November is when Tuscany, liberated from touring crowds, becomes the Tuscany of yore. As the grapevines turn fiery red and ocher yellow, leaves gradually dropping as the year ebbs, the olive groves become hives of activity. Wearing headscarves, ratty trousers and old jackets, women and men, in berets and old work pants, layout of airmen’s parachutes around the bases of trees and begin raking off olives with a small hand-held plastic rake. (The older rakes are hand-made from old nails and pieces of metal; these treasures are still used.) Once the tree is raked, the olives are gathered up in the parachute and poured into slatted crates that are taken to the frantoio, or olive press. The harvest is primarily a social time—an activity best done in a group. Conversation flows freely all day long from Italian subconsciouses: tales of past adventures, stories of mezzadria (serfdom in Italy lasted until 1967), cooking, family histories, gossip and not a little teasing. It is a great time to cement old friendships and forge new ones.