One Night in Siena...

...is not enough. That's what happens when you set up a trip in ignorance, which seems pretty much a given when you are in fact ignorant about your destination: things that look great on paper suddenly don't make much sense. Oh, well. I'd been planning  my second trip to Italy before I departed for this one, so no big deal: Siena is alive and well and in my future.

We took the high-speed train from Rome to Florence (I really believe I should be saying Roma and Firenze, but for some odd reason using the proper names seems precious) and then a plain old train to Siena. Taking pictures from a vehicle of public transportation always makes me cringe: I feel like my father with his Instamatic, excitedly shooting photos of clouds outside the airplane window.

But for heaven's sake! This isn't just clouds, this is really Italy. Cloudy plastic windows or no, I'm really in Italy! It's nice to know as I embark on my seventh decade, I can still be completely awe-struck.

The train station in Siena could stand alone as an example of why you should pay close attention to the travel experts who suggest you pack lightly. Since you arrived by train, we'll grant that you were able to hoist your luggage onto the train, down a narrow aisle, and perhaps even up onto the overhead shelf. It seems you were even able to get your luggage off the train. Yay, you!

But I don't remember reading anything about the 934 escalators that lift you up up up and more up to street level in Siena. It was as if you took escalators to the top of a mountain to ski. Just when you started to think this must be it, you'd look up and there would be yup another escalator.

Eventually we ended up on a very quiet street in a very quiet part of town. There was no taxi queue here and nothing that looked like a phone booth. Where exactly were we, and how would we get to our hotel? For all my exhaustive pre-trip research, I hadn't thought to figure out this little piece of our journey. Since Floyd and I have a running contest as to which of us is the shiest, neither one of us was inclined to enter a store and ask directions we doubted we would even comprehend. Time for the gps.

Like most things on a gps screen, it looked quite simple and straightforward: a kind of < shaped route to our hotel. Like many of the places we were to visit in Italy, Siena seems to exist on ridges leading down to chasms. Not the nearly bottomless chasms we would see later, but steep enough and deep enough that you can't walk a straight route from here to there; you have to take routes that look like <.

We made it to the hotel by sweat and guesswork, pulling two suitcases and hoisting a backpack apiece. Nothing like arriving in a lobby that looks like this when you look and no doubt smell like you just dug your way out from under a rock.

Buongiorno, I panted to the man behind the desk. Abbiamo una prenotazione. 

In true Italian fashion, the man behind the desk was extremely gracious about my attempts at his language, and led us to a very sweet room. Before we could even take advantage of a bathroom twice the size of the one we had in Rome, hunger and thirst drove us out the door, and we made for a ristorante I had already visited thanks to Google Street View.

Here's a thing about Italy: we were sitting in this place that had the worst reviews of any restaurant in Siena. I'd done my homework; I knew these things. A suicide move?

The food was fabulous, the wine was wonderful, the tiramisu (in the form of a little pudding in a bowl, not the cube of ladyfingers & cream one encounters here in the states) delectable. Okay, then! Worst food in town!

Siena is a town of little narrow streets, of course, and a truly wonderful, famous piazza that somehow hosts a horse race in the summer. Glad to miss that.

Here we encountered one of the first glitches of our trip: the bancomat, having just issued me a few euros, swallowed Floyd's debit card and refused to spit it back up. First-world problem, indeed. But it was in Floyd's account that most of our $$ resided. Left to my account, we'd be eating our meals from the side of the road. (Note: although my mastery of Italian prepositions is famously, even laughably inadequate, in English I do know the difference between on the side of the road and from the side of the road). It would be several phone calls and a few days before all complications were resolved, but hey, what is travel without adventure?

Despite such unfriendly treatment by the bancomat - perfectly predictable, I think, when you visit Banca di Firenze in Siena for Pete's sake - we found Siena a very warm, family-feeling town. There was a very noisy carnival happening on one end of town, and the usual weekend revelry in the famous Piazza del Campo - the sloping one with the horse race. The local ragazzi were walking arm-in-arm, laughing, flirting, smoking, teasing like ragazzi the world over. We saw lots of teeny kids with their grandparents, a pattern we observed everywhere we went in Italy.

I can't really explain why I don't have more photos, except to say that at the time I wasn't thinking of some kind of illustrated diary. I was often trying to keep my head from exploding with the sheer amazement of it all. I'd go around for hours with the camera, pulling it out of the backpack over and over again to capture what seems now like every doorway and alley; then I'd just leave the darn thing back at the hotel. I wanted to experience Italy more than I wanted to take pictures of it.

Then there's the problem of not being a very good photographer.

At some point during our one Saturday evening in Siena, a very nice, very talkative young man arrived at the hotel with the bicycles that were going to ride to our next destination. Unbeknownst to us at the time, Marco would reappear later in our narrative; for now, he had lots of enthusiastic suggestions about our route (which was typed out for us kilometer by kilometer so we could judge by the bike computer exactly how far off-course we had wandered), our Tuscan destination, and - more importantly! - where to get the best food in Siena. Never mind that we had consumed a full meal, a bottle of wine, and dessert as a late lunch. Let's go find dinner!

Sunday morning in Siena is church bells. 

Church bells, and an okay hotel breakfast, and bike shorts. 

Ever since I've known Floyd, nearly eleven years now, I've found myself signing up for various endeavors that seem like brilliant ideas at sign-up time. Then, when the actual day presents itself, another story altogether. (I am thinking of various skating and skiing episodes from which I may never fully recover.)

In theory, biking from one Tuscan town to another seems idyllic. To judge by the Internet, everybody in the world goes biking through Tuscany! I'd read one woman's account of biking 21 kilometers, of which she was very proud; and so I'd been biking through our flat neighborhood for weeks, translating miles into kilometers and talking myself into the idea that I could absolutely do this. Siena to Buonconvento? I'm there! What's 40 kilometers? Not that many miles!

Here is Floyd at the main gate as we departed from old Siena:

If he looks pensive, it is because he is wondering how in the world he is going to get me all the way to Buonconvento without oxygen tanks or a tow rope. While a ride of 60 hilly Austin miles may be his idea of a really fun sufferfest every Saturday morning, Floyd knows I avoid hills like the plague. In addition, we were about to dive into some automobile traffic that was less voluminous than Rome's but ten times as enthusiastic about getting from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible.

Across the street from this ancient Porta San Marco, a view of our future:

I'll just say we had a few busy miles and only one roundabout to deal with before we reached the outskirts and the roads became peaceful. And I never want to hear the word "roundabout" again, okay?

We were pedaling ourselves into a stretch of our journey that stuck me then and strikes me now as one stereotype after another.

Inevitably we reached a very long hill I could not conquer in a seated position. Up, up. up, push, push, push, keep in mind that the dozens of Vespa daredevils on the road this morning will make a startling noise with some frequency, push, push, keep in mind that walking is exercise too... May I take a moment here to say that, no matter how many times I begged him to leave me by the side of the road to die, my dear sweet spouse stayed with me the whole time? And while I was push-push-pushing up the sides of these hilly roads, he was riding right behind me? At about .25 miles per hour? He's a wonder, that Floyd.

Enough of that brand of fun; let's eat instead. But we are in the middle of (a lovely) nowhere. Wait, is that a sign for a restaurant? Let's go look.

As we were eating our lunch, the extended family whose place this is were eating at a long table behind me. We were the only ones there: Floyd and me, and the grandparents, parents, and two little boys who were - like certain grandchildren I know (not that I'd name names, but Marty, Ray, and Marion) - doing more running around than eating.

Meanwhile we had this view from the patio:

I like to think that not everyone could rise from such a lunch table and get right back on the bike. It's probably best that we had no choice.

Marco had mentioned a little detour we ought to take, and as tempting as it was to get to our hotel, we took the turn to Murlo, "a tiny medieval borgo and one of the oldest settlements in the area." What did an extra couple of kilometers mean to mildly intoxicated powerhouses like ourselves? We went.

Murlo really is just a little walled town out in the middle of the countryside. Although we encountered a number of tantalizing aromas wafting from the windows on this Sunday afternoon, we only saw three other human beings. Two were on a motorcycle, arriving as we arrived and leaving almost as soon as they'd parked. The other was a man moving his car into the parking lot alongside actual Etruscan ruins:

I take it that in this little dugout, bronze forms were made - pour in your clay and, after a suitable period, remove the mold to reveal your amphora, or statue, or whatever. This is the kind of tourist experience that causes books to multiply on shelves once you're home: I found myself wanting to read about every place we encountered.

We now had only about ten kilometers to go. A number of them were vertical. And while one nice thing about wheeling yourself uphill is the inevitable downhill, two complications: one, these were pretty major hills for me, with some mildly intimidating downhills. I thought, as I have done many times in the past, it would be a terrible thing to struggle through such a long climb only to be killed on the descent.

And two, our hotel is located on top of a hill. I should say, on top of at least three hills outside Buonconvento. I may not know technically where the term "16% grade" comes from, or what it means; but I know I can't do it on a bicycle. (Up, up, up, push, push, push...)

It is very handy to have a camera. You can stop and take photos, saving a little face while struggling to breathe and get your heart rate down from the red zone.

We made our way at last to Agriturismo Pieve a Salti, where we were given absolutely a room with a view:

We'd become so accustomed to splendid weather - all that golden Tuscan sunshine and those fluffy white clouds creating shadows here and there across the landscape - that we hadn't given much thought to the gathering darkness. Twenty minutes after our bikes were parked, the storm arrived.

And that, I have to say, was beautiful too.

"How meet beauty?"

My feelings about Rome turn out to be complicated.

I'm sure not everyone in the world loves Rome. Like any big city, it's noisy, hurried, smoky, dirty, expensive, and confusing. (Although the Italocentric guide who lead our Colosseum tour bragged that the Romans had invented straight roads, he failed to tell us where any of them were. Around a hundred yards of straight were as much as we ever experienced. It is fun, however, to play a little game called "Who Will Be First to Find the Name of This Major Thoroughfare?")

Rome is also splendid, romantic, surprising, and deeply moving.

I was fully prepared to ooh and aah over historic, architectural, and artistic treasures. I can read, after all; I can watch PBS; and thirteen years in Catholic school provided ample exposure to illustrations of many of Rome's wonders. However, long before I'd almost reached the limits of my ability to consume massive quantities of food and wine, Rome's treasures themselves began to feel like too much - and for a variety of reasons.

Let's start with the Pantheon, since that's where our hotel was, and it was the first thing to knock the wind out of me as soon as I set foot on cobblestones. I mean, 2,000 years old? Largest unsupported concrete dome in the world for centuries? Oldest structure in continuous use on the planet? And it is truly wondrous.

"Marcus Agrippa son of Lucius, having been consul three times made it," says the chiseled inscription. (Hadrian actually commissioned it to replace Agrippa's previous Pantheon, which had burned down. But Hadrian tended not to put his name on things.)

I wish I had the photographic skills to convey its scale-

or the way the sunlight coming through the top of the dome is a timekeeper not yet fully understood - 

although twice a year the sunbeam illuminates the main entrance in a pretty impressive way. We were curious about what happens when it rains, and found ourselves searching for various holes in the floor. Note to self: visit Pantheon during vernal or autumnal equinox, and when it is raining.

When the early Christians were doing away with the pantheistic model, they replaced pagan representations with Christian ones that were at least as (what's the word I'm going for here? grand? showy? ostentatious? imposing?). And as beautiful. 

I grew up believing my guardian angel protected me from things like being run over by a car, and that choirs of angels would usher me into heaven. These sculptures embody all that hope and belief. And all that innocence.

I understand that throughout human history we've built monuments to forces beyond our understanding. The more imposing the better, to show our respect and awe - and in hopes of winning a few favors when things seem to be going badly. Bring your best to the deities who have made this world possible.

Here at the Pantheon began my conflicting feelings about Rome's spectacular antiquities. The ancient religions replaced, histories torn down, melted down, updated, eradicated. Pieces of the original structures requisitioned by papal order for use elsewhere. Belief in grandeur. Belief that grandeur means something other than showing off that you can indulge in grandeur.

While here I sat in an expensive hotel right across the piazza, gazing through a scaffold put in place to refurbish - at great expense - the building's facade, pondering the hundreds of millions of inch-thick bricks that had been put in place so very long ago from one end of this ancient world to the other. 

 

Put in place, of course, by slaves.

OK, so. Well. Back to the garden.

It's late May and we were gone for two weeks, during which it actually rained. You can imagine. I'm sorry I didn't take any "Before" pictures. Spent all day yesterday hacking back the Mexican primroses from the sidewalk garden. That it not a nice way to talk about a wildflower, especially such a pretty one, but they do have takeover tendencies and look very raggedy once the first blooms are done. They'll be back.

It's embarrassing how sore my quads are this morning after doing those 10,000 squats. While I'm on the subject of not talking nicely, you know how sometimes you need to hold onto the bathroom countertop to lower yourself into an, um, seated position? That. I would have thought that pushing a bike up those hills in Italy would have given me quads of steel. (I would like to report that I was pushing the bike uphill while I was seated upon it and pedaling, but it wasn't exactly like that.)

It's been a very pleasant spring around here, meaning the heat held off for the most part: nights were cool, the shade was cool, breezes were cool. I walked around the yard a lot, just looking. This is pink gaura (of the family Onagraceae). These little dudes distinguish themselves by floating on tall thin stalks like butterflies hovering. I've had white ones too.

Succulents are always doing something interesting and exotic. I keep meaning to write a piece just about succulents. Unfortunately, I have very mixed luck with them; I think they like to be left alone much more than I am prone to do. This one lives in the steel raised bed Floyd made for me last year.

The original purpose for the steel bed, and the cage that sat atop it, was for growing tomatoes in a way that the rodents couldn't get to the fruit. However, every year I need to relearn the fact that I am constitutionally incapable of growing most foods. So this year, I transformed the fabulous steel planter into a garden of rocks and ignorable perennials.

This guy above lives in a whole different part of the yard, on the north corner of the house beside a little stone patio, and I waited two years for the first blossom. It's Acca sellowiana, better known at least to me as a pineapple guava (no pineapples and no guavas, story of my life). It's an evergreen shrub that produces these exotic flowers in the spring. Worth the wait.

I mean to do a whole piece on cactus flowers because they are so amazing. One thing that kills me about them is that little bitty cacti have no problem producing flowers bigger than they are. The one above looked like a big pink hat and, as often happens, lasted one day. The cactus itself is maybe four inches tall.

Floyd came home from his bike ride yesterday to tell me that sections of the greenbelt are overrun with cactus flowers and wildflowers of all kinds. "We should go down there tomorrow," he offered. You don't think that a husband who asks you on a date to locations where rattlesnakes are known to be prolific and coyote pups have recently been born has an ulterior motive, do you? (No worries about the coral snakes; they are quite sluggish and need to gnaw on you for a while before injecting their highly lethal venom. And well, copperheads. I really prefer to do my mountain biking in winter around here.)

Anyway, I'll probably go but I'm putting my foot down about bringing Travis. The coyote parents are very clear in expressing their displeasure about canine visitors to their territory at this time of year.

On a happier note, the duranta (of the family verbenaceae) is finally coming into its own. The first year I planted it, deer came along and ate the tender buds every single time they appeared. I moved one of the duranta into the back yard where it's safe but gets less sun. This guy lives in the sidewalk garden but has somehow avoided becoming a midnight snack.

For no reason I can explain, the deer visiting this spring had a craving for the buds on the Mutabilis rose in the side yard. This is a great kind of old rose that has blossoms that change color during the day and create a shrub full of pink and pale orange flowers that remind me of my favorite Good Humor popsicle from when I was little - it was half raspberry, half orange. I can never get a good photo of Mutabilis, but this will give you an idea at least of the colors I'm talking about:

Fortunately, I have a spare one of those in the back yard, too. Bwahahahahaha, deer!

Italy, Part Two: Rome

A long time ago I wrote a poem that I liked perfectly well because I was young and full of poetry, and I liked how it started: "Who am I to talk?" Turned out I was the only fan of my poem; everyone else who read it thought that if I weren't the one to talk, I should just shut up.

To say anything about Rome seems squarely in that category: Who am I to talk about that great, ancient city? However, if unsurpassable predecessors closed down topics, pretty much all conversation would cease. Maybe the best we can do is bring our own true words to the subject at hand.

First of all, I have never before been one of those people who arrives down in baggage claim to look for someone holding a sign with my name on it. Arriving in a busy airport, a little woozy from lack of sleep but nothing too bad (did I mention you can count on Rick Steves to tell you what to do about things like jet lag?); but completely overwhelmed. Millions of people, evidently; half of them pick-pocketers and scam artists if the World Wide Web is to be believed, and 90% of them smoking cigarettes - I'm not used to this kind of thing! 

But we found the person who was there to find us, and somehow off we went.

My first impressions of Rome? I was glad we hadn't rented a car. Although over the next two weeks I would be able to switch off most of my reactions to Italian city traffic, I'm afraid my spouse will never recover from watching people on scooters zip around and between cars with no apparent regard for traffic rules or the laws of physics. Zoom past a line of cars in heavy traffic to claim a place at the head of the line? No problem. Pass on a curve? No problem. Propel yourself and your passenger (who may well be a small child) up through the left lane to bypass sluggish automobiles? No problem!

The first time Floyd watched a scooter slip between a bus and a truck with maybe four inches on either side of the handlebars, he was astonished. This amazement is with him still.

We were about to spend two weeks in a world of laughably narrow roads, cobblestone streets, and "sidewalks" that consist of stripes of white paint and pedestrian optimism. We couldn't decide if we were better off walking on the left-hand side, facing traffic; or on the right-hand side with traffic coming up from behind. I guess it all depends on how you want to meet your death: barreling toward you, or a quick surprise.

In America we're taught (at least some of us were) that if there is no sidewalk, you walk on the left-hand side, facing traffic. One Sunday Floyd and I found ourselves in exactly that position, walking a very curvy road, clinging like shadows to the stone wall beside us. I was blathering on about a scene in "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective" where Jim Carrey inches himself along with his back pressed to a wall in an effort to be invisible - ha ha! - when a scooter traveling at suicidal speed came around the turn and nearly sliced my dear husband in half.

But here we were, narrow cobbled passageways and all; and at some impossible point we climbed out of the back seat of the van and stepped into a world going back over two thousand years. Rome is like that.

I am a very weak student of history. Whenever I try to read something about the past, my eyes glaze over and the words slip like jelly across my brain and straight out my ears. So the idea of a hotel near the Pantheon could only seem cool because I thought that it ought to be pretty cool. I had to look up "The Pantheon" a number of times, and still had no idea. Wow! We'll be right across from a building that's two thousand years old! (With history, I am an eternal teenager.)

More about that later. First, la piazza:

The Pantheon stands in a piazza, of course. The Piazza della Rotonda, in this case. Being a city girl at heart it was easy for me to fall in love with piazze of all shapes and sizes: busy, lively, criss-crossed with traffic, residents, tourists, dogs, carabinieri, beggars, (yes it's true) pickpocketers, small shops, fancy boutiques, fruit stands, gelato places; the smells of cooking, cigarette smoke, two-stroke fuel fumes, cologne; people talking, laughing, arguing, making a fuss over every single baby; bow-tied ristorante staff encouraging you to sit, have a drink, eat, check out the menu - I love le piazze and regret that our suburban life censors them in all their richness.

Una piazza is a wonderful place to sit on a spring evening and share a bottle of wine and talk, or not talk. I'd learned from my extensive daydream excursions that in Italy a restaurant table belongs to you until you don't want it any more. Waitstaff, paid a living wage, have no need to turn tables quickly to reap more tips.

Now sometimes, as happened here, one restaurant isn't interested in seating you because all you want is a glass of wine and they are all into dinner. Non te preoccupe! There is una caffe right across la piazza where they will be happy to seat you and let you sit undisturbed until you wave a hand and say, Il conto, per favore - even though you are very shy and your accent causes the smiling waiter to reply in inglese.

Piazza life goes on well into the evening, in part because businesses have largely closed down for a couple of hours in the afternoon; but also because the Italians (at least as we observed) thoroughly enjoy meeting up with each other at the end of the work day. As superannuated Americans, we stretched ourselves to eat at 7:30 p.m. - which is when many restaurants begin serving dinner. The Italians would start to arrive an hour or so later, greeting one another with great happiness.

I began to think that in le piazze resides a sense of community - no matter how many tourists may be present. People from all over the world may find themselves here, but so do Italian friends and families who have been gathering in this place for generations. We would see much more of this in the smaller towns we visited later in our trip.

For the moment, still in Rome, we began to marvel at a city that functions with such narrow two-way streets. It was amazing how seldom we observed traffic backing up to make room for other vehicles. Suddenly "Smart Cars" began to make sense. And where a small section of a parking lot in Texas might accommodate a dozen of what we call cars, in Italy that small section would be adequate space for twenty cars and at least an equal number of scooters. Nobody says you can't park with a wheel or two on the curb, after all!

But what am I really wanting to say about Roma? That I could photograph its windows and doors all day long?

It would be wonderful if I could convey some of the smells that issue from the houses as Romans prepare to eat the best food  in the city, but that would make us all hungry and I am just starting the process of re-losing the pounds I lost just so I could go on this trip. I resolved in advance that I was going to eat and drink every single thing I wanted, and I am proud to report that I lived up to that resolution. How can you miss, when you visit a country that offers so many desserts at breakfast?

Do I want to make a point of what it feels like every day to step on slabs of marble that bears the impressions of - yes - thousands of years of footsteps?

I can say that Floyd and I walked quite a bit during our brief stay: from the Pantheon to the Vatican and back; from the Pantheon to the Colosseum to the Spanish Steps to the Borghese to the Trevi Fountain and back. And before I forget, I want to mention a few things I loved: how in May there are flowers even on tile roofs and stone walls:

Or how you can just be walking along a busy sidewalk lining an insanely busy metropolitan street and out of nowhere an antiquity appears, inspiring you to cross said street with no regard for the life-and-death implications:

The astonishing juxtaposition of the very new and the very old:

And how, even if your hotel bathroom is so tiny you pretty much have to turn sideways to get from the toilet to the teeny shower (which is too small to be a shower stall: it is only a space in the bathroom with a drain in the floor), you might be able to look out the wee window in that shower and see something like this.

Oh, and the fact that you can be wandering the city with no particular aim in mind, just wandering, and find yourself in a little piazza with a little piece designed by Bernini:

Now, that must have been an interesting family. 

Not My Garden, but Italy: Part One

This is a story of a dream deferred long enough. I'd worn out every sensible reason for postponing Italy when, as will happen, my 60th birthday arrived. In my mind, birthdays involving a zero demand special attention. "You know what I want, right?" I found myself asking my dear husband Floyd.

"Another bicycle?" he asked hopefully from his armchair.

(I don't mean to make it sound like he is a chair potato. We own three bikes apiece, and his are often and impressively used. He just likes being at home, is what the armchair reference is intended to convey.)

"No..."

The very next day I mortgaged my car and called a travel agent.

The obvious next step was to learn a little Italian. People say it's a good idea: native-speakers appreciate your efforts. It's polite. I thought it only made sense that for a trip to Italy, the cornerstones of my vocabulary should be food-related.

Menus are often helpfully illustrated, and I already knew a few words for various Italian foods; but what if un cucchiaio were needed? Not to mention il bagno. And I had a great deal to learn if I were to be able to ask locals about their favorite ristoranti.

I found myself an Italian teacher, a preternaturally patient man from that very country. Every day I practiced with Rosetta Stone, and every week I tried to sputter actual words to Carlos. I kept trying to remember that David Sedaris's accounts of learning a foreign language are hilarious. All I can say is I am eternally grateful to Carlos for instructing me how to order penne and not pene. (He said the waiter would know what I really meant, but he would probably tell the kitchen staff that I had ordered a penis and they would have a great laugh at my expense.)

Carlos also warned me that the Italians are not snobby like some Europeans are, and that as soon as I even tried to utter anything in Italian they would be happy and start talking to me in English. This could make it difficult for me to get in any Italian practice at all. If I wanted them to speak Italian to me, he said, I would have to tell them I spoke a language not many Italians can speak. "Tell them you're from Croatia."

For three months leading up to our trip, I daydreamed about Italy. I read about Italy, I looked things up about Italy, I read restaurant reviews for every town we would visit, I walked miles in Google Street View, I read dozens of recommendations about what to pack, I bored everyone senseless. I auditioned my picture-taking equipment, decided to take the "good" camera, and ordered lots of stuff from a company called Pacsafe so no one could slash my backpack or purse and run off with my photos or euros. I was thrilled beyond measure when one morning I awakened at about three as usual and my first thought was, Ho sonno. 

Floyd began to worry that no real country could live up to such daydreams.

Fortunately, it turns out that my Italy is the stuff of daydreams. And as for all the rest, Rick Steves's stuff is fun to read and extremely helpful with the practical aspects. His stuff puts me in mind of my Catholic high school's motto: Quodqumque dixerit vobis, facite. Do whatever he tells you.

Of course, we did lots of other things as well.