GREVE IN CHIANTI, Italy - There was no breeze, not even a riffle in the
awnings, as Paolo Saturnini marched through the near-empty piazza smiling
and breathing in the scents of curing boar meat, leather, pesto, pecorino
cheese, and hints of the geraniums and rhododendrons blooming on balconies.

   Shutters were closed for the afternoon siesta. A few tourists sat around
beer glasses in the shade. The guys at Paolo Cozzi's barber shop were
snoozing. The last of the church ladies headed home. From the vineyards to
the olive groves, life was still and quiet.

   Suddenly, the Tuscan spell was broken by a can of Coke - 12 ounces of canned
globalization.

   "Ah, no, no, no, not Coke," said Saturnini, the mayor of Greve, who had just
sat down at a restaurant when Alessandra Molletti plunked the can in front
of him.

   "Alessandra provokes me," he said. "She knows we're talking about saving
tradition in this crazy world of globalization."

   Saturnini is one of the founders of Italy's Slow City movement. Its goal,
seen by many as quixotic, is to fend off globalization and protect
centuries-old cultures from McDonald's, Wal-Mart, and the blandness of
homogenization.

   Saturnini and the mayors of 29 other small towns across Italy fear their
traditions - from sausage making to chair weaving to tailoring - will wither
as the world becomes more digitalized, more interconnected.

   Yet protecting the old ways is but part of the dilemma faced by many small
Italian towns as they watch their populations dwindle yearly. Italy is
doubly cursed, having one of the world's lowest birth rates and the
fastest-growing aged population. If the pattern continues, its population of
57 million could shrink by 15 million by the middle of the century.

   Time-honored ways are being abandoned in hundreds of hill towns as young
people leave and, little by little, churches crumble and cafes turn dusty.

   "The old crafts no longer exist, from the man who would mend straw hats to
the one who fixed shoes," said Alberto Montebello, a member of the Slow City
movement, which was born last October.

   "Our cities were very famous everywhere because our tailors were of high
quality. In San Gemini, which 30 years ago had a population of 3,500, there
were six tailors. Now, there isn't one left."

   The Slow City quest is an outgrowth of the Slow Food movement, which began
in 1986 when founder Carlo Petrini was aghast at plans for a McDonald's amid
the baroque charm of Rome's Piazza di Spagna.

   Today, Slow Food - with the snail as its mascot - has a worldwide membership
of about 60,000 people. Its mantra is simple: Slow down; seduce the palate
with flavor; treat the stomach to more than cheeseburgers and soft drinks.

   The movement seeks to apply those principles to more than just food.

   "We want it to apply to every aspect of life," said Saturnini, a thin man of
ravenous thought who flits through town like a sparrow. "We understand the
penetration of the global market is huge. We know we can't shut ourselves
off to this.

   "We're not Mormons, we're not a New Age movement, but we want to resist it
as much as possible. It will harm us. If the hairdresser is in the mall, who
will come to the town? The old will suffer. Things will get lost."

   Towns aspiring to the Slow City logo must keep piazzas free of neon signs,
support traditional restaurants, limit car traffic, build bike paths, plant
trees, stop noise pollution, and help save such national treasures as rabbit
pasta sauce, Soppressata sausage, and goat cheese.

   As it has for nearly 1,000 slow years, life in this town of muted-color
facades and moss-streaked tile roofs begins at dawn. Shopkeepers yell to one
another and exchange jokes as they roll down awnings and polish windows.

   At 7 a.m., the town bell rings, its tones clattering through alleys, rousing
tourists, and echoing beyond the castles and fields.

   Before it's too late, Cozzi's barber shop fills up. Sitting cross-legged,
flicking through the pink pages of La Gazzetta dello Sporto, no one is in a
particular hurry for a haircut. The men can exhaust an afternoon with
chatter on just about anything: soccer, politics, Alfredo Masini's painfully
long devotion to Mussolini, the fact that Renaldi Francesco's wife is going
to have a baby.

   The other day, some were a little miffed at the tourists. Yes, they know,
tourism is good for Greve, but prices have certainly gone up, and the cafes
have lost that spilled-drink, smoky, messy, homey appeal.

   "They even took our pool tables away," said Masini, who carries a small
Olympus camera in his pocket, in case something pretty should catch his eye.

   With his blue tie and shiny, worn shoes, Saturnini, the son of a farmer,
shared a few tidbits in his office:

   Tucked between Florence and Siena in one of the world's richest wine
regions, Greve attracts about 70,000 tourists a year. Its most famous son is
Giovanni Verrazzano, who in the 1500s sailed into what would be renamed New
York Harbor. Greve's symbol is the black gallo (rooster), which, legend has
it, has wandered the Chianti region since before the Renaissance.

   The mayor paused.

   "You know," he said, "we've had a big problem with our rooster in the United
States. The Gallo winery in California took us to court and said we couldn't
use the gallo name on our wine in the U.S. But we are the real gallo. We've
been here making wine for centuries [1.5 million gallons a year].

   "It cost us $500,000 in legal fees. We still lost."

   That ordeal is a cautionary tale for the mayor, showing how traditions in a
town of 12,700 - where, 140 years ago, Bettino Ricasoli coaxed the
perfection of San Giovese grapes into Chianti Classico - can be threatened
in a wired and fiercely corporate world.

   Saturnini offered his own child as another case in point:

   "When he was 3 years old and without any knowledge of it, my son loved
ketchup and potato chips. He'd seen it all on TV. Now, he is 13, and it's
video games, the Internet, and Pokemon."

   "An ugly example of globalization," said Alessandra Molletti, chiding the
mayor with another can of Coke, then joining him for lunch.

   "But, you know," Saturnini said, "these gigabytes and information
technologies can be good for us, too. We can use them to promote the culture
that is ours. I would like to link the small towns in Italy, so that people
could go online and see what traditional and regional products are for
sale."

   Finishing his meal of garlic, spinach and chicken, Saturnini looked to
Armando the waiter, who every day wears a T-shirt with a different
inscription. This day's, translated, read: "I love work so much that I could
watch it all day."

   Trailed by his own chuckle, Saturnini walked over cobblestones and into the
main piazza. The heat drew immediate sweat. Life slowed to a shuffle. He
ducked into Nebone di Greve.

   After feeding his lunch crowd, Carlo Sensi, co-owner of the restaurant, ate
pasta and pesto from a stainless-steel bowl. An uncorked Chianti stood
before him. Above him hung curing prosciutto, dusted in pepper. "I like only
rustic things," Sensi said in a raspy voice. "I want the things of the past.
People are too hectic these days. They don't even look at what they're
eating."

   Saturnini, always appreciative of such devotion to tradition, nodded yes,
yes, yes and strolled back into the sunlight. His appointments over, the
mayor of Greve bid arrivederci and headed home, walking right past Matteo
Trentanove, a 9-year-old entrepreneur selling Coke hats to tourists from a
folding table in the ancient piazza.