realizing my mistake, we back-tracked-trying to get back to the “tiny country lane,” but did it so poorly that instead of “tiny private road that leads away from the barn,” we ended up in a field. So we had to back-track outta the field to get back to the private road which led to the country lane. And all the while, a dozen or so giant, angry Cujos were breathing down our necks.

Amy took some video of me heroically attempting to draw the dogs away from her.

Now, before you go saying anything like, “It looks an awful lot like Paul is just running away and leaving Amy in the lurch,” realize this: I am deathly afraid of Angelina Jolie. And uncaffeinated vegans. And all that energy turned me into a bit of a coward. Like when you turn the corner into a room and run square into a spider web. Or how you feel when scampering away from a stranger at the store when the stranger asks a question and you answer them, only to find out they are having a conversation with someone via their Bluetooth earpiece.

When we finally arrived back up to the house, a woman was there working with a horse. I thought she might thank me, for if the horse you are working with can endure few dozen loudly barking dogs, they will undoubtedly be easy to ride. She was not thankful.

She was upset, yelling the Italian words for “private,” “dogs,” and “stupid fucking Americans.” She really wasn’t yelling at us, more to the horse, but it was loud enough so we would hear. Like when you say things to your pet in a passive-aggressive way to make a point to your partner. (“You would never load the dishwasher like that, would you? No, you’re a good boy…”)

After riding around in circles for a few moments trying to find the “tiny country lane,” we gave up. We returned to the main road and opted for a modified loop around the area.

Still plenty to see!

Along the way, in San Giovanni d’Asso, there was a truffle museum, complete with the chance to do a truffle hunt with a trained truffle-hound. The only thought I had, though was “Fuck dogs. All of them.” Plus, the marketing literature for the museum started with this: “The mystery of the truffle, which has been fueled by witchcraft, science and eroticism…” It was little early in the day for us to knock about with sexy mushrooms, so we didn’t stop.

We were a little spooked by the trip, I mean it’s not every day when you get chased by a hundred or so dire wolves. Returning home to our agriturismo was most welcome.

Agriturismos are essentially bed and breakfasts set on farms. They are a great way to experience the Italian countryside. Ours, Agriturismo Bonello was fantastic, dramatic views everywhere, a great pool that I forgot to take a picture of, and a perfect location, central to everything the Val d’Orcia has to offer.

We spent our last night in the valley in Montepulciano. The restaurant was affiliated with a winery, and we had a combo dinner/wine tasting.

That’s a lotta glasses on the table! That’s like when you start packing socks for a trip and they take up so little space in your bag that you keep adding more and more socks so when you get wherever you’re going you have 20 pairs of socks for the weekend.

The wine was fantastic. It turns out much of what we thought we knew about wines from Montepulciano was wrong. We drank a fair amount of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, but it turns out that area is several hundred miles away and the wine is made from different grapes. That’s like saying you’re from Bakersfield when you are from Fresno. Like Brunello di Montalcino, Vino Nobile di Montepulciano (or as we say, “nobby Monty”) is made from Sangiovese and has specific aging requirements. The result is delicious.

Notice how on I captured the shadow of the winery label reflecting off the wine on the left. That’s a photographic technique I call “neat-o, burrit-o.” Ancel Adams invented it. I felt pretty clever when I noticed it, like when you swerve into the fastest lane when traffic gets bad or cancel your Netflix when you get a promo rate for HBO. Or how to feel when you start using a literary device to start a piece, and it works so good that it takes over and the whole piece becomes dedicated to that device.

The Val d’Orcia was, and is, everything I hoped it could be. Beauty. Food. Wine. And some murderous canines. My heart is a little sad that we are leaving, but our next stop is Florence, where our son will be joining us. So on to the next!