Town And Country
At Home In Italy
By Leah Walker
L
oaded down with luggage,
I made the seven-minute trek
from baggage claim through
the covered walkway to the
pier. With shoulder length
blonde hair that would make even
Fabio envious, Mario greeted me in
his private water taxi with a broad,
toothy smile. It was my first trip
to Venice, and this scenario wasn’t
a bad introduction to the city.
Deftly navigating the Venetian
canals, Mario delivered me to my
Passepartout Home located in the
Castello district, near the Church
of San Giorgio dei Greci. A short
pier jutted out from the palazzo’s
entrance, and at the end was the
attentive owner, Rosanna, to
welcome me. Through the wroughtiron doors, I entered into the salon
and stepped back in time.
I climbed into the back of the boat
and made myself comfortable. Before
taking the wheel, Mario turned up the
music and sang along to Journey in
perfect English. How apropos, I
thought. The sun was beginning to set,
making the water highway look more
like the yellow brick road. With “Don’t
Stop Believing” as a soundtrack, I
relished every surreal second of the
twenty-minute ride to my palazzo.
Known as Ca’ Salvioni, the palazzo
dates back to around 1580. Built
by wealthy Greek merchants, it
was designed by Jacopo Sansovino,
a devotee of Michelangelo. Soaring
frescoed ceilings, stucco, oil
paintings, and Murano glass
han i r ra
th main oor
A small door opened up to a private
garden, a rare commodity in a city
built over water. I didn’t have to see
62
anything else to know that I was
in a special and privileged place.
Ca’ Salvioni embodied my vision
of a Venetian palazzo, making
my introduction to the famed
city feel more dream than reality.
Driving my rental car, I set out past
the Florence airport in the direction
of Prato, a small city known for its
textile industry. With McDonald’s on
my left and a shopping mall on my
right, I exited the nondescript toll
way and ventured into the Tuscan
o ntry i
ithin t n min t
and about eight roundabouts, the
road became narrow and winding.
Gone was the hustle and bustle of
the city, and instinctively, my right
foot lightened up on the gas pedal.
Before reaching Bacchereto, a tiny
village with a few places to buy food
and a Catholic church, there is an
imposing metal gate. Blink and it’ll
be missed. Unassuming from the
road, what lies behind that gate
i th t ff o T
an anta i
Made possible by Passepartout
om
o
na y ha my
own Under the Tuscan Sun moment.
Through the gates and down the
tree-lined dirt road, the ten-acre
estate began to reveal itself.
Waiting in front were Lido and
Giovanna, the property owners and
my hosts. In typical Italian fashion,
I was greeted in the most hospitable
of ways—smiles and kisses all
around. This was their home, the
place where Federica, their now
twenty-year-old daughter, was
raised. The family’s memories were
made along every rolling hill and
under each fallen branch, and I felt