A lone musician plays his guitar while one couple looks on lazily and another sits by the ancient well, gossiping. A handful of people pass by, an occasional child laughing or crying. Otherwise, the only noise is the wind blowing the occasional wisp of cloud past the sun. It is just after lunchtime in a very quiet, somewhat sleepy, beautifully sun-drenched Montepulciano.

We come down from the roof and head over to the well, which is topped by two lions that look, despite their faded and pock-marked appearance, as if they might spring alive at any moment. I sit and stare at them, in silence, for several minutes.

But then the quiet is shattered. Two women, bickering loudly in southern-twanged American English (Oklahoma? Texas?) about somebody being rude to someone else or something similarly unnecessary for the rest of the world to hear, walk by, on their way to shop.

See the looks on the lions' faces? That mixture of curiosity, disdain and disgust? I swear they weren't wearing that until those women walked by. I look at the lions, they look back at me and I mouth the words, "I'm sorry."

The tasting rooms have not quite reopened, and the loud ladies are just the warning shot that a tour bus has arrived, so we take the time to walk down the little city's steep alleyways until we reach the bottom of the hill. Eventually we make our way back up, try a few tastings of Montepulciano Rosso, buy a bottle, and head for the car. We've got things to do.

The monastery is nestled at the bottom of a hill and a lane runs down through trees, gardens and a very old but still functioning man-made reservoir. There is a delicate balance between order and unconstrained growth, as if the grounds have been maintained for centuries but by increasingly fewer and older hands.

It is quiet. We snap a few pictures and ponder the life of a monk: rise, meditate, eat, work, pray, sleep, repeat. Somewhere in there you probably make and drink wine. Sounds nice, until one remembers the celibacy part. I am not sure I could do that, particularly if wine is involved. Wine and celibacy do not mix. Not in my world, anyway.

The serenity of this place is seductive, as is the beauty of the grounds and the art that adorns it. I particularly like a ceramic of the virgin and child, sitting atop the exit gate. Who created it? How old is it? I will never know.

It is time for gelato, and we have heard of a good gelateria in Pienza. We arrive in the late afternoon and the sun is streaming into the shop. An older, wealthy looking trio is ahead of us. They try everything they can, repeatedly asking for flavors that aren't on offer. "You don't have the violetta?" they say, in their New York accents, for the third time.

When he finally gets to us, the proprieter looks like he is ready to cry, or kill someone. Somehow we manage to help him remember why he got into the gelato business, and as we leave with our double-scoops he is asking how long we will be staying and inviting us back later in the week when he will be trying some new flavors. High on gelato and good will, we walk through the town of Pienza.

Pienza, as everyone but I apparently knows, is one of the centers of the pecorino universe. It is pecorino heaven, pecorino nirvana. The streets are lined with pecorino shops. We shuffle along timidly, the two scoops of gelato taking up residence in our bellies, until we see a friendly looking little spot, with a sign that can't be ignored: Assaggi di Pecorino - Taste the Sheep Cheese.

So we do. However, the owners of the shop, a cute little lady and her husband, a friendly looking man with a barely disguised fascination with Asian women, have a different idea of what "taste" means. She cuts piece after piece after piece, until we have tried almost every variety of cheese in the place. Each is delicious, each is different than the last, and I happily test the theory of "too much of a good thing."

Staggering out of the shop, we stumble into the sunlight and a view unfolds in front of us...

Senses on overload, it is time to move on.

Montalcino, the home of Brunello di Montalcino, one of Italy's finest wines. It does feel upscale here, the shops offering fancy clothes and designer glassware. But it does not feel pretentious, just wealthy in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

We walk through the streets and up and down its hill, getting confused for a bit as to which church is the main duomo and which is just merely a lovely old church. Then we remember that we are indeed in Montalcino so the important thing to do is try the Brunello.

I like this town quite a bit. They are all gorgeous beyond words, but something about Montalcino speaks to me differently. It has a dreamlike quality, as if it might all shimmer away into nothingness just as you fix your gaze on it. Will I shimmer away with it, lost in an eternal twilight of soft breezes, warm sunshine and full-bodied wine?

Holding my glass, tasting the fruits of a labor of love that has been perfected over centuries, I get a bit lost in my thoughts. I do not dissolve into the Tuscan sunset, and Montalcino remains standing as firmly as it ever has. My head clears eventually. We walk back to the car and drive back to the villa, ready to see what tomorrow might bring.