My first morning here at Castello di Casole was a seamless continuation of yesterday’s experience. I decided to get breakfast before starting my usual routine of yoga and running. I have already told you about dinner and how I was truly overwhelmed by the service, along with the presentation and quality of the food.

When I sat down this morning, the routine was politely explained to me. There was a buffet, with eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit and fruit juices, yogurts and cereals, croissants and the ghost of Julia Child, describing everything in glorious detail. If there was nothing in the buffet that caught my attention, a ridiculous thought, I could order omelettes, pancakes and anything else I could possibly imagine from the kitchen.

At some point during my breakfast orgy, I decided that if God told me I had a week to live, I would come here and of course there wouldn’t be any travel involved. Listen, if we are going to allow for the possibility that God would actually talk to me, why would air travel be a factor?

In one of my countless careers, I was in the nature tourism business and I worked with some guys, who understood the value of creating a magical experience for guests. Everywhere I look, there are endless, small and subtle hints that these folks have nailed it. Now, before this deteriorates into an annoying commercial, we can move on.

At some point this afternoon, I decided I would take a walk and leave the grounds. Speaking of taking a walk, the terrain here is all hills and my first morning run was hard work. There isn’t even a hint of level ground, but I am definitely not bitching about running in Tuscany.

I think I mentioned in one of my Lucca stories that I couldn’t get Pandora, leaving me without my music. When I started my sojourn earlier today, I don’t know what possessed me to tap on the “P” on my little screen. I’ll be a son of a bitch, all of a sudden, I am listening to Aaron Copeland’s “Saga of the Prairie”, a beautifully appropriate piece of music. I stopped and took a photograph of one of the vineyards. For my entire walk, my feet didn’t touch the ground and I was singing along to Bruce Hornsby, The Eagles, Etta James, Dave Matthews, the Rolling Stones, my personal soundtrack. I was singing just the way I do on my motorcycle.

I bounced all the way down hill to the road at the bottom, like a prison break from the gorgeous incarceration above. Walking on the side of the road, I watched my step because there are no sidewalks, a shocking lack of urbanity. The 50 kph is clearly irrelevant and cars shot passed me, like four-wheeled bullets on a mission. I found a ristorante on the side of the road and grabbed a beer, some pizza and a sweet pastry that I took with me, backtracking and now climbing up the hill to the magic castle on the hill top.

With music filling my spirit, I felt like a happy, little boy and realized that is so much of how I approach situations like this. I think it is why I sometimes feel so overwhelmed, like looking at the beauty of Tuscany or sitting in last night’s Bar Visconti. I have been crying a lot on this trip and I’m doing it again. I just can’t believe I am here, sitting right where I am. Now, I get to listen to Steve Earle, singing in his uniquely American voice, just like Copeland’s American symphonics earlier in the day. Shit, the crying is getting worse and I got the jerky shakes, burning eyes and cotton throat…………………..

I am back in my room, which is now my familiar sanctuary. I figured I’d better get up here before you started getting concerned about my state of mind. For the record, I am gloriously happy to be doing all this, even the uncomfortable parts of it………………

I got a call from the desk to tell me my Renault was here, arriving a day early, because it was due to be dropped off tomorrow morning. I went downstairs and got a quick orientation. So, tomorrow we take the show on the road and who knows what the hell that is going to be all about? I love that there is a button you press, which will direct me back here, no matter where i am. It will be like pulling the rip cord, parachuting safely back to my Tuscan sanctuary. What do you think the chances are that I will use it? I’d say the probability is very high.

My first car was a Renault Dauphine that I bought in 1962, when I was a senior at Jamaica High School. It was an ugly little, frail black, shoe box, with a gear shift on the floor. It actually came with a crank for emergencies, which I used quite a bit because it seemed every other day brought with it a mechanical crisis. I am sure everyone remembers their first car. I remember turning that crank and when it backfired, it would quickly flip backwards, jumping out of my grip, wrenching my shoulders and rattling my teeth. I was a senior and had my own car and that was cool.

I am going out with Count Basie “Swingin’ at Newport” and how cool is that! I want to thank you for staying with me on this trip and I am sincerely overwhelmed by your comments and I mean sincerely overwhelmed. Thank you so much and if I don’t stop right now, I am going to start crying again.