Under the Tuscan Sun

Photography by James William Murphy
Words: Ruby Gurnsey
Models: Ruby Gurnsey and Lily Kelt

“We hired bikes on the outskirts of Siena from a sketchy Italian man. His English was unpracticed not for lack of opportunity but for lack of trying, a skillful lure to trick young doe-eyed travelers into expensive contractual agreements. Honestly, touché. Lily, James, and I were the perfect flies for the bait, slightly confused and sweaty-palmed with desperation to fulfill the cinematic vision of scootering Vespas through dusty vineyards. After some “si’s” and “no’s” and many Italian eye rolls, we were led from the rickety storefront down rickety stairs to his basement. There, he pointed to the dust-collecting scooters. One was a white Vespa that we each instinctively made mental dibs on. The other was more of a geriatric moped with more ease and grunt—a quick lesson in the age-old saying. We donned our steeds as the rusty garage door wheezed its way open to release us from stifled air into the heat of Tuscany’s Summer.

“It was happening, a moment we have all seen in films and visited in dreams.”

My helmet balanced slightly precariously on my head, a little too large as it slipped over my eyes. I had successfully secured the more attractive vehicle that revealed its quirks to me. Its brakes gave out in perfect timing with my helmet as I slowly and red-cheeked bumped into the back of a gratefully sturdy car. For the second time that day, eyes were rolled at me in Italian. Again, touché. I tailed Lily and James through the tightly grouped town of Siena, built from stones that date back to the Middle Ages and out into the expansive countryside. It was happening, a moment we have all seen in films and visited in dreams. Tuscany revealed itself boldly, stretching lazily to the skyline with warm yellowed fields spotted by hydrated vineyards. Her beauty held no self-consciousness or subtlety, she did not need to. She’s who you write ballads for, build castles upon, defend and drink up generously. We spent the day zipping with building confidence from ancient town to vineyard to hilltop caverns, drinking cheap wine to the edges of the driving limit and swimming in warm pools of delight. Joyful locals welcomed us into their homes and restaurants, filling us with stories and sending us on our way with a playful double pat to the cheek. Any biting creatures or windswept eyeballs barely nipped at the edges of our joy. We smoked perfectly rolled cigarettes and spoke of our gratitude, gripping hands as we ran through bizarre villages adorned with sculptures modern and old. James’ camera followed us the whole way, capturing this perfect day. The results speak for themselves.

“When the ‘what to do’ and ‘where from here’ do not have obvious answers, it is good to feel small.”

Sometimes, travel is effortless. You are offered a reprieve within the reactive moments, missed trains, risk, sketchy stays, and foes playing friends. This branch of peace was extended to us by the hillside Tuscan city of Siena. We welcomed it with indifference, a three-day filler of our five-month journey. And without any particular reason, Siena became our manuka honey – healing us miraculously in the sun. Our relationship had been in a strenuous place to put things evasively. We found ourselves practicing the tense dance many young couples do, the wanderer leading and the keeper helplessly following. We switched roles many times throughout the travels. I’d lead, posing questions about why we are together, exposing caveats in our relationship that don’t work in these exceedingly difficult situations. They were pre-menstrual, stress-related, and weak revelations. The reveal switched the role, and he would wonder the same. I’d lose him to the world of what-ifs when I needed a what next. The foundations we had laboriously laid over three years were splintering. Then, we craned our necks at the looming, wrapping walls of Siena. One moment sweating and bickering over budgeting in a Gelato, the next silent and small. Outside the seven-kilometer layer of middle-aged stones, Italian heat stifled the air, but our breath was already stunted. We briefly stopped our dance and looked down on ourselves from the perspective of this old, wise wall. We saw two young, in-love, complex humans, playing the role of independent adults when all we needed was to be taken care of. Most valuably, we saw ourselves for our insignificance from hundreds of years of history when everything feels too big, too much. When the ‘what to do’ and ‘where from here’ do not have obvious answers, it is good to feel small. Feeling small humbles us back to the basics, the beating baseline that strips us of all the big and overwhelming queries. Here we are, so small, next to this wall, so great and tall.

Ruby Lola, Luan Gurnsey