built in 56 BC surrounds the old town. This city within a city enchants me. I travel its cobblestone streets narrow and twisting. The same streets Dante walked when he lived here. Bicycles reign. There are few cars. Miniaturized garbage trucks keep things pristine. Serenity–– bicycle bells and conversation fill the air. We pass a small 12th century church its marble façade carved like a wedding cake. We enter a small square where the bronze statue of a seated Puccini, cigarette in hand, stares out at us. Across the street, off to the left –– his home. Lucca’s Guinigi tower, looms ahead, crowned with a forest of rooftop oak trees. I long for custard-filled pastry set in a store window not the huge unwrapped hams hanging from its ceiling.
We follow our guide turning here, there, streets clustered with medieval houses opening onto church squares. Turning again, a relic of Roman times, Piazza dell’ Anfiteatro. A solitary piece of art in the arena encircled by tourist filled cafes and small specialty shops. We find one filled with scarves of richly colored wool, cashmere, silk, most tissue thin. The window display ––a woman weaving at her loom. There’s even time for pastry.
Add-ons over centuries widened wall ramparts to their massive 17th century size. Napoleon’s favorite sister planted them with linden trees after he conquered Lucca in 1805. I join walkers, runners, and cyclists who use the broad tree lined pathways, watch them, as I make my way (I’d rather stay) through the wall’s impressive iron gates. Find our bus back in the twenty-first century.