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We drove for a few more hours through the peaceful Tuscan hills, coming across a few early morning milk collection trucks and other farm traffic. The pace of life in this tranquil patch of a national quilt felt extraordinarily relaxed.
The Tuscan community clung to tradition despite a massive influx of foreign property owners. The area was spotlessly clean, with well-maintained roads and charming villages pockmarking beautiful, rustic countryside.
Victor’s expert driving skills relaxed me as he carved through sweeping bends, up and down hills, past fields, and through the forest. The Porsche handled beautifully, glued to every road surface, sucking up pebbles and bumps as though it knew they were coming, and the whole experience felt like a life’s adventure.
I fleetingly saw roadside advertisements for artisanal baked bread, honey, charcuterie, and the local specialty cheese, pecorino, each claiming to be the region’s finest.
Dozens of instantly recognizable iconic wine brand logos were stamped on metal signs pointed to their vineyard up winding cobble or gravel drives, some with beautiful Italian stately homes perched on hills above us.
“I love Tuscany, Victor.”
“We have so many travel opportunities, sweetheart. This adventure is a beginning.”
“Can we stop somewhere local and have breakfast, please.”
“I know just the place, and I’ll bet it’s not on any student’s guide.”