Out of Office, Somewhere

The rain finally waved a tiny white flag, so we decided Siena deserved another day of our affection. We began, as all sensible travelers do, with our usual ritual: tea with honey and cream and toasted pinsa. Warm. Reliable. Emotionally grounding. The kind of breakfast that says, Yes, we are adults who make good decisions.

Fueled and feeling smug, we set out on a leisurely passeggiata—which in Italy means “a gentle stroll” and in reality means “accidentally walking several miles uphill.” With a little sense of purpose and not 100% sure the rain would hold off, we found ourselves at Santa Maria della Scala, one of Europe’s oldest medieval hospitals, now a sprawling museum. This place was operational until 1995, which is both impressive and mildly unsettling once you’re inside.

The entrance level eased us in gently: some art, enormous rooms, and then two vast, mostly empty wards—one for men, one for women. The only things left were the carved shelving into the walls and the faint outlines of painted headboards, marking where bed after bed once lined the walls. It was quiet. Stark. Surprisingly moving. Suddenly our minor travel complaints felt… very minor.

Then we went downstairs. Because of course we did.

The lower levels were where things got truly fascinating—and just a touch interesting and disturbing. We wandered through archaeological sections with carved tunnels (tool marks still visible), narrow stone staircases twisting through tight corridors, and eventually a massive stone laundry basin that clearly meant serious washing was done here. Then came the long, narrow corridors leading to the area where bodies were dropped from above. The pit still contains piles of bones.

We saw rooms of hundreds of unearthed terracotta pots and carved funerary objects that surrounded us. At some point Tom and I exchanged a look that said, This is incredible, and also, Maybe we need a drink.

As we headed toward the exit, we passed massive copper drain pipes—and the sound of rushing water tipped us off to the unpleasant truth waiting outside. Rain. Again. Siena, laughing softly at us.

We made a dash—soaked shoes and all—to our favorite nearby bar, Key Largo, where two cappuccinos restored warmth, circulation, and morale. Wet but revived, we regrouped. I remembered a shop I’d spotted earlier with a very convincing sign:

“Underground Ancient Siena. Don’t miss this opportunity.”

Open Monday, Thursday, and Saturday, 4–7 pm. It was Saturday. It was a bit after 4:00. It was perfect.

Reader, it was closed.

Just minutes from home and officially damp through our souls, we tucked our tails between our legs, sloshed back to the apartment, and spent some quality time with the Olympics while everything we owned slowly dried. A quick weather check promised the rain would stop by 7. Victory.

At 8 pm we headed out—dry!—for dinner at Locanda dell’Oste, and all was immediately forgiven. Tagliata alla ruota arrived like a gift from the gods: hot pasta twirled tableside inside a wheel of Pienza Pecorino cheese until it surrendered completely. Melted, glossy, perfect. Redemption in carbohydrate form.

We walked home full, happy, and blessedly dry—already forgiving Siena for the rain, because honestly, how could we not?