Victoria Smith - The Little Lark Still Sings: A True Story of Love, Change & an Old Tuscan Farmhouse

A True Story of Love, Change
& an Old Tuscan Farmhouse

VICTORIA SMITH

NEW YORK

LONDONNASHVILLEMELBOURNEVANCOUVER

The Little Lark Still Sings

A True Story of Love, Change & an Old Tuscan Farmhouse

2021 Victoria Smith

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James is a trademark of Morgan James, LLC. www.MorganJamesPublishing.com

ISBN 9781631952197 paperback

ISBN 9781631952203 eBook

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020938582

Cover Design:

Rachel Lopez

www.r2cdesign.com

Interior Design:

Chris Treccani

www.3dogcreative.net

Cover and Author Photos:

Mikael Melbye

Lark Drawing:

Barry Svigals

Morgan James is a proud partner of Habitat for Humanity Peninsula and Greater Williamsburg. Partners in building since 2006.

Get involved today! Visit
MorganJamesPublishing.com/giving-back

For Larry

Love of my life and finest man I know. Thank you for caring about my dreams and making our marriage a bold and romantic adventure.

Nothing can be compared to the new life that the discovery of another country provides for a thoughtful person. Although I am still the same I believe to have changed to the bones.

Johann Wolfgang van Goethe
T HE I TALIAN J OURNEY , 1816

When I turned sixty, I intended to throw away all my underwear, empty the drawers of my life, and start over with La Perla. I never bought the fancy lingerie, but we did buy an old stone farmhouse on a hillside of olive trees where I learned more about Italy, marriage, and myself than I ever imagined. Moving to a foreign country was far more revealing than La Perla ever would have been.

We have landed in Italy, but this is not vacation. On vacation we would collect our well-packed bags, breeze through airport exit doors, claim our rental car, don our sunglasses, and drive south to relax in our favorite Tuscan hilltown, Cortona. But this morning we claim two luggage carts and pile them high with four maximum weight suitcases, three bulging carry-ons, a bubble-wrapped antique sconce I insisted on safeguarding during the flight, and a cardboard box Larry locates in oversized baggage.

As of today, Italy is home.

For three years my husband and I have worked to make this move. Year one, we chose a town, bought an uninhabited farmhouse surrounded by abandoned olive trees, and hired an Italian architect. Year two, we collaborated with the architect on restoration plans, then waited months for township approvals. During year three, we visited as often as possible, watching with curious anticipation as our Tuscan home grew out of a near-ruin.

Back in Chicago, we took Italian lessons and did our homework. We sold our city condo overlooking Lake Michigan and sorted through belongings, putting each item in one of four piles: sea-container for Italy, long-term storage, giveaway, trash. We assembled documents required by Italian immigration law including proof of financial resources, fingerprinted FBI clearance, and international health insurance. After long applications and personal interviews, the Chicago Italian Consulate approved our visas to stay in Italy more than ninety days. Lastly, we said goodbye to three parents, five grown children and their families including five grandchildren, and thirty years of Chicago friends. Larry and I had retired and were reaching for our dream.

But dreams realized can be unsettling. Even now, in the Florence airport with luggage collected, our move to Italy feels like something in the future. Perhaps its like this for everyone who yearns to live abroad, this disorientation when the day finally comes. I stand motionless in baggage claim, wondering what to do next.

Lets go handle this box, Larry says, pushing his cart toward the sign for Dogana , Customs.

Trailing him with the second cart, I press the handlebar down with my right hand to unlock the brakes and hold my left hand atop the unstable stack. As I struggle to steer and keep up, my handbag slips off my right shoulder and lands on my bent elbow. I lose my grip, the handlebar pops up, and the cart jolts to a stop. Do I look as clumsy and conspicuous as I feel?

Larry is waiting at the customs counter. The stylish officer in his fitted blue uniform looks at Larry, then at me, and then at our luggage. He seems baffled. Larry gestures to the cardboard box and explains he wants to pago la tassa , pay the tax. The officer confers with his buddy nearby, then goes into an office partly visible through Venetian blinds and talks with a different agent inside. They rifle through a tall metal cabinet and our officer returns with a faded form.

Larry and I glance at one another. Can we be the first-ever foreigners to choose the Goods to Declare lane in the airport exit? We still need in-country approval for residency so would not even consider trying to sneak through with our brand new, high-tech sound system. Electronics are restricted imports in Italy, require customs tax even for personal use, and our box is not only big and new, the well-known American makers logo is proudly printed on every panel.

Larry writes the details on the form: name, address, description of goods and cost. The officer does a quick calculation and scribbles our tax on the bottom line.

Cinquecentocinquanta euro, he says, five hundred fifty euros. I do the exchange in my head. Seven hundred dollars? Almost half the value?

Seeing my dismay, the officer strikes through 550 and writes 500.

Sconto , discount, he whispers, leaning toward me as though its a personal favor. Larry steps between us, hands him the cash and takes our signed copy of the form, proof we complied with Italian law.

I hope the cash goes to the right place, I murmur as we exit with our carts.

Larry frowns and looks down. Shhh.

We push our precarious cargo out of the air-conditioned terminal into the sun, across the bumpy pavement to the car rental kiosk, then down the cracked sidewalk to the gravel lot where we find our silver-gray Volvo SUV, and organize to fit our belongings inside. Larry does the loading. I open the doors to let out some heat, perch sideways on the front passenger seat, and think about what were doing. This move to a foreign country is the boldest adventure of our married life and, though we expect it to be a dream come true, we cannot predict how it will turn out.

As we drive south on the A1 autostrada with cool air on full blast, I mentally retrace the evolution of this yearning. Our Italian honeymoon nineteen years ago exceeded our expectations. Were both romantics. We enjoy superb yet simple food, fine wines, Renaissance and religious art, opera, history, and adventure. We returned to Chicago exclaiming, Italy has the best of everything we love! For the next sixteen years, before each vacation, one of us would ask, Should we go back to Italy or try somewhere new? At least once each year, Italy won our votes. When we were visiting three times a year, Italy had won our hearts.