Weekend in Tuscany

The Final Piece of an Extraordinary Journey

The last one in Europe. The one that could be tackled in a single weekend. It had all begun a few years earlier. ‘Let’s tour our places.’

A tour of our nations, we agreed.

And so, the idea was born: to visit each other’s countries, each of us a guest in the other’s. And that was how the story began. Vilnius. Marseille. Dublin. Madrid. These were the first stops on that journey, born of a pact of friendship forged in the winter of 2023. I still remember that pub: the legendary Sissi’s in Amsterdam, in the Amsterdam Oud-Zuid district.

It is now October 2025. The final European stop was missing, as I said. Italy was missing. And I was the one to represent it.

What to do? Where to go? I kept asking myself that.

All the previous stops have had their own unique character. We’d gone from olive harvesting around Marseille, with trekking and tastings, to traditional Irish music concerts. Experiencing those evenings from the inside, sharing a Guinness with the band, is a memory whose flavor I can still almost taste today. From discovering the wonders of Lithuania thanks to the generosity of a people capable of making every tourist feel like a king for a day to the majesty of Madrid, with its night-time parties and lunches with South American flavors.

I, however, was still undecided. What to do? Where to go? I kept asking myself that.

I hadn’t yet chosen the final destination. One thing, however, was clear to me: it would be historic. Meanwhile, the days were passing and there was still everything to organize. In fact, first of all I had to decide on the city. Then a date came to mind: 12 December 2024. That evening, three of my closest friends had come to Amsterdam for the pre-Christmas celebrations which, since the previous year, had become a tradition. The famous Bijlmer Pasta Party. It was on that occasion that Siena and Amsterdam first met. The connection was immediate: we had to go to Siena. We would organize a big reunion in the Tuscan hills. We sprang straight into action: itineraries, accommodation, transport, restaurants. The organizational machine was in full swing. And so, in less than a week, the flight tickets, hire cars, Vespas for the scenic tour of Chianti and the legendary farmhouse in Casalgallo were all sorted. Now we just had to fill the days with activities, but that wouldn’t be a problem. We had more than enough ideas. Easter had come and gone, and the departure was drawing ever closer. The plan was now complete. It had everything: scenery, Vespas, cars, visits to towns and villages, dinners, neighbourhood festivals, breakfasts, booked lunches, museums and places to discover. The Amsterdam gang would be joined by many more friends for this Italian leg of the journey. The group had grown considerably. From Caserta. From Milan. From every corner of the Siena area. Many would be arriving with their families. Everyone wanted to be there. Everyone wanted to be part of the story.

And so, by the time we booked the first dinner, the number of participants had reached twenty-one. At last, here we are. It’s 22 May. We’re off. Seat 36A, window seat. I’m almost in the back row. I can see the others sitting a few seats further forward. We’re running late. Forty minutes. Enough to make us miss the first restaurant we’d booked in Pisa. But we had plenty of options. A simple delay wasn’t going to stop us. 11.00 pm on 22 May. We’re in Pisa. On top of the initial delay, there are some bureaucratic issues with the cars booked months earlier. For a moment, we fear they might jeopardise the start of the weekend. But the car hire manager doesn’t seem to want to stand in the way of us and our adventure. With great helpfulness, she manages to speed up every procedure and sort out the final hiccups. It seems too good to be true. We’re here. We’re finally on the road. Heading for Quercegrossa. There, an entire farmhouse nestled in the Tuscan countryside awaits us: Casalgallo. It was better than the video we’d seen that morning. Better than the photographs. Better even than the Tuscany Region adverts I have seen a few months earlier. It was all true. We had three entire accommodation units all to ourselves, set within a park where every detail had been carefully tended. Roses lined the paths. A little further on, a few horses completed the scene. It seemed like the perfect setting for our weekend. After our first exploratory strolls around the property, we began to feel tired. The meeting was set for the following day. 8:00 am.

Quercegrossa view

Casalgallo farmouse

In front of the main flowerbed, in the very spot where we’d raised our first toast just a few hours earlier. Those were the instructions. We would meet there the following morning. We had decided to meet early. Very early, considering we were on holiday. But with all the activities planned, that seemed a more than acceptable sacrifice. In reality, of all the surprises organized, we knew of only one. The legendary Chianti Route. On vespas. After a thoroughly Tuscan breakfast, we were ready. The five vespas were there waiting for us. I could see them gleaming in front of the shop. Blue .Red. Yellow. White. Black. Those would be our colors.

Vespa Chianti tour

Vespas, Tuscany view and us.

Wine taste Poggio al Sole

We were joined by four more vespas ridden by friends from the Siena area. At the head of the group was Francesco, the factotum of this Tuscan expedition. The organisation was as simple as it was effective. Francesco’s vespa led the way at the front of the convoy. Two vespas brought up the rear. Among them was Pasquale, the driving force behind organising our first evening in Tuscany. The Sienese were entrusted with leading and bringing up the rear of the group. And so it was. At least for the first ninety minutes. Ninety minutes of pure green. Vineyards. Flowers. Hills. And a blue sky framing that moving picture. The road alternated between tarmac and dirt tracks, passing from gravel paths to routes that seemed passable only on a Vespa. It was Chianti in its most authentic form. And it was exactly what we wanted to experience. And so it was. It was precisely one of those stretches that split the convoy. The dirt track created a gap between the various groups and, almost without realising it, the three of us on our Vespas found ourselves bringing up the rear. Ahead of us lay a fork in the road. For a moment, doubt crept in. Which way to go? For the route became clear again and we realised we were now less than two kilometres from the first stop of the day. The wine tasting. Our destination was close. But that very last kilometre proved to be the hardest. The road was extremely bumpy. We decided to slow down to a crawl.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group had already arrived and started the tasting. We proceeded with caution.

Seven hundred metres. Then six hundred. Then five hundred. By now, we could just make out the entrance to Poggio al Sole.

We had practically arrived. But it was at that very moment that a stone decided to take centre stage. One moment we were slowly making our way along the dirt track. The next, a Vespa was on the ground. And with it, one of our own. I still remember the silence of those first few seconds. Then the worry. And finally those bloodstains that began to appear on his arms and legs. The plan had been prepared down to the smallest detail.

We’d worked out timings, routes, bookings and alternatives. But no one had imagined that a simple stone could change the course of the day.

For a few minutes, everything came to a standstill. Enthusiasm gave way to anxiety.

To fear. To uncertainty. Fortunately, the situation seemed to be under control straight away, but it was clear that a medical assessment was needed. At that point, we had to make a decision.

Carry on. Even with the weight of what had happened. Even with our thoughts on our friend. We didn’t want to stop. We couldn’t.

Not after all the way we’d come to get there. So the group reorganised itself. A change of riders. A change of passengers.

And off we went again. A few minutes earlier she had been on the gravel. Now she was sitting behind me on the Vespa. I rode with a caution I’d probably never felt before.

Every bend. Every bump. Every metre of that road. At last we arrived. But our hearts were no longer the same as they had been a few hours earlier. To our happiness had been added anticipation and worry.

We were waiting for news. We were waiting for confirmation. And yet we were there. Taking part in the tasting. Trying to bring back a little serenity to a day that, in the space of a few seconds, had changed completely.

The plan was to continue the tour through Chianti, with a subsequent stop for lunch at another exclusive spot in the Tuscan hills, about thirty minutes from Poggio al Sole. And so we did. With a few extra thoughts on our minds. But with the same determination to make the most of the adventure we had been looking forward to for months. The next destination was Fattoria Vignomaggio. A place nestled in the Florentine hills, carefully chosen for what would be much more than just a simple lunch.

Fattoria Vignomaggio (FI)

It wasn’t just the vespa tour participants who were waiting for us. At the restaurant, we also met up with the wives and children of the Tuscan group. They’d had to race against the clock to make it, but now we were all finally there. Including the little ones, the group had swelled to twenty-four people. A small army. As soon as we arrived, the view was breathtaking. The table we’d booked was nestled amongst the hills. The view stretched out across vineyards, cypress trees and gentle slopes that looked like a painting. I still remember those first few minutes. There was almost a collective silence.

A rare silence. The kind that arises when there is no need to say anything more because the landscape speaks for itself. It felt as though we had stepped into one of those films set in the Tuscan countryside that promise simplicity, beauty and a slower pace of life.

And for a few hours, that is exactly how it was. Just as had been the case throughout the entire trip, that table too represented a little world of its own. A veritable melting pot of cultures and backgrounds.

There was the Amsterdam group, which by now included people from Spain, France, Lithuania, Ireland, Honduras and North Macedonia. There were our Tuscan guides, Francesco and Pasquale, accompanied by their families. There was Michele, who had come from Milan especially for the weekend. There was Ivano, who had travelled from Caserta with his family. And then there were the children. All strictly dressed in the red and white colors of the Amsterdam Lancers. A detail that did not go unnoticed.

Mandatory photo after lunch.

Even through those small symbols, we began to glimpse something greater. A bridge between cities. Between cultures.

Between friendships forged in different places but which have now become part of the same story. Marco was our guide as we explored the local flavors. With the passion and expertise of someone who lives in that area every day, he told us about the traditions, wines, local produce and customs that make that part of Tuscany unique.

Every course seemed to have a story to tell. And every story seemed linked to that landscape. The beauty of the place was almost impossible to describe. But the wonder of the view was soon joined by that of the table.

Affettati (Cold cuts). Freshly baked bread. Extra virgin olive oil. Wild boar ragù. Sliced steak.

And finally, Cantucci (typical Tuscany cookie) strictly accompanied by Vin Santo (sweet wince).

For many of our friends who had travelled from beyond the Alps, it was a completely new experience. For the Tuscans present, it represented tradition. For me, it was a delightful rediscovery. Time seemed to stand still.

Amidst photographs, toasts and stories, the hours slipped by without anyone really feeling the need to check their watch.

And yet the day was still long. In fact, come to think of it, it had only just begun.

Only a few hours had passed since our arrival in Casalgallo and we had already experienced more emotions than we could ever have imagined. The excitement of the start. The beauty of Chianti. The worry over the accident. The joy of being together around a table. It felt as though a whole weekend had passed. Yet it was still only the first day.

At some point, it was decided to head back to base. A few minutes’ rest. A quick refresh.

Just enough time to recharge our batteries. We had to get ready for what had been billed as a special event. A very special one. We’d been given very little information. A dinner in the square. Nothing more. In our minds, we pictured a pleasant evening outdoors, a few food stalls and some music. In other words, classic village street food.

We couldn’t have been further from the truth.

What we were about to experience would turn out to be one of the most authentic and surprising experiences of the entire weekend. La Pantera.

Up until that point, it had simply been one of the names we’d heard mentioned whilst organizing the trip. Shortly afterwards, it would become much more than that. The Contrada della Pantera is one of Siena’s seventeen historic districts. A community built on traditions, a sense of belonging and an identity rooted in centuries of history. We, however, were to discover it in the most authentic way possible.

By experiencing it from the inside. As soon as we arrived, we were welcomed by Pasquale. As already mentioned, he had been one of the organizers of this weekend and a member of the Contrada. Without his involvement, we would probably never have had access to such a special event. He was our ticket to an evening none of us would ever forget.

Contrada La Pantera

Shortly afterwards, the event manager arrived, a key figure within the Contrada. With just a few words and a simple nod, he made it clear that we were welcome guests.

The twenty reserved seats were ready. And they weren’t just any seats. They were probably the best in the square. Between the stage, where the band would later perform, and the beating heart of the party. A spot so privileged that it aroused the envy of some local lads who would have liked to take them. The reply came immediately. ‘Absolutely not.’

Those seats were reserved: for Siena. For Amsterdam.

At that moment, we realised we weren’t just visitors. For one evening, we had become part of the family. The Pantera family.

It wasn’t long before the first toast took shape. A glass of Chianti raised to the sky.

Then a second. Then a third. Then many more. Every toast had a recipient.

To Pasquale, the tireless organizer and now officially christened by us as the ‘mayor of the area’. To Francesco, the true driving force behind the entire Tuscan expedition. And finally, to the new friendship forged between Amsterdam and the Pantera. An alliance proclaimed in jest but which, deep down, we all felt was something real.

The wine began to flow. So did the beer. And with them, the last traces of formality melted away for good.

Voices grew louder. Smiles widened. The songs began to follow one after another. Sometimes they were the great Italian classics.

At other times, international tunes came to the fore.

From Ricchi e Poveri to Bad Bunny. A seemingly unlikely transition that, that evening, felt entirely natural.

Every song found someone ready to sing it. Every chorus became a sing-along. Every table a little party. The evening went on without a break. Music. Grilled meat. Red wine. More music. More red wine. More toasts.

La Pantera celebration

That seemed to be the natural rhythm of the square. A continuous cycle that no one had any intention of interrupting. At one point, someone suggested alternating the wine with a generous gin and tonic.

The idea seemed brilliant. Refreshing, we thought. A way to round off the evening faster, what happened.

In hindsight, perhaps, it wasn’t the wisest decision. But at that moment it seemed perfectly sensible. The hours flew by.

Much faster than we would have liked. Live music continued to fill the square. The people around us were dancing, singing, toasting.

And we were with them. Almost without realizing it. As if we’d always been there. As if it weren’t our first time. As if we’d been part of that community for years.

It was precisely this feeling that we took away with us.

Not the wine. Not the music. Not the dinner. But the welcome. That uniquely Senese ability to make you feel part of something.

To open the doors to a centuries-old tradition and let you experience it up close. Not as a spectator. But as a guest. As a friend.

By the time the night was well advanced, we still found the energy to discuss the next day’s schedule.

The original plan had been to set off at dawn and undertake a long series of visits that had already been organized down to the last detail. But after such a busy day, and an even busier evening, the decision was almost unanimous: it was time to slow down. For once, no early morning alarm clocks. No rushing about. No timetables. The next morning’s meeting was postponed.

No longer at 7.50 am. But at 10.30 am, the appointment for the next day.

A small victory for democracy. And above all, for common sense. It would be a different Sunday. Slower.

More relaxed.

A Sunday to devote to Siena.

Because after getting to know the heart of the Pantera, it was time to discover the heart of the city. And so it was. Much more calmly than the day before. I still remember ordering the usual croissant and cappuccino at 11.32 am. A decidedly unusual time for breakfast. But that Sunday had taken a different turn.

Panoramic view Siena

It was to be a day of relaxation. A day dedicated to Siena. Just a few hours earlier, we’d been won over by the headquarters of our now-allied Contrada della Pantera; now it was time to let the city win us over.

The meeting point with our guides was set in Piazza del Campo. Majestic. Elegant. Unmistakable. Surrounded by medieval palaces that seemed to recount centuries of history at every glance.

We stopped for a few minutes simply to look at it. In just a few weeks’ time, it would be the center of the Sienese world.

A huge screen projected images of recent editions of the Palio, as if to remind us that this square is not only one of the most beautiful places in Italy, but the beating heart of a tradition that has shaped the city’s life for centuries.

As often happens on the best trips, the day’s itinerary had been completely turned on its head. And it was a stroke of luck. No rush. No must-see stops. Just the pleasure of walking. Now the plan was to visit the Duomo, the Crypt, the most picturesque viewpoints and whatever else Siena decided to treat us to along the way.

Duomo Siena

‘It’ll be a quiet day,’ we kept telling ourselves.

Meanwhile, however, the thermometer was already reading 32 degrees. And the step counter had well and truly passed the 14,000 steps. It was barely 1.30 pm.

It was at that very moment that one of the most typically Italian requests of the entire weekend came up: “When are we going to have a spritz?”

The question had been hanging in the air for a few minutes already. In reality, it was all planned. As was now becoming a pleasant habit, that stop had also been organized down to the last detail. Spritz and schiacciata. Just a stone’s throw from the Duomo.

The restaurant was in a stunning location, overlooking one of the most picturesque views of the historic center. We arrived hungry. And ready to get down to business.

The only real challenge was figuring out how many schiacciate we could manage to order. To accompany them, of course, a long series of spritzes. It was right there that I decided to break with tradition and treat myself to something a little different for the region: a limoncello spritz. A choice that quickly found several supporters, especially among the Spanish delegation.

Between tastings, toasts and jokes, time flew by. But an Italian lunch isn’t complete without an espresso. And so, once the meal was over, we found ourselves outside the restaurant with our coffees in hand. I opted for a double. The evening at La Pantera was still running up the bill. At that point, the next mission was clear: Gelato!!

We had to find a gelato parlour that would live up to our foreign friends’ expectations.

No small task. But it was probably the easiest challenge of the whole weekend. A few minutes later, we were standing outside one of the city’s historic ice-cream parlours. It was an instant hit. ‘The best gelato I’ve ever had.’ That was one of the comments I still remember today.

And, given the caliber of the international competition at the table, we decided to take it as a great compliment to the host nation. But Siena hadn’t finished surprising us yet. We set off walking again. Up and down its streets. Through narrow alleys, panoramic views and hidden squares. By now we knew almost every corner between Piazza del Campo and the Duomo. Including the characteristic souvenir shops which, inevitably, ended up catching our attention.

Two in particular were literally stormed. There we bought some replicas of the Panther symbol. A little memento. A way of taking a little something of that new friendship home with us.

We also promised to return to say hello to another member of the Pantera family, whose meeting place was inside an elegant cashmere shop.

Time, however, was flying by. And sunset was drawing near. The question, at that point, was simple. Where better to watch the sunset than from the highest point possible? So we kept climbing. After several minutes’ walk, we reached one of the city’s most picturesque vantage points. From there, Siena looked even more beautiful. The rooftops. The towers. The walls. The hills on the horizon.

One of those views that everyone can agree on. On that occasion too, the script was rather predictable. Spritz for everyone. Aperol or Campari.

The two great schools of thought clashed once again.

Two spritz is better than one.

The first glass was followed by a second. Then a third. As the sun slowly gave way to evening. Even the very long second day was drawing to a close.

Above the hills

Not for us, but for our Sienese guides.

It was then that Francesco and Pasquale said goodbye to us. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they arranged to meet us next time.

Because that farewell felt like a ‘see you later’. After all, it had all begun months earlier, at that Pasta Party in Bijlmer in December 2024. That was where the idea had been born. That was where the first bridges had been built. And the weekend in Siena had done nothing but strengthen them. The friendship between Amsterdam and Siena. Between Amsterdam and the Pantera.

Now we were heading back in the opposite direction. Towards Casalgallo.

Towards the final hours of that weekend which seemed to have flown by in the blink of an eye.

Leaving Siena behind us, we headed back towards Casalgallo. The aim was simple. To enjoy the last light of the day immersed in the tranquility of the Sienese countryside.

The sun was slowly sinking behind the hills and the golden light of the sunset made everything even more beautiful.

Casalgallo welcomed us once again with its peacefulness. With its open spaces. With that sense of peace we had come to associate with that place.

We had no grand plans for the evening. For the first time since the weekend began, there were no schedules to keep, no bookings to make, and no stops to reach.

Just the pleasure of being together. Of sharing stories. Of recalling what we had experienced over the past forty-eight hours. To keep us company were a few bottles bought the previous day during the wine tasting in Chianti.

A perfect way to bring the aromas and flavors of that day back to the table.

It was on the way back that something curious happened. A few hundred meters from the junction for Quercegrossa, we spotted a small takeaway pizzeria. It had probably always been there. And yet, despite having walked down that street countless times in the days leading up to it, none of us had ever noticed it.

This time, however, it seemed to appear at just the right moment.

Like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle that was almost complete. The decision was made instantly: Pizza for everyone.

A few minutes later we were back in Casalgallo. Pizzas on the table. Bottles opened. Music in the background.

Before us, the sunset slowly gave way to evening. We needed nothing else.

Pizza. Wine. Music. Friendship.

These were the ingredients that marked the end of that Sunday.

A simple ending. But perfect. Because, after all, the moments that stay with you the longest aren’t always the most spectacular ones.

Often, they’re the most authentic ones.

The ones where nothing extraordinary happens, but everything seems to be exactly where it should be.

By now, the long weekend was drawing to a close. The flight to Amsterdam was scheduled for the early afternoon of the following day.

Monday morning. One last breakfast in Siena. Final goodbyes. Final photographs.

And then back on the road. Before returning the cars in Pisa, however, one last stop was planned.

A stop that many had been looking forward to for a long time. San Gimignano.

The famous medieval village that dominates the Tuscan hills with its towers. As soon as we arrived, we found ourselves immersed in an atmosphere completely different from that of the previous days.

San Gimignano

More touristy. More crowded. But no less charming for that.

In the narrow streets of the historic center, there was that sense of timelessness that only a few Italian villages manage to preserve.

For many of us, there was also a little dream to fulfil. To taste the famous gelato that had made the town famous all over the world. Unfortunately, however, plans don’t always go to plan.

The queues, the timings and the need to head back to Pisa forced us to give up. ‘Next time.’ That was the phrase we repeated to ourselves over and over. Because by now it was clear to everyone. There would be a next time.

Having finished exploring San Gimignano, the group split up temporarily.

Some headed for the airport to enjoy one last Italian aperitif before departure. Others, however, chose to make a detour.

Destination: Pisa. Destination: the Tower. After all, there are some photos you simply can’t miss.

And the one in front of the Leaning Tower undoubtedly belongs to this category.

So there they were. Re-enacting the most iconic gesture of Italian tourism. Hands outstretched towards the monument.

Iconic

By now, the clock had struck 2 pm. We were all there. Together again. Ready to set off once more. Ready to get back to our lives.

It had been a very long Italian weekend. Vespa scooters. The Chianti hills. Tuscany. Lunch and dinners with the locals. Dust and open roads. Sun and wind. Spritz and Vin Santo. Schiacciata and pizza. Gelato and toasts. La Pantera.

But above all, people. Friends. Old and new.

Arrivederci Siena!

We could update the calendar. The mission was accomplished. After Vilnius, Marseille, Dublin and Madrid, Siena too had earned its place on the tour.

And perhaps that was the most beautiful paradox of all.

Siena is not a capital city. It never has been. It is a city of just over fifty thousand inhabitants. And yet, for a weekend, it had managed to be one.

For us.

Dissimilar the gelato in San Gimignano, which would remain a dream to be put off, this time we weren’t dreaming. We had succeeded in our endeavour. Not without difficulty. Not without unexpected events. Not without a few moments of fear. But we had done it.

We had written another chapter in our story.

A story made up of friendship, travel and promises kept.

And as the plane prepared to take us back to Amsterdam, there remained just one final question. I was just wondering, was it really a historic weekend, one to remember?

To posterity, this harsh judgement.

I was still wondering: “Fú vera storia. Ai posteri l’ ardua sentenza”.