You get up early one gray misty morning, subject yourself to stressful hours of post-modern transportation hell, flee civilization, and end up gawking in a mirror -- trying to believe you've really been dropped in a sunny hillside vineyard in Vinci (Tuscany), where that rascal Leonardo started dreaming all those years ago. Wow. . .
We got lost 3-4 times winding our way East and then North out of the Arno River valley, heading for Carmignano: in the hills above the ancient road from Pistoia into Firenze.
We stayed at the ancient Capezzana Estate: a parchment rent contract conserved in the Florence State Archives, dated 804, reveals that vines and olives were cultivated at Capezzana for the production of oil and wine as early as 1200 years ago.
We found ourselves all alone: in charge of a rambling 19th century "guest" wing of the house, overlooking what had been the stables, with a full kitchen, terrace for sunny breakfasts. Here are more pictures of the Villa and surroundings.
Two days we drove into Firenze to walk the old streets and see the art treasures. I'm disappointed to say that the traffic snarls and the tourist crowds (OK, it was Easter week) overpowered much of the delight. One of the highpoints for me was our tour of the Uffizi Gallery. It required tickets reserved at least a day in advance; we couldn't see the famous statue of David because no tickets were available for days!
Another completely unexpected highpoint: the Boboli Gardens are a walled, hilly fantasy behind the Palazzo Pitti, somewhat away from the crowds. And the ticket to the gardens also entitles you to tour the Silver Museum, the Costume Museum, and the Porcelain Museum -- all in various wings of the palace, and all displaying amazing treasures of the Medicis. The Silver Museum was in the Duke's reception halls, painted floor to vaulted ceiling with the most beautiful, whimsical, and three-dimensional murals of Gods, heroes, and scoundrels.
And finally, exhausted late on our second day, we happened by a small cafe on a quiet ancient street, and stopped for the perfect glass of vino rosso e brochetti -- with tomatoes to die for!
Give me a drive through the Italian countryside any day, particularly when you park below the great looming medieval walls, and walk up through the gates of Siena. Settled on a hilltop by the Etruscans, before the Romans, Siena was one of Italy's powerful medieval city-states. The Piazza del Campo is the site of the City's mythic Palio, a twice-yearly, death-defying horse race. 
The Campo is also a pretty good place to get some local red, catch the sun, and watch children, lovers, and bent old men cavort and chatter.
While visiting Siena, we were staying in a family guesthouse just outside Montacino, another hill-top fortress town. We had been told by Alessandro, our friend from Carmignano, to be sure to look into the Brunello, the wine made in the region surrounding Montalcino.
We were in Montalcino over Easter weekend, and went to the morning Mass at the 18th Century cathedral, where kids and grandads alike brought in delicately decorated baskets of eggs to be blessed.
And sitting in a cafe off the town square, we pursued our quest for the perfect Pecorino cheese, served here -- young and soft, firm, and hard and aged -- with a dollop of local honey.
We determined to explore Lucca, a city about which we knew little. Lucca grew up for hundreds of years with fortification built on fortification: gatehouses, salients: the whole deal. 
In the 18th century the rulers decided that a carriage drive seemed more sensible, so they reduced and filled much of the wall. Today Lucca has parklands and pathways extended all around atop the wall: about three miles.
Lucca, Montalcino, and Siena all have architectural and artistic treasures I can't begin to describe. We found it really interesting that throughout Lucca you could see ancient buildings which have been there through so many lifetimes that their doors, arches, windows, and interiors have been done and re-done many times.
Maybe those old Luccans linger in the shadows. . .laughing. . .
