With its 14 medieval towers jutting disproportionately from a thick encampment of walls and sloping hills, San Gimignano could be mistaken for a Camelot-themed amusement park. And, considering the throngs of day trippers, it even feels commercialized despite its genuine historic grounding. My husband Joe and I drove from Siena across a Central Casting-style Tuscan landscape of ruined castles, rigid-backed poplar trees, and a vineyard whose crucifix-shaped trellises seemed to be holding hands. Though undeniably stunning, Tuscany provokes a rush of mixed feelings in me. The area truly does emit a heaven-on-earth vibe. But I also believe the region has something of a monopolistic hold on most travelers Italy imaginations and, subsequently, has lost a certain degree of rugged and raw substance.
We were most struck by the tourist overkill upon entering San Gimignano’s main gate and proceeding up a cobblestone road lined with gift boxes of its popular Vernaccia wine, gag bottles of grappa featuring Kama Sutra figures inside, and tiles painted with familiar Tuscan scenes. Nearly every storefront contained a stuffed wild boar – some chomping on corncobs or sporting wire-rimmed glasses – with an attached “non toccare” (“don’t touch”) warning.
The key to enjoying San Gimignano is to block out its unapologetically tourist-trap shenanigans and focus on its impressively preserved surroundings. They don’t call this town the “Medieval Manhattan” for nothing. Those towers – 14 of the original 72 remain standing – were among the earliest skyscrapers. We stood in the heart of the rival city-states of the Middle Ages (the 12th and 13th centuries, to be exact), when noble families erected them partially as a visual symbol of power. They also used the towers to store grain during an almost constant state of war and made use of the buildings’ high positions for dousing enemies with boiling oil – extra virgin, no doubt. At that time, San Gimignano prospered as a convenient stop on pilgrim routes to Rome. So I guess we can argue that it catered to travelers back then, too.
Then disaster struck in the form of the plague of 1348, leading to economic decline. It took six centuries for this micro-city of stone high rises to regain a steady influx of visitors. A zoning ordinance, still in effect, prohibits structures higher than the tallest Torre Grossa. But San Gimignano is more than the sum of its turrets.
We followed a frescoed courtyard within the Palazzo del Popolo to the Civic Museum. The first room is tellingly named Sala di Dante in honor of the Florentine poet, who spoke here in 1300 to drum up San Gimignano’s support during Florence’s violent skirmishes with Siena. The museum as a whole is a treasure trove of altarpieces and paintings by Taddeo di Bartolo, Filippino Lippi, Pinturicchio, and more. It’s also attached to the Torre Grossa. But, after trudging up an inordinate number of Italian monuments, we took a pass on the 218-step climb. Joe and I opted, instead, to gaze out at the perfectly rolling countryside from the top of a crumbling fortress.
The town is a feast for fresco lovers. The 11th century Basilica di Collegiata sports a stark façade in contrast to its vivid fresco-packed interior, including a ceiling that glistens with gold stars. The Bible is illustrated along the north and south aisles. And the Chapel of St. Fina serves as a visual history of the young mystic’s life by Ghirlandaio. Though only a teenager when she died, St. Fina allegedly saved San Gimignano from the barbarian hordes. She took ill at the age of ten and spent her short life confined to a wooden plank.
More frescoes abound at the 13th century Chiesa di Sant’Agostino, whose Rococo interior, added by Vanvitelli in 1740, seems to mock the reverential sepia simplicity of the original design. But the medieval frescoes around the main altar and choir loft remind visitors of the church’s more humble origins.
We wound back to the center of town, its landmarks the Piazza della Cisterna (named for its lovely sculpted well) and Piazza del Duomo. Here we could admire the unique skyline scattered with protruding edifices of varying heights. Then we recoiled in horror at the incongruous sight of a Ripley’s-style Torture Museum, the lobby a pulled-cotton Halloween tangle of skulls and hooded crypt keepers. This category of museum never sets well with me because I find that it trivializes victims’ suffering. Imagine being disemboweled so future generations could gawk at the gruesome weapons for a 10-euro admission fee? Plus, Italy’s churches and museums have no shortage of graphic martyrdom paintings.
For a bit of levity, we stopped in a noisy bustling bar for tramezzini, pastries and coffee. It was run by an older bespectacled signora, who seemed to revel in mixing up the orders so that everyone was forced to juggle misplaced glasses of orange juice and plates of custard-filled cornetti. She also had a habit of sliding platters down the main counter with such force most of the contents spilled or bit the dust altogether. After breaking at least half a dozen plates and saucers, she commanded patrons to move out of the way as she feverishly swept up the debris. Eventually exhausted by the chaos, we headed out only to notice a nearby trash can overflowing with enough broken glass to make a modern mosaic. But, truthfully, we preferred the bar’s gruff absurdity to the pristine rows of souvenir shops and bored waiters holding prix-fixe menus.
Then we left Tuscany altogether and drove toward Northern Italy, where those towering landmarks of San Gimignano would soon give way to more imposing natural symbols of absolute power: the Alps.
END
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