If not now, when?

One American woman. Twenty acres and a 1650 farmhouse in Tuscany. Random introspection and hilarity, depending on the day.

18 January 2006

Ode to Peperoncino

You are magical, peperoncino …
A very lovely spice!
When I add you to my pasta,
It tastes so very nice.

Tiny little red peppers
Served ‘intero,’ somewhat hot.
Though when crushed into tiny pieces
Intensify a lot!!

All good things in moderation,
So the saying goes …
And because I didn’t listen,
My tongue needs a fire hose.

17 January 2006

You know you live in Italy when ...

... 'I had to wait until the stores reopened at 4pm' is a legitimate reason to spend an extra hour wandering around a cute hilltop town (Castiglion Fiorentino), therefore being an hour plus plus late getting to work via computer. You make it up by being on the computer until 3 am. YAWN!

... The pharmacist - when he reopens at 4 - actually gives medical advice, and it works.

... What kind of bread you buy can start a full fledged debate in town. (For the record, eating Tuscan unsalted bread is akin to gumming the internal remains of one of those padded shipping envelopes.)

... You do NOT, under normal circumstances, order a cappuccino after 11 am - even if you woke up late. And NEVER after dinner. You can save face and get virtually the same thing by ordering a doppio macchiato con 'un po' piu latte.'

... Sparkling Rose Wine on Tap is not considered a "ghetto" beverage order. Even at lunch.

... Your new friends actually KNOW which restaurants serve aforementioned wine.

... Your dually-packaged toothpaste has Italian writing on one side and Greek on the other (which makes you remember that goofy greek alphabet song from sorority pledge days, which reminds you just how American you really are.)

... The gift of wood-hauling gloves from a friend make you misty.

... Which neighbor you buy your olive oil from is a subject of gossip.

... Both your garden helperguy and your cleaning lady gift you their own homemade wine for Christmas, and it's not scary moonshine (she types as she takes another swig).

16 January 2006

How do I love thee, IKEA?

... let me count the ways: Take ancient stone floors. Add clumsy girl or inebriated guests. Result = broken glassware. The death count to date: six glasses of varied purposes (that's one a month.) Aaah, they did not die in vain, having served us well.

IKEA offers a set of six pretty-darn-nice glasses for 2.95 Euro. With the cost of either electricity for the dishwasher or hot water from the tap, I really can't afford to wash them for less than that anyway.

And decent Chianti is E1.80 for a 2-litre bottle, so it's not even too much of a shame when a nearly full glass bites the dust.

It's like a Greek family wedding in here 'round the fireplace. Opa!!

15 January 2006

In case there was any doubt

For those of you who missed the initial memo or whose intuitive skills are lacking, I do try to keep this corner of blogville relatively anonymous. Hence, names (even mine!!) have been changed to protect the innocent, and not-so-, as the case may be.

For what it's worth, I don't have this blog 'registered' in public listings on blogger, either. It's here for you -- my family and friends -- and friends of friends, and those of you who think it might be interesting enough to forward along to those whom the story might intrigue ... but this was created as a communications device, not an exercise in voyeurism.

And so, we go by Nicknames, in general. And they are specially selected for appropriateness. Viaggiatore means 'traveler' in Italian (and is pronounced Vee-aaah-ja-tore-ay). Some people's nicks are descriptive of characteristic traits (e.g., Renaissance Artist, The Old Soul, Virgin Blogger...) Others are personal nicknames that mostly mean nothing to others (N.Winkust, Daisy Boy, JillyBean). Still others were self-selected (e.g., Beatrice) And then ... well ... there's the one that we call "UBlend".



Um, yeah. You Blend, UBlend. (Need I say more?)

14 January 2006

Give me a kiss to build a dream on.

Today, it was a ‘thank you’ kiss. And it was one of the best kisses ever, though not in the way you might expect. It was actually on the cheek/neck. Rather more a nuzzling of sorts. While he was murmuring something sweet about thank you in my ear.

Combined with a giant bear hug (he towers over me by more than half a foot.) And it seemed to last FOREVER. It was palpably … Genuine. Appreciative. Honest. Real. Connected. Kind. Open. Welcoming. Strong. (My cheek sort of buzzed numbly from the stubble for nearly an hour afterwards.)

There is something about Italians; they are culturally more comfortable expressing emotion than Americans. Oh, sure – there are exceptions to that if you’d like to try to pick it apart, but honestly, I’ve seen more men hug and kiss (each other) here in six months than I ever did in many years living in the Washington DC ‘gay ghetto’. The expressiveness of the language, the flamboyant way they do … everything (the example yesterday was watching two older men play cards; so … punctuated with emotion!!) The oft-caricatured use of hand gestures. (Yes - to be fair, this emotion is juxtaposed against a fascinating cultural stoicism, a still-antiquated view of women’s rights, and a society structured as if time has not moved forward in more years than I have been alive. But that’s not what this particular story is about.)

This – ahem - display was prompted by the (belated!) Christmas gift of a new Filson hat that Fratello Guido had been coveting. Nearly impossible to find in Italy, unless you’re lucky or know where to look (I was lucky.) Gleeful is the only way to describe him upon opening the bag.

He smashed it up with his hands (it’s meant to be.) Put it on and danced around in it for awhile. Pretended to be a cowboy at a quickdraw contest. Sang a few bars of “Wherever I lay my hat …” Told me he was going to put water in it to give to his horse to drink. Put on his blazer and gave me (sitting at the opposite desk) the ole’ Bogey look (of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, she had to walk into mine…” – which is, appropriately enough, a relatively good description of how he ended up with me as a friend, in a strange twist of fate).

I truly do not have nearly enough genuine people in my life on a regular basis (I'm not sure anyone does.) Fratello Guido is one of them (when his ADD isn't flaring up.) Today he was his very best self: Confident. Unassuming. Sparkling. Relaxed. And his appreciative hug-and-kiss was, indeed, one for the record books.

Giving a gift that is just … perfect … is one of my very favorite things to do in life. It is also usually a skill that I have to work at, devote time to -- whereas it comes naturally to people like the Unassuming Princess! This time, it was a home run. The Princess would be proud of me.

(*and before you ask, no … it’s not like that. He’s like my brother. Because we’d kill each other, that’s why. Seriously, and not in a good way. But one of the best brothers I’ve ever had. Truth.)

08 January 2006

Startled awake

I woke to the sound of shotgun blasts.

I despise the feeling of being startled awake. That moment where you sit up straight in the dark, heart racing, unable to breathe and (in my case) unable to see because my glasses are still on the bedside table. (Like sleeping through the alarm and waking when the hotel room door next to you slams, only to realize that you've overslept and are going to miss a flight). It is on my top ten list of worst feelings; setting me on edge all day.

The second-worst kind of startled awake is, I can now say without a doubt, being roused by shotgun blasts. (The first would be realizing that there is an intruder in your room, one which - thankfully - I have not experienced.)

My house is eerily quiet most nights (mornings), making any sound other than the soft purr of my vibrating BlackBerry alarm a rare waking occurance.

It's a breath before 8am. I remember, groggily, that today is the last day of the 'caccia' (hunt) and the hunters are making the most of it (sunrise only reaches my side of the ridge just after 7:30 in this season).

My city/suburban life has never afforded me the opportunity to live in a hunting culture; it is not a pastime or sport here, it is indeed a way of life. Camouflage is veritable high fashion. The season typically ends on 1 January, apparently, but with the snow preventing hunting for a few days, there was an extension this year. As I was out pruning back some of the dead rosemary branches this morning, the cacophony of dogs yelping, men hollering in code to each other, and shotguns played in the background; a weekend-hunt-season soundtrack to which I have grown accustomed.

I'm personally torn, really, on the question of hunting. In a different life, I probably regarded it as barbaric and devolved pastime. "Hunting Trips" have always seemed to me a recipe flirting with disaster: take a lot of testosterone, sexual frustration, add alcohol and weapons and ... it is a small wonder that we don't see bloody hunting incidents on the front page of major newspapers between October and January annually. Living here, I can see how it is required for animal population control. And it is also a legitimate source of food. For these people, it is both sport and sustenance, camraderie and tradition as well as a practical use of time.

It's Sunday morning. In the town square, the women are gathering to attend mass. The men are worshiping in a different way.

My house sits in the center of one of the more desireable hunting zones in the area, and the 'law of the land' here is that all land is considered public for hunting (unless it's fenced off and posted, which mine is not).

The Cacciatore, my local restaurant and bar, is - appropriately named - a hangout for the hunters. When I went in a few weeks ago (UBlend & The Rugrat's last night in town), Paolo nodded to the ice cream freezer, which had a large package wrapped in plastic sitting inside. The conversation went like this (I offer the translation here; my translations always sound, as does my Italian, a bit stilted.):

Paolo, gesturing at the plastic package: "This is for you. A present."

(confused, not expecting anything) "But ... what is it?"

"Cinghiale. (Wild Boar.) The local hunting squad makes it a gift to you in appreciation for hunting on your land. The President did not know where to find you so he left it here."

(genuinely touched.) "Really?? That's very kind. I have never ... received anything like this. Please tell them thank you."

"Certainly. It is a custom here; though because you are a straniera (stranger), it is even nicer that they did it."

(having NO IDEA what waited for me inside the plastic) "But ... am I able to leave it here with you and Patrizia can show me how to cook it??"

"Of course. When you want to have friends over for dinner, just call in advance and we will prepare it for you."

(It goes without saying that this is on the long list of services that distinguish restaurants here from those in the US.)

There is no other option, but it is almost tenderly and with a new appreciation that I am developing a 'live and let live' mentality with regard to the hunters. The peace offering of a hunk of wild boar is one that I find quite touching. It is a sign that am being accepted, in all my straniera-ness.

But I'll be quite happy to sleep in tomorrow morning without fear of shotgun-blast-as-alarm-clock.

07 January 2006

A Tribute to Laura Ingalls Wilder

I devoured the books and tv show of 'Little House on the Prairie' as a child. In part because it was as far from my own city/suburban childhood experience could possibly have been. Partly because the idea of being so ... alone in the wilderness ... appealed to the plucky, 'I can do that!' spirit in me. (And probably in part because some misguided part of my brain thought Michael Landon was hot.)

The weather has finally improved here a bit; it's warm enough to be outside with just a sweater and scarf and there hasn't been a 'precipitation event' (hail, rain, snow, fog) in at least two days.

Today was an outside day. I hiked down and back up the hill opposite my house, listening all the while to someone singing opera - loudly and clearly - coming from the opposite side of the valley (probably a 20 minute drive away). I marveled to myself, I definitely live 'in the sticks' (in the vernacular.) While it isn't quite the settling of the West, it is ... remote. A store is 10 minutes drive, easily. There is nowhere walkable except the houses of distant neighbors and lots of rolling, forested hills. Yup, I live in the country. By myself. Damn, it's a good thing I watched all that LHOTP.

... I do not leave my house on a hike without a pair of pruners to clear the path.

... bringing in more wood, hunting for pinecones to dry out as firestarters, and getting fresh water from the well are normal chores.

... Bluejeans tucked into knee high wellie boots, fleece, a hat, and garden gloves are 'fashionable' (if only my hair was long enough to put into Laura-style braids.)

... I shower in the evening instead of the morning now. Why shower in the morning if you're just going to get all mucky hiking and hauling?

... I can lay and light a kick-ass fire in my garganutuan fireplace. Which is a good thing, because with the cost of fuel and electricity, I work by the light of the fire, candles, (and the computer screen) most nights.

... And THIS was the view out my bathroom window when I got out of the shower this evening.

That savvy, power-suited, fussy-haired, DC executive with painted fingernails and CFM boots that some of you may vaguely remember has apparently been bodysnatched by both Laura Ingalls and Little Bo Peep.

Overdue: the cliche' resolutions post.

The holidays flew by. 2006 was rung in. Six days in, I am resolutionless. *(I am also Christmas or New Year’s Card-less, but really, you all know by now I’m not going to get my act together to send them. I am in awe of those of you with lives organized enough to have sent me greetings, through the real-live-mail … pictures of kids, dogs, happy families, wishes for peace, love, harmony … You all are seriously my correspondence heroes.)

My friend Michele says that “resolutions” are somewhat confining and passé; Intentions are better. I tend to agree.

And so, in 2006, I intend to …

hmmmmm.

What?

well.....

(Oh, the pressure!!! I can feel you sitting there staring at your screen waiting for me to be interesting before your very eyes. And for my next trick … )

I intend to: Close the loose ends. Which means getting my visa/permit/permesso status here finalized and more permanent than it is today, one way or the other.

Get out of my cave. At least occasionally. Working from home, particularly a home on 20 acres of land, (even nestled in front of a fireplace that’s super-cozy), is a rapid path to isolation. More on this – aloneness v. loneliness – soon. But it shall suffice to say that I will reach out more.

Buckle Down in Verbland. Six months in, I’m still cobbling together sentences using only marginally well the present, past and future tenses in Italian. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve moved here and made my way with the language without anything other than a few lessons on audio CD, the 501 Verbs book, a LOT of super-patient people, and a good mini dictionary. Have skipped that whole “take a formal class” step, which probably would have helped immensely at some point but would just frustrate the crap out of me now. There are at least four other commonly-used tenses and an additional seven not-so-commonly used verb tenses that I need to strap myself down and just … freakin’… learn. I did it with multiplication tables, I did it with marginal lines in high school plays, I did it with poems in English classes, I did it with the #%@$! Periodic table of elements (Though I do now FINALLY get it … Pb is lead. It’s “piombo” in Italian. Oh!!! I do so love the little gifts of unexpected method in the madness.) I can do this.

Shuck the clam. (I can hear the Old Soul laughing.) Confession time: I am classically emotionally unavailable. Truly. I know this. On the surface, I seem funloving, irreverent, open, candid, extroverted. Touch me the wrong way; I close up like a clamshell. I am convinced that part of this is genetically encoded, the rest exacerbated by playing the conglomeration of hands that life dealt me. Knowing is only part of the solving of the problem. Take more risks. Leave the shell open a little more. Let people in. Try.

Get organized. Don't get me wrong. In my professional life, I'm a virtual paragon of organizational excellence (in a manner of speaking), or just a reeeeeeeeeeeeallly good juggler (plate spinner). It's my personal life that's a wreck. The Mom thinks its hysterical that I don't balance my checkbook (I rely on the bank for that) - I don't see that changing. But I do need to get travel-friendly-organized enough to actually have a good recordkeeping system for receipts that can go back and forth with me (so that the idea of having to file my taxes doesn’t make me want to claw my eyes out and just leave money on the table because I don’t want to go through piles of ‘unreimbursable business expense’ receipts… The Marathoness is my HERO on this front.) Organized enough to feel ahead of the game in correspondence: to send thankyou notes on time. Birthday greetings. Real Christmas cards next year. (Okay, THAT might be overreaching.)

Let go of stuff that just doesn’t matter. Not physical stuff, but emotional stuff. Because carrying it around is more trouble than it’s worth. You know what I mean.

To be genuine. To laugh more. Life’s too short.

To not borrow trouble from tomorrow.

To reconnect with lives once touched, paths once crossed. Not all, to be certain, but I have been haunted recently by some strange dreams of people in my past; a nagging feeling of dropped stitches in the fabric of my life.

To learn to sail. In somewhat of a tribute to my grandfather, this has been on my intention list for many years, continually carried forward year after year. 12 years living near the Chesapeake Bay; this intention remains unfulfilled. Central Tuscany has a lot to recommend it but seems an unlikely candidate for this. (Though an opportunity just arose; life’s funny sometimes.)

(You'll notice that there's nothing here about lose weight, exercise more, eat more vegetables, fit into my skinny jeans, blah-blah-blah. Nope. If it happens while I'm here along the path of more natural foods, fresh air, hiking more ... I'll take it. But it's not an intention. Seriously. With all this other good stuff to intend to do, how self-absorbed would I sound to "want to fit into a size 8 again"? Besides -- wanting and intending are NOT the same thing. At least not in English.)

To make a difference in the life of someone less fortunate than I.

To say thank you more. To the people who touch my life in ways they themselves probably don’t understand.

And, so ... starting strong on intention fulfillment, Thank you. .

(Not a bad start to the year, if I may say so myself.)

04 January 2006

Arrivederci, 2005 - Benvenuto 2006!

Whoosh!!! That's the sound made by two weeks of time evaporating in a blur. How it was spent: Toasting a welcome with MY wine, which UBlend was thoughtful enough to find online and carry over with him. The gang at the Cacciatore's warm welcome of my family into theirs. Group hiking to collect kindling and pinecones. Christmas Eve in Firenze, a grey day made a bit more sparkly by the hustle of people in the market and the lights dangling overhead. Lunch at the pizzeria on Piazza Signoria that took a half hour to get to. The cellphone that someone needed more than I did that was stolen Christmas eve (and the cute boy in the TIM store that made it all better.) The not-so-traditional seven fishes Vigilia dinner.

A relaxing Christmas morning filled with mimosas, The Mom's perfect sticky buns, overflowing stockings, thoughtful gifts, and laughter. Finally getting the hang of 'up and down the river'. An enormous Vestri solid chocolate tree centerpiece. Actually pulling off the overly-ambitious Christmas dinner of individual beef wellingtons (with *lots* of help!). Charades on a stick. A ten year old girl who was a great helper and an amazingly good sport with all the adult-things going on (assisted occasionally by reruns of 'Full House' on DVD.) "Auguri" by phone, mail, email, package, or carrier pigeon from friends near and far, old and new. My first snowstorm, and almost enough alcohol to make it through. New Years' Eve with sparklers on the front porch in the rain. A fireplace that worked overtime. Losing at least a Euro a night to The Mom in Backgammon (hey, we may be family, but we're a gambling family...!). Two unexpected days of vacation due to a cancelled return flight. The ceremonial New Years' Day burning of the greens that nearly singed our eyebrows. Stacking, bundling, stacking, breaking down, hauling enough wood to feed my hungry fireplace for the rest of the winter.

There simply are not words sufficient to thank The Mom, UBlend and the Rugrat for making the trek ... It's a toasty smushy glowy feeling to have had a real holiday here with people I love spending time with; makes it seem more like home. As that hokey song goes, "you make it feel like Christmas". I'm breaking one of my general 'anonymous blog' principles here by posting the pictures, but, well, yaknow, it was Christmas. There's plenty of time to return to my hardass anonymity in the new year.