If not now, when?

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

31 May 2006

DANGER: gloppy, overly romanticized prose ahead!!!

Renaissance Artist and I spent a good chunk of the evening laughing hysterically about the fact that, if I were Frances Mayes, yesterday afternoon's chores-of-the-day would have been woven and fluffed into an entire chapter in a book. It would go into painstaking detail, something like this:

"After waiting more than a year for our town's local blacksmith - a very talented, but overworked and therefore unreliable man - to build our pergola, it was finally installed last week. And I do wish I could welcome you here to see it, for it will be the most perfectly quaint location for summer evening festivities, with hanging lanterns glistening from the walls and on the table -- fresh vegetables from the garden served simply and using the most time honored Tuscan traditions ..." ...(blah, blah, four pages later)... "this evening, we enjoyed ourselves immensely as we worked together effectively "thatching in" the roof of the pergola. In an homage to the signature quality craftsmanship of the Etruscans, we tied the bamboo mat together deliberately, weaving it through the spines of the pergola by hand, as the Tuscan sun blazed its farewell to the day across the western sky and the wind tousled our hair and kissed our cheeks. ... " (blah, blah, four pages later) ... "for an apertivo while we were working, we sipped a local Chianti ... (blah, blah, funny story inserted here, then six pages later) ... "exhausted but proud of our work, at 10pm we ducked into the glowing warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, where a traditional Tuscan meal of red wine risotto and zucchine awaited us... " (add recipes here).

(okay, I can't put you through any more of THAT!)

So cutting through all the romantic crap, here's the gist of it: Yup. We got a new pergola. Eventually, plants are supposed to cover it; but unless I want to invest thousands of dollars in old-growth wisteria plants, that means about 3 years without a roof while waiting for ivy or grapevine to "do its thing". And, newsflash: I'm simply not that patient. So, we bought three gargantuan rolls of "cannuccia" (bamboo matting) in the afternoon, with the predictable comedy of errors that occur when wedging 7' long rolls of bamboo into a tiny clown-size farm car, with the hatchback flailing behind you on the climb up the hill. About 2 hours before sunset, we decided - despite the cracking wind and the cold - to get these up tonight, while I still had R.A. here to help me.

It was the THIRTIETH OF MAY and I swear, by the time we finished, our hands were completely frostbitten and immobile. The rolls weren't heavy but they were awkward and there were multiple funny moments where we dropped them from the roof onto the other's head, it rolled off, etc. We were anything but elegant, but it had to be done.

We WERE drinking red wine, of course, to ward off the cold and wind if nothing else, and we were racing against the clock since we were losing daylight FAST. For about 19 seconds, the sky did look like it had puffs of pink cotton candy, but when I stopped to look at it, the wire poked a hole in my thumb. Damn; that's what you get for being distracted!

At the end of the project, with the bare-minimum tied down so it wouldn't fly off in the middle of the night, we DID haul ourselves up the stairs to the farm kitchen, where - because there's no Dominos to deliver, R.A. showed off his useful Renaissance-manness in the kitchen, whipping up an stupidly simple but amazingly delicious red wine risotto. I've got no recipe, cuz it went by in a blur, something like this:

big pan.
oil/sloppilychoppedonions/stockcube/carnarolirice/
water/stirstirstirstir/redwine/moreredwine/stirstir/moreredwine/
chunkofbutter/gratedparmesan/moregratedparmesan/stirstirstir

serve at 1030, with the less-than-two-bucks-a-liter bottle of local Chianti goodness. Keep eyes open long enough to congratulate ourselves on the rockin' roofing job and laugh about what Frances would have over-romanticized in her writing about all of this. I swear, her neighbor's baby could throw up on her and she'd find a way to convince you that you simply MUST come and experience it - this REAL Italian life - for yourself. (And she is, of course, laughing all the way to the bank while I wonder if I can make rent next month. The irony is not lost on me.)

Truth? I love you all out there in blogland waaaaay too much to blow smoke up your skirt about the sex appeal of household chores in the waning light and freezing cold. But the risotto rocked, and the laughter was even better - even at someone's expense.

And this morning, no matter WHO tells the story, the pergola does look pretty damn good.

WYLEI. (bgwm!!!) *

Well, it took a year, but I've finally arrived.

And by that, I mean I have officially been flirted with via "SMS".

For US-dwellers, SMS messaging has been virtually nonexistent, at least among functional adults. After a year living here I barely comprehend it; it seems so... old fashioned, or the language of gawky teens. In the US, we went from carrier pigeon to snailmail right to blackberry, kind of bypassing the need for phone-based text messaging. But it's an art form here, in part because other than the giant sucking of time out of your life, it's apparently free. It drives me a little mad, all the multiple punching of keys to get the right letter. It takes forever to say ANYTHING with this method, argh, other than in a shorthand (above) that might as well be another language. I "text" only in the most desperate of moments.

At any rate, my long-awaited order of printer ink and desk chair from the supposedly "overnight office products delivery store" was delivered today, by local courier. Apparently, it IS overnight if you don't order just before a weekend and (big if) the courier already knows where you live. Otherwise, it's more like 6 days. At any rate, patience, patience -- this is Italy, the country where "it might be there tomorrow, or maybe not, we'll see" is a suitable answer for everything, and it strangely doesn't make my blood boil.

It turns out the courier - after finally calling yesterday for directions, arrived this afternoon. He is a guy who I had met many months back (last November?) at a group dinner. When he arrived, it was one of those "I know you!" moments, for both of us.

He dropped my chair off. As he was leaving, I apologized that I didn't remember his name from the last meeting (he was one of a whole group that night, though he was definitely the winner of the 'whowouldyoudo' game, the cute one in the group.) He reintroduced himself, as did I. Famous Italian two-cheek 'nice to see you again' kiss while shaking hands. Then, as I was in the middle of a conference call with the day job, he ran off and I rushed back to work.

And then, about 20 minutes later, I received an "SMS" (of COURSE he has my cellphone number -- he's a courier!) It said: "Sei molto carina e gentile. Ciao a presto" (You're very cute and kind. Bye, til next time.")

Admittedly, my heart is just a little bit aflutter. (SETE.**)

(What IS it with me and delivery men? Is this the sign that I live just a little too far in the sticks?) And what office products can I run out of next, prompting a reorder?





*When you least expect it.(be gentle with me!)
** Smiling ear-to-ear.

28 May 2006




"How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?" (Plato)


I have been, for a week now, inexplicably moody and introspective and generally out-of-sorts. So much so that I decided not to go out and about partaking in the "open cantina" day today (read: winery visiting with abandon, and on a SUNDAY - the one Sunday a year wineries here throw their doors open) and instead did a long day of self-inflicted therapy (read: weed pulling in the sun with music bellowing out of every open door and window of the house; cheaper and more accessible than a shrink's couch.)

Yes, you read that right - I opted for a day of physical labor rather than wine sipping.

(Oh, dear, now I've gone and alarmed you. I can feel you mentally calling in the cavalry: "What's happened to our beloved Viaggiatore? This is not normal behavior! Skipping visits to ITALIAN wineries, noless? She's been bodysnatched by the pod people!!")

No, really. I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I'm better than fine.

Because with tonight's dizzying sunset-painted-cloud spectacular (a gazillion times more inspiring than my cheezy-might-as-well-be-disposable camera can capture, even with my attempt at the art-shot because the cat simply wouldn't move...), I arbitrarily determined that my weeklong period of wallowing in the vat of self-pity-slash-meaning-of-life search was over.

Because when you're looking for that thing, the nature of which is totally unknown to you, I have realized that it does you no damn good to worry about when you'll find it and how you'll know it when you do. Either it'll appear, or it won't, but preoccupying yourself with wondering is simply an energy wasting exercise. And in-the-meanwhile-time, you're missing out on an awful lot of other experiences, which may not be that thing but are worthy and awfully interesting nonetheless. And every now and again, you may realize that what you thought you were looking for was right there in front of you all along. Yup. Howd'ya like THEM apples?!?!?

Besides, I carelessly sunburned the heck out of my upper back during this therapy-day project. And nothing, I repeat NOTHING, is funnier than the image of me squeezing aloe lotion onto the front edge of the pedestal sink in my bathroom, and then proceeding to slither my back repeatedly up and down the side of aforementioned sink trying to get lotion onto that one spot I can't quite reach.

I defy you to be able to contemplate the meaning of life when you're laughing that damn hard.

It's good to be back.

27 May 2006

Cranky.

I've gotta learn how to say that in Italian: I am CRANKY today.

Like, cranky in an "I'd find a way to pick a fight with my grandmother - keep the cute puppies out of kicking distance" kind of way.

Backstory: after an inordinately long week at the day job, I attended a lovely garden party evening/dinner at N.Terza & Ancient Historian's last night. Truly delightful, spectacular gardens and a gorgeous evening to be sitting outside (I did use the white trash quote at least once: "Wow. The sky looks JUST like it does when the sun sets at The Venetian in Las Vegas!") And then NT and I stayed up very late, girl-talking over wine.

I made it home around 315 this am (after one wrong turn on the windy roads in the dark). Which put my sweet little self in bed 'round about 4 am.

The lawnmower started outside my window at ten minutes to eight. Earplugs and a pillow over my head was not enough to stop it from humming in my brain. And maybe I'm just a little dehydrated, which isn't helping.

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE the little men who come to help mow my lawn. I just wish they were afternoon people. Spending 300 Euros a month to never sleep in on a Saturday is a hard reality to swallow.

I need a nap. Now THAT, I do know how to say. But it's a big yard and, yup, the lawnmower is still running.

*****

CRANKINESS UPDATE, later: The entire day, save for two hours, I spent listening to the lawnmower. For a woman who is so noise-sensitive that I avoid vaccuming at all costs, this has driven me to the frayed end of my very last nerve. My crankiness level has reached mammoth proportions. I am so irritable, in fact, that I just turned on the printer for the first time after yesterday's incident, actually HOPING to hear the satisfying exoskeletal "crunch" of the wayward beetle.

And .... SILENCE. Just a printed page. He must have escaped. And I am embarrassed to admit that I was disappointed.

Thank heavens I don't have plans tonight. I have a sneaking suspicion that her royal highness Princess CrankyPants is likely NOT to be scintillating company.

26 May 2006

Now what, Mr. genius IT guy??

This would not happen in my office in America.

My printer is out of order. Sigh.

It is out of order because a giant green beetle flew into the paper feeder. I saw it happen; he bbbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzed in through the open window, and plopped right into the slot. (Reason #2 to sleep with my mouth closed.)

I tried to rescue him with tweezers, but he got spooked. A petulant child now, he will not come out, indeed he has burrowed deep inside where I can no longer see him.

I'm no etymologist (oh, golly, I'm atwitter with the opportunity just to use THAT word in a sentence), but when beetles get scared, they play dead. I have no idea how long it might be before he un-deads himself, and finds a way to crawl out (it's been 2 hours already). And short of cancelling my dinner tonight to hold a beetle exit vigil, there's no way for me to know. And so I wait, and hope that the next time I try a print job, there's no crrrrruuunnnnch as the paper feeds in.

I picked the whole thing up and shook it upside down a few times, to no avail. The darling men at my computer store in the piazza will think I did finally catch the bus to crazytown when I try to explain THIS one.

No, this would NOT happen in America. But it's a laugh a minute here:
Yes, I'll probably have to buy a new printer...

(wait for it!)

... mine has a bug.

Knock knock! (who's there?)

I'm virtually certain that Italians don't have knock-knock jokes. I'll have to ask this tonight at dinner, but that assumption is predicated on one simple fact:

AN ITALIAN HAS NEVER KNOCKED ON MY DOOR.

Indeed, it took me a little thinking - but when people come by unexpectedly (the neighbor girl with a package that was left at her place, a delivery man, the donna delle poste, my cleaning lady stopping by to visit), without fail, they do not approach the door and knock. Rather, they stand a respectful distance away from the house and holler at it, waiting for me to open the window, hang myself halfway out of it, and holler back to them. Then, in most cases (deliveries), I go outside and downstairs to meet them.

I find it particularly amusing and very respectful, this little dance. People simply do not come "in" or "near" your house unless they are specifically invited to approach.

In fact, I was jolted awake in bed this morning -- not by a knocking, but by a hollering. (I'm surprised that my system is now sensitive enough to be awakened by muffled voices through ancient stone walls!) It was the UPS man. And a cute UPS man, at that. (What CAN Brown do for me?!?) Standing out front just yelling up at my window: "Signora! Signora!! C'e qualcuno?!"

I'm a tiny bit giggling like a schoolgirl even as I type this. My still-sleepy-self ("away to the window I flew like a flash") tore open the windows and hollered back down to him, feeling like a notably less-tressed Rapunzel for one crazy second.

Further confirmation that it is a fairy tale life here, you just have to know where to look.






(*quick credit: Rapunzel image from www.artoki.co.uk)

24 May 2006

Today's snapshot from my life:

[Ring, Ring!]
Me: Pronto?
[BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.]
Me: hmmm. click.


20 minutes later:
[Ring, Ring!]
Me: Pronto?
[BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.]
Me: ARGH. click.


45 minutes after THAT:
[Ring, Ring!]
Me: Pronto?
[BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.]
Me: NOW this is getting ridiculous... click.

2 hours later ... me, attempting to make a call out:

Me: picking up receiver.
[EMPTY SILENCE WHERE THERE SHOULD BE DIAL TONE]
Me: heavy sigh.

Without boring you with the details, this scenario has replayed itself with reasonably predictable frequency for the last 2 days.

I'm no technician, but methinks we've got a phone problem.

It bears saying that Telecom Italia trumps every drivers' license issuing agency I have ever patronized, in lack of efficiency and capability to be pleasant. Double that irritation factor when trying to find someone who will be patient with my cobbled-together Italian. The thought of having to do technical Italian via phone literally fills me with dread.

And besides, how, exactly, do I call to tell them there's a problem?!?

Yesterday, I just unplugged it rather than deal with the ringing, thinking maybe a little time would make it go away (classic avoidance behavior).

Today my patience level plummeted ...



Ya know, I've always hated talking on the phone, anyhow. I'm now researching what it would take to raise a flock of carrier pigeons rather than having to try to get this fixed.

Anniversary Lunch

Had you been in my neck of the woods on Friday, I do hope you would have come for lunch.

The six of us - all strangers before a few short months ago - laughed, drinking in the wine and the sunshine and the companionship, and it was delightful. I felt very, very lucky. You were missed. And damn, like always, we had food for every reader who's ever stopped in here to have joined us. (You would have had to eat with your hands, though!)

The weather cooperated and we sat outside. The table was decorated with cut rosemary and purple artichokes. The guests all contributed wine, desserts, and vin santo -- each from their respective regions. I purposely picked recipes that were Italian - not my comfortable/easy to prepare normal fallbacks. I used both sage and basil growing in my yard ("how farm-girl do I feel!?!?", she said triumphantly...)

EuroBimbo, my personal paparazzi - supertalented photographer that she is, captured the whole thing in exceptional detail with her swanky new highpowered camera lens, HERE, on her blog. (Go for a visit, she's got amazing photos over there - you can see why I hang out with her, and NEVER bring my camera -- my camera seems disposable by comparison!)

ANYHOW ... as for the food, the sage-walnut pesto you've already got the recipe for, here's the other pasta:

Radicchio Gorgonzola Pasta

3 TBSP extra virgin olive oil
1/2 finely diced onion
1 head of radicchio, cut into 1/4" strips
1 c red wine
1 TBSP sugar
1 tsp salt
Ground pepper, generous "grinding" across the pan.

1C heavy cream (or 'panna di cucina' if you're in Italy)
3/4 C gorgonzola cheese, cut into small chunks

Heat the oil in the pan, cook the onion until soft.
Add the radicchio, cook until soft - about 10 minutes.
Add wine, sugar, salt and pepper; cook until it all reduces.

Add cream and cheese, cook until the cheese melts.

Toss in fresh, cooked pasta (I used something sort of like fusilli, but smaller and less twisty. Can't remember the name!)

Indeed, a fab time was had by all, and most importantly,

Abbiamo mangiato bene!
(We have eaten well!)

23 May 2006

You never promised me a rose garden

I was always one of those nontraditional gals. Roses were passe', overdone. Men wooing me instead worked their way through a host of "favorite flowers" over my lifetime: daisies, for a while. A 'birds of paradise' and anthurium phase. More recently, blue hydrangeas.

Now don't get me wrong ... I LIKE the rose. In fact, some of my very best friends are rose breeders. (Okay, not really, that just sounds fun to say. But I do KNOW a lot of rose breeders. Really. None quite well enough to have a rose named after me, but I'm workin' on it.)

But today in my yard, I stumbled across what is in my estimation rose perfection, something that just may change my feelings forever about roses. Not pink or red, though I have plenty of those. This one is pure and deep blazing sunset orange - much deeper than it seems here in the first image - with yellow "tender bits" (the very center and undersides of the petals).

They captivated me, completely.

I found myself wholly unable to let them sit in my yard -- that was too far from my eyes and nose. No, I must have them on my desk - sitting just at my left arm, (though a respectable distance from Blu), so the afternoon sunlight can stream through and hit them just-so.

With the fresh rain still clinging to the petals, I gingerly clipped them. And as I did, a poem -- long forgotten, memorized for something (?), came rushing into my head. It is the one poem that I still know all the words to, and I whispered the last stanza - my favorite - softly to the rose bush, in simple appreciation for its existence.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-- e. e. cummings

21 May 2006

Because life's too short


...not to dance barefoot at sunset on the front lawn.

In my check-of-the-world-news over coffee this morning, I discovered sad news: A woman I never met, who blogged under the anonymity of the name "Cancerbaby," lost her battle with ovarian cancer last week. Her real name, it turns out, was Jessica. She was exactly my age.

Her blog is the story of her struggle with infertility and cancer: eloquently written, irreverent and insightful, tearjerking and laugh-out-loud funny. She was sassy and savvy and smart, a "take it head on" inspiration to anyone who has ever struggled with forces they cannot control.

I spent the rest of my day strangely affected, quietly absorbing it - the death of someone I did not know but felt a little that I did, because she had opened herself up to share her life. And it reminded me why I am here, of "if not now, when?", that there is simply no predicting how long each of our journeys here really is.

Feeling trapped in the house, I left and went for an ass-kicking and head-clearing 2 hour hike into the valley. I returned and got back to the business of life here - spending an hour spraying what I'm sure is ironically somehow carcinogenic insecticide on my roses, managing to get only one ill-timed faceful when the breeze kicked up. I let myself just sit in the sunshine with an inexplicable feeling of numbness.

What am I not doing today that I should be, even if it's hard?
What has not been said that needs to be said?
What is behind the next door opening?
Do I have the courage to walk through it without knowing?
What do you do when there are more questions than answers?


And as the sunset painted the clouds, as part release and part tribute, I kicked off my shoes and danced wildly on my front lawn. (Looking like a cross between a Seinfeld episode and an Ipod commercial, truth be told.) The infinite wisdom of the Ipod provided a perfect dancebeat with a bonus-message-laden soundtrack:

If you live your whole life upon a shelf, you've got noone to blame but your own damn self. (from 'Carry On,' Pat Green)

For the broken-hearted, battle-scarred/when your dreams won't come true/it's gonna be alright ... (Cher's 'Song for the Lonely')

Life is not tried, it is merely survived if you're standing outside the fire. (Garth Brooks)

If there's logic to any of this madness, you'll find it in my eyes: be good, be kind, be truthful and be free. (from 'Be Good,' Hothouse Flowers)

Let a light shine in your window, let me see where I have been: and if that light still shines, and if fortune smiles, I will pass this way again...

When my time is up and my body lays down, when the candle fades and dims, throw my ashes into a restless wind, and I will pass this way again. (Small Potatoes)


I danced because I could.
Because not everyone can.
Because life's too short not to.

See ya next time around, Jessica. You made a difference, and you will be missed.

20 May 2006

Tick, tock, tick, tock

There's not a ton that I really miss about Washington DC. After living there for 12 years, that feels a little strange to admit.

What I *do* miss is being a part of the action when something big is going down. This month, I'm a million miles from that "action". (Okay, only six thousand miles or so.) I got an email from the day job this week telling me that, if I didn't object, the CBS evening news wanted to use my office to film a segment. (!!!)

By way of explanation: the day job is heavily involved in the immigration debates currently raging in the US Senate. And one of my very best friends in the world, The Old Soul, happens to be our oh-so-capable spokesmonkey and, if I may say so, a minor celebrity / player of sorts in said discussion. (When we would walk home together, it was not unusual for him to be interrupted to take a call from Senator so-and-so. Me, I just live vicariously.) Anyhow, CBS did an interview as a part of their coverage of the story. And my office is waaaaaaay cleaner than his is (largely due to the fact that, well, I don't office there very frequently!)

I begged the gals I work to make sure there wasn't anything totally embarrassing sitting around before the shoot. Following, they sent over a few pics, and I was soooooo impressed. Because it was shot in my office, I'm sure that means those few minutes come off of my "15 minutes of fame" ticker, too. And I wasn't even there to appreciate it!


It will air early next week sometime, we think. I'm sure he was brilliantly articulate and stunningly handsome, and I'm nearly bursting with pride. My words of wisdom were encouraging, I'm sure: be sure to call for "Makeup!" at least once and end the interview saying, "That's a wrap. I'll be in my trailer..."

18 May 2006

Throw me a bone

Today - May 18 - is the one year anniversary of the day I got on a plane. With two really really heavy suitcases and the rest of my belongings either sold or floating in a container somewhere in the Atlantic.

I started this here blog, this story of the adventure, partly for me: to record the magic in the little moments. But also partly for you: to keep in touch. To acknowledge that experiences are only meaningful when they are shared. So you could be a witness, a virtual traveler on the journey. So many people said, "gosh, I'm so jealous ... if life were different..." But really, don't we all say that? I, in turn, live vicariously through the emailed pictures of your childrens' birthdays, your vacation postcards, emails detailing your promotions and moves. You stop in here every now and again to visit and see what life in Tuscany - daily life, not the 7-day vacation plan - is really like, or maybe just to marvel at the slightly crazy girl behind the glass.

So, for heavens sake, where ARE you people? Would it kill ya to leave a comment now and again?!?!
To review: comments are free and don't cause bad things to happen to you. You can be totally anonymous if you like, or you can pick your own nickname (or heck, you can use your own name if you want -- though I don't, as you know! Try anonymity on for size, it's kind of intoxicating.) You don't have to sign up for a Blogger profile, nothin'. Don't know what to say? If you don't know me, tell me where you're from. Or tell me how you found "If not now, when?". Or tell us a joke, or what color underwear you're wearing. Anything! Now I know how Radio deejays feel: wondering if there's anyone out there actually HEARING this stuff.

The funny thing is that - though the miracles of technology - I know you're out there: hundreds (though not quite yet thousands) of you, which REALLY amazes me, to be honest. For many of you, I know I'm your "first blog" experience: It's okay; I'll be gentle. You don't have to drink the koolaid.

To frequent readers AND commenters, you rock my very-small world. To those of you who send emails instead of commenting, I love the personal interaction more anyhow. And to those of you who lurk, and read, and laugh, and cry right along with me ... and then when I run into you somewhere, mention how much you love my blog... yes, you: wouldya throw me a comment bone every now and again?

And of course, the mouse in me will keep pushing the lever, because the reward of a comment-pellet comes out -- occasionally -- and unpredictably, a gift from the blog-o-sphere. Thanks for being here. For being the reason this makes sense. For witnessing, even if silently.

Happy anniversary to me!

16 May 2006

This episode with PICTURES!

And now we return you to your regularly-scheduled program, Italian Wildlife:

It's spring: birds are singing, bees are humming, ant invasions abound and the oh-so-irritating crabgrass has found its way back up from China (where its' roots obviously start since I can never dig quite far enough to kill them) into my gravel path.

Friday is my one-year anniversary here! A year later, I have definitely made my peace with most of my wildlife. The wild boars tear the hell out of my lawn, but taste so divine roasted; the lawn is a small price to pay. The birds only occasionally fly through the house and I can sleep through most of the calling - I even recognize a few now! The cuckoo remains supremely annoying, and I can't for the life of me understand why anyone would want to make that into a clock. (Yes, they really sound just like that. All the time.) The bats don't look so scary up close - cute and little and fuzzy even - by the light of day. I've decided they must not really be interested in sucking my blood. The butterflies are spectacular, watching their flitting can easily consume giant lazy chunks of time.

The most irritating, by far, are the carpenter bees. They are enormous, loud, and black: the cacophonous Hindenbergs (sans flame) of the bee family. I have no idea if they sting, but their sound alone is enough to make me lose my train of thought when they find their way through my open window. They seem like part-bee, part-fly (that's a Euro Cent tucked under his wing for scale...) - and though there is such a thing called a "beefly," this is, according to whatsthatbug.com, a carpenter bee. The iridescent blue of their wings looks like something I wore to the junior prom, but that's about the only redeeming quality I can find.

I have lizards galore, who I find rather endearing in their fleetness. Just a flash, corner of the eye, and they're gone. Though my lizards are special: nearly all appear to be some sort of Darwinian breed of tailless lizard. This quirky fish-on-legs look is actually is a result of their "detachable tail" feature, often sacrificed to become the afternoon snack of the two sweet and quick-but-not-quick enough farm cats. (The one in the picture must be TOMORROW's afternoon snack!)

It's another story altogether, but I've become fascinated with snails of late. I know the Italian word - chiocciola (pronounced key-OH-cho-la) - for snail, because it's also the word they use for the "@" symbol in an email address! The attempted-gardener in me knows I should smash them, or just turn the keys to my garden over to them entirely, but I find something quietly intriguing about them. I'll yank the shells off my roses and smash them, but rarely see one "out and about" of his shell. Last evening, after dark, this one crossed my path. He stopped and we were eyeball-to-eyeball (he was up on a ledge, I was sitting.) I swear he looked at me, his 'feelers' wagging with interest at me (amazing, those feelers - incredibly sensitive and pliable, reminding me of the column of water-slash-face in the movie The Abyss.), and I simply couldn't bear to crunch him.

Last week I saw my first snake! Renaissance Artist had told me we had some - especially by the pond - and even a few "Vipers" (the bad ones!), but needless to say I had never gone looking for them. But there one was -- sunning himself on the gravel in my drive.

He was a beautiful coppery-green color, depending on which angle you looked at him. The professor identified him as something I can't remember, but he was really pretty. This all seems a bit scary, until you remember the concept of "scale" in photos - this darling little guy was maybe the size of a double-long earthworm, not much more. And he was none-too-happy with Professor's attempt to scooch him out of the 'main drag': here he is getting all puffed-up and 'snakey' with us. Cute, really.

So I have snakes and snails.... and if I could just find a few puppy dogs' tails, I bet I could whip myself up a few little boys, too. And if THAT logic follows, do you suppose if I start with full-grown DOG's tails instead that I might get a late thirties-to-mid-forties-something man who is gainfully employed, living independently of his mother, and can make me laugh?

Hah!! This from the woman who is self-confessed average on a good day in the kitchen: THAT recipe has trouble written all over it. Seems to me finding a prefab model that can be returned to the factory for exchange or warranty repairs is a better idea.

True comfort food

I've been fighting some creeping Italian form of the flu -- relatively high fever, cold sweats, things swollen and achy that shouldn't be swollen and achy -- for about a week now, since the Professor & MaryAnn left.

Some days have been better than others, and I think today I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had the energy to go for a hike this morning, perfect timing since I had some leftover thoughts rattling around in my brain that were ready to escape into the sunshine and fresh air, and I'm already feeling a million times better.

Traditional medicines aside, the one thing that has gotten me through the last week is Judith's Amazing Crema di Pomodoro soup.

I've never been a chicken soup person. But a good tomato soup over rice, now THAT cures what ails me. This simple, amazing soup is super-easy to make and more delicious than its few ingredients would lead you to believe.

It's from Judith's "Vacation Rental Kitchen Cookbook" - which means it's meant for kitchens that aren't super well equipped (e.g., mine.) The original recipe gives measurements in "espresso cups" presuming you won't have measuring tools - how sweet! People wonder why I don't post more recipes here - it's because while I really enjoy cooking, I don't "invent" anything: there are so many people out there that are really great at it, I just use their recipes and generally muddle through. If you're looking for blogs with fabulous recipes and food pics , Judith's, and Gia-Gina's, are highly recommended. They always inspire me to try something new.

Judith's Crema di Pomodoro

2 pounds (about one kilo) of fresh tomatoes - diced. Or an equivalent amount of canned diced tomatoes. (IF YOU DON'T have a stick blender/food mill, get "passata di pomodori" - pureed pure tomatoes in the canned tomato section of the grocery.)

3 tablespoons of good extra virgin olive oil

1 C finely chopped onion

Good sized pinch of salt, plus 2 teaspoons.

2 cups of milk (skim is fine - though I usually substitute about 1/2 c of this for cream, which makes the soup richer and also, sadly, a little less healthy!)

First, make a pot of white rice - 1C rice to 2C water, 2 pinches of salt - bring to a boil then cover and let simmer on low heat for 15 minutes. Just turn off the burner at the end and let sit - you'll serve the soup over "rice balls" when it's finished.

Warm the oil in a deep pot on low heat - saute' the onions with the first pinch of salt until they're really really softened (Judith says if they brown it's not the end of the world, but try not to.) Completely cook the onions - once the tomatoes go in, something about the acid prevents further onion cooking. When the onions are cooked, if you know your tomatoes aren't very sweet, you can add a glug of sherry or marsala and let it cook off.

Add the diced tomatoes and 2 teaspoons of salt. Cook this slowly, stirring occastionally, for about 10 minutes. Use a stick blender to blend it smooth in the pan, then return to low heat.

Slowly - one tablespoon at a time to begin with - stir in two cups of milk. Correct the salt to your taste and grind in some fresh pepper.

I do have one recipe modification here: The Mom taught me a trick from a chef friend of hers ... cook the soup for an additional 3-5 minutes with about four thick slices of lemon floating in it. Massage the slices just a touch before you put them in, so they'll release some juice into the soup. It adds just the perfect amount of tang.

Serve over a nice-sized "ball" (think ice cream scoop) of the rice with a sprig of basil, a drizzled thread of oil, a sprinkle of parmesan, a dollop of creme fraiche or pesto, or pretty much any other garnish you can think of, depending on how uppity you want it to look when it's served.

Judith says this freezes, but I've never had any left over long enough.

Especially this week, I've been making the "cheaters' method" version of the soup (using the pre-pureed tomatoes called 'passata' in Italy) - less time and mess. But during a cool night in fresh tomato season, I bet this would be scrumptious. Like my friend Blossom said once upon a time, "this makes me want to get in and wiggle!"

15 May 2006

Taught by example

I think I posted a story last year about the "carabinieri" coming to visit. It happens occasionally, and I'm happy to know that they keep an eye on things.

My first duo of carabinieri last spring were the Maresciallo (Marshal - sort of the boss) and another officer, Tonino. I had previously met the Maresciallo, Officer Tonino was new.

At one point during that first visit, the Maresciallo scolded Officer Tonino for speaking too quickly - "she's just learning, you need to go more slowly for her" he admonished. I was touched and appreciative of the simple gesture - in part because couldn't imagine police officers in the states being remotely so patient with someone who didn't speak English that well. (Then again, I can't imagine police officers in the US just swinging by to chat and see what's up, either.)

Officer Tonino has been by a few times to visit since then, and came by again today, this time with a new officer. I was training ivy on the new front pergola when they drove in. I waved, they stopped, Officer Tonino introduced me to the new guy ... Officer Giuseppe. And we were all chatting about pleasantries, how the winter had gone, etc., etc.

And then, Tonino - having been well trained by his Maresciallo - turned to Giuseppe: "you're going too fast, she can't understand if you talk so quickly."

Awwwwwwww. I admit it, my heart got a little melty. Maybe it's just the guy-in-a-uniform thing, but there was something so ... chivalrous about it. Yes, the Maresciallo would be proud.

Before he left, Tonino also told me that he thought my Italian had improved a lot since we last talked, at which I swelled with pride. Mostly because it is true, but also that anyone actually notices. I thanked him and told him that I was studying hard so someday he could introduce me to someone that didn't have to slow down to talk to me.

Though I'm not sure I'll remember it should panic strike, the local emergency number here for police is 112, not 911. Cento (100) and dodici (12).

It's the simple familiarity of these visits that I like so much. And they always end the same way, like the sign off for a predictable TV show. They say, "if you need us, just call (and mimics using his hand like a phone receiver)" and I reply ... "Cento dodici!".

13 May 2006

A riddle wrapped in a mystery

I saw myself through different eyes today:

I was told that I was "enigmatic."

Actually, I was referred to as the "enigmatic and shy blonde American woman" that someone had asked about.

(pardon the pause, while I -- and anyone who knows me -- laughs out loud.)

In my whole life, I have never been considered shy or enigmatic. I am a pretty open book, and people have always known where they stand with me. Sure, I can be difficult or flirtatious or challenging -- that's not the same. Enigmatic is ... impossible to figure out. And shy is, well, not in my vocabulary.

At least not in my English vocabulary.

So I stepped outside myself for a moment, and actually ... SAW ... myself, in sunglasses, sitting alone here in that small piazza. And I realized that someone who makes eye contact but will not speak to you other than to nod and say a soft 'buona sera' might, in some people's perceptions, be considered shy. And enigmatic. Especially if you see them frequently.

This is not enigma that they are seeing, it's fear of sounding stupid. Which I will do -- happily -- just not with total strangers. With strangers, I keep my distance. I do not want to intrude in their world: I am a guest here - just passing through. A "migrant worker" - to use Josh Baskin's apt description. I do not have roots here, nor will I be here long enough to sprout them. And so, I make eye contact, enough so they know that I am there and not being rude, but not enough to be invited in to their discussions. Because if I were invited in, the game would be over, and my tongue could not keep up with my brain. And it would become 'all about me'. Which I do not want. Unlike other more famous expats (who shall be left unnamed), my goal is not to change this place or to make it my story - but rather to leave it as I found it, to blend in, to appreciate it for what it is and to leave relatively few ripples in my wake.

So I am, apparently, the shy and enigmatic blonde American woman. And for the moment, I think I like that. It's wearing a Halloween costume -- trying a different persona on for a while; we should all have that luxury at some point in our lives. In wearing the costume now, I also know that I will behave differently - more gently, more enigmatically, perhaps, when I take it off. And as 'I am a part of all that I have met,' I'm not certain that's such a bad thing.

The part that cracks me up the most, actually, is the "blonde". Perhaps it's just that in contrast to the true, black/brown darkskinned Italian brunettes around, I have comparatively light hair and light eyes. I guess they don't look closely enough at my roots... Mark, my brilliantly talented magician of a hairdresser, will be so touched by the compliment.

A broad smile spreads across my face. Aaaaah. "It's fun to be fooled, but it's more fun to know."

12 May 2006

Ricette! (Recipes!)

Okay, on my chef-friend FieldSalad's urging ... I'm trying to post more actual recipes. This one was inspired by AndBabyMakesThree, in DC (for now!), telling me that she was making sage walnut pesto for dinner a few nights ago. I thought -- heck, I can make that. I have a few sage plants - freshly shooting - that the winter didn't kill off, let me give it a shot! Adapted from a recipe I already had, it was stunningly delicious.

Traditional pesto is made with fresh basil and pine nuts. This version is with sage and walnuts, a richer/sweeter taste, and more 'wintery'. Here ya go ...

Ode to Beckmans: Sage Walnut Pesto
1 handful (about 1 1/2 cups?) of tender fresh sage (destemmed)
2 cloves of garlic (I LOVE garlic. you may want to go a little easier)
1 teaspoon lemon zest
pinch of salt (snooty salt girl that I am, I prefer either fleur de sel or sicilian sea salt - something with a little body, but not chunky.)
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese (I usually go heavier).
1/2 cup minced walnuts
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil (**important - use GOOD, extra virgin olive oil.)

Chop up the sage leaves (tiny pieces!) by hand - if you use a food processor, it gets all lumpy and gooey. You can chop the walnuts mechanically, but I personally think it's easier just to keep going with the sharp knife rather than having something else to clean. Important to get tiny pieces, though.)

Finely mince the garlic and put everything together in a good mixing bowl. Mix well with a fork, adding salt and cheese to taste. This will be pasty and thick. I myself like a half-lemon squeezed in here, it eases the sage a little, but this is a personal thing.

The secret to most sauces, Renaissance Artist tells me, is adding a little bit (half ladleful or so) of the pasta water from cooking, which this recipe needs anyhow to thin the paste a little.

Italians select pasta shapes for a purpose: how it has to 'hold' the sauce you've made. Pesto is a relatively even sauce, so you don't need something with nooks and crannies or curves. A flat fettucine will work, but I have always liked farfalle (which is the italian word for butterfly, better known in the US as "bow tie" pasta.) Add drained pasta of your choice (still hot) and toss.

This recipe serves 4 medium (starter) servings of pasta, not terribly heavily 'pestoed'. Most Italian pastas come lighter-sauced than we would expect in the states. If you are serving four but prefer a more heavy sauce plus some on the plate to sop up with bread, I would double this recipe.

EDITORIAL ADDITION: I forgot to mention that Italians usually serve pasta as a "starter" (primo) before a main course. If you intend to eat this as a main course,
this recipe only serves two. If this is all you're eating and you want a little protein, I would add "Italian style" large link sausage, estimating 1 1/2 links per person (break into free-style chunks of sausage that you cook to brown with a little oil in advance, then add the pesto to sausage. Heat together for a moment, then add hot pasta to entire mix.) The sage/sausage mix is divine.

Before serving, grate another splash of parmesan on the top, garnish with a whole leaf of sage if you're feeling gourmet.

Mangia!

11 May 2006

Never a dull moment

It's 6 in the evening here. My phone just rang.
I answer with the standard Italian greeting:

"Pronto?" (literally, 'I am ready'. It makes me giggle to say it.)

A woman, in very measured/formal English politely introduces herself: "Good Evening. I am so-and-so, a member of the German Parliament..."

(for a split second I thought it was a practical joke or one of those bad recorded-message political calls, you know when Arnold Schwarzenegger leaves a voicemail on your answering machine to remind you to vote Republican on election day.)

But nope, she was real. And it turns out she dialed a wrong number: my next door neighbor is a retired Italian ambassador and she was looking for him. All our phone numbers are identical, except the last two digits. I gave her his number, which is only one digit off from mine, and she apologized profusely for disturbing me.

Disturbing me? Heck, it's not every day I get to talk to a member of the German parliament! Even though the ambassador and I share the same little patch of woods on a hilltop in Tuscany, I'd venture to say my life is a far sight duller by comparison: the most exciting thing I did today was buy more fuel-mix for the weed whacker.

What's your cookie?

In my day job, among other things, I write articles directed at helping retailers improve their customer experiences. Since my whole life is full of pseudonyms, those are written under the guise of "Suzy Shopper".

This was my most recent Suzy article, and I was so pleased with it that I thought publishing it here might make you all go "hmmmmm," too:

Suzy Shopper: What's your cookie?

Like many of you, I spend more days on the road than I'd care to count, especially during the busy meeting/tradeshow season. Easily more than 100 nights a year in hotels make me pretty much an expert on what works and what doesn't, and a tough customer to impress. I'm not there to be wowed, I'm there because I have to be, and a hot shower and clean sheets are usually good enough. Imagine this: End of a long day (at the end of two long weeks). I order something simple from room service and turn on CNN. Tray arrives promptly, I sign the check, and sit down to eat. On my tray is the quesadilla I ordered. And a warm oatmeal cookie.

I didn't order the cookie.

It was "lagniappe," as my oh-so-southern grandmother would say. A little something extra. And I'm still (three months later!) talking about it. More than a hundred nights a year in hotels, for about 13 years running now - easily more than 1,500 nights. And I've never, ever, ever gotten an extra cookie on my room service tray as an anonymous guest.

Seriously? That's the best $.22 in marketing that hotel ever spent. It won't be special when everyone is doing it, but for now, it's brilliant. Here's the catch: if the tray had taken an hour to arrive, or if the server was a leering jerk, or if the sheets weren't clean and the shower was cold, then the cookie wouldn't matter. Your customers assume you can do the basics, and if you don't, the cookie can't make up for it. But if you're delivering the basics, then what they're looking for - and what they'll talk about - is the "wow." The lagniappe.

So, what's your cookie? What's the lagniappe that you give to your customers? Brainstorm it with your team. When you find it, I promise you that the word-of-mouth marketing is more than worth whatever it costs you. And, by the way, the next time you're in Palm Springs, stay at the Renaissance Esmeralda.

10 May 2006

Snazzy new blog cards (Totally Unsolicited Endorsements III)

I have apparently become - sort of unbeknownst to me and without actual intention to become such a thing - a blogger.

People ask me all the time for my blog address.

And I scrounge in my purse for a writing implement, then scrawl it down - usually on a cocktail napkin or a torn off scrap of placemat paper. I write clearly and carefully - since the words don't make sense in English so therefore aren't easily memorable (and I've recently discovered they aren't technically grammatically correct in Italian, argh! double argh! insert frustrated *!&$^@#! curses here!)

Simultaneously, I also realized that I had no 'personal' card. You know, the one with my personal email and not the work one? With my own cellphone, not the number that gets you a voicemail in Washington DC that I suck at checking? (I mean, really - if I give you my work card and say, 'call me sometime,' what happens if you decide to call on a Saturday to see if I can be your last-minute-date to a State dinner? You couldn't find me.) In America, this is normal. In Europe, it's a little weird: people here pretty commonly have 'personal' cards.

I had no idea I needed such a thing, but with an impending summer full of travel and connection-making, I thought it best to break down and get personal cards - with email and blog address. (No cellphone number, though. I'll still have to write that down - call me selective, or just someone who HATES talking on the phone!)

But I wanted something cool and hip, interesting but thought-provoking. Not snooty engraved script on textured ecru-colored parchment. (The submliminal message there is 'wow, she takes herself waaaaaaay too seriously!')

Thank god someone's already thought of that! (Seriously, there are no good ideas left in the world.) Enter StreetCards. I picked a graphic from one of my favorite comic artists, but there are tons to choose from. It works for people or small businesses, and are double-sided, hip, and cost effective. Fair warning, they're also kind of addicting; I'm already thinking of my next design.

Since you don't need one - (DUH - you already know where my blog is!) - I thought you might like to see my newly minted card:

FRONT:
BACK (white on purple):
viaggiatore: (n) - a traveling animal, more wolf than sheep
stop in and say hi sometime:
If not now, when?

The language of love


There are two kinds of people in the world: those who say "I love you" and those who don't.

I know friends (both from America and other cultures) who have gone their entire lives without hearing a parent say that. On the surface, that makes me desperately 'hide-the-razor-blades' kind of sad. When I dig down a little further, I think maybe part of it is simply culture / upbringing. Some people just aren't raised to express their feelings that way, and pass that handicap on to their children. Like that line from the Reba McIntyre Greatest Man I Never Knew song: "he never said he loved me, guess he thought I knew."

For others, they say it, but only rarely, and only to 'that person.'

Maybe it's because there's so much perceived vulnerability in 'those three little words.' Great comedy routines, Seinfeld among others, exist around the natural tension created: when do I say it? What if she doesn't say it back? What does it MEAN? Oh, geez - he said it. Am I supposed to say it back? What if I don't?

Me? I am steadfastly in the camp of the "I love you" sayers. IN fact, I say it to a reasonable number of people in my "inner circle" of friends, relatively frequently. It's not uncommon for me to end a phone call, email, or visit with "Love you" or, the slightly funnier but still sincere, "Love you. Mean It." (Yes, this does beg the question of how Mr. Right knows he's any different. A) that bridge will be crossed when we come to it, and B) honestly, if he doesn't get it, then he's not Mr. Right. Hello?!?!)

So entry number one hundred and six (or whatever) on the list of things I love about Italy: they have, count 'em, at least TWO commonly used versions of I love you!

One is for 'that someone' and the other is for the 'inner circle'. How perfect!

Ti amo: the verb, Amare - means to love 'profoundly' when used for people (differently for, 'plants love the sun'). So this is literally, 'You I love.'

Ti Voglio: literally translated into "You I want." It's the shortened version of 'ti voglio bene', I want you good? Hmmm. This all sounded not quite like the sweet thing that sons say to mothers, friends to each other. Obviously I was confused by the context of 'wanting' in this expression, and the Expats In Italy website that I belong to finally cleared it up: it means, effectively, I want good for you. It's the commonly accepted form of 'I love you' in a platonic, 'you are a connection in the world and I really care about' you kind of way.

Now that I stop to think about it, there are probably just as many angst ridden moments in Italian about making the leap from Ti voglio bene to Ti amo.

I guess what it really comes down to is that it annoys me that in English, we don't have a commonly accepted way to say to friends, "ti voglio bene". So some of us just push boldly ahead, saying "I love you" in both contexts and presuming that the aforementioned friend knows on which side of the line that message is supposed to fall. Ah-ha. Now I get what people say about English being so hard to learn.

Quick PS: the cute cartoon above is by the brilliantly talented guy whose art adorns my new blog-cards (sample forthcoming), Hugh at gapingvoid. His sense of humor is caustic, cathartic, and generally right-on-target.

PPS: Hey, you. Yes ... you. Ti voglio bene. ;>

09 May 2006

Thank God it's (Good) Friday!

Okay - catchup time. I told you that I expected Italians to do Holy Week up in style. But I had NO idea how far it would go!

On Good Friday, I was already having lunch with my friends Barky & Bimbo in their adopted 'hometown' of Cortona (of Under-the-Tuscan-Sun fame). Their bad-but-in-a-good-way influence (and the promise of copious pitchers of fizzy white wine for lunch!) convinced me that I'd be missing out on a huge Italian experience to not call in a vacation day and stick around for the big ole' Procession that goes through the streets and Piazzas of their town after dark on Good Friday. It was less than half a glass of wine into it when I decided, "heck, I'm game! It's exactly this kind of thing that I'm supposedly here to experience..."

And so began my Good Friday of Hooky Playing, and one of the "top five spectacles I've witnessed in Italy": the 'Processione di Venerdi Santo' (loosely translated into the 'recreated good friday funeral procession'). Woo, boy - sounds like a laugh a minute, eh?

(All ye Catholics out there -- as I describe the procession, your pardon is begged as I'm confident I will completely botch the religious terms!)

I benefitted from Barky & Bimbo's experience - they had seen the procession last year and knew that it would eventually go right by their apartment, but that first it started at one of the local churches. Promptly at nine, we headed out to see the beginning. As we arrived, there were men dressed in brownish-purple monklike robes tied with ropes (they were obviously costumes on normal citizens, not monks). They also had hoods hanging from the back of their necks. Altogether, twenty men hoisted four separate beams of wood up onto their shoulders to be able to move the 'float' out of the sanctuary and into the small street, more like an alley. They went about 50 yards down the alley then stopped just short of the intersection with the main street. We stood, a respectful distance behind, and waited. And waited. And waited. So far, this was no procession, it was just standing in a dark alley with a bunch of guys wearing hoods. (Yeah, this is the stuff mamma warned you about!)

At first, there were others waiting there with us - we assumed family, perhaps, of the men shouldering the burden? After 15 minutes or so, we were the only un-costumed ones left in our little alley standing at the back of the group, confused as we looked out to the main street filled with spectators. What WERE we waiting for?!?!

So I (marginal language skills but bold nonetheless) asked... and the answer came from one of the friendly guys at the back of the carrying-gang:

"Oh, we're Christ number two, so we're waiting for Christ One to pass."

Me, religious-spectacle-virgin that I am, responded incredulously, "We're number two? So how many Christs ARE there?!?!"

Which prompted a lively discussion amongst he and a hooded buddy. The final answer: Four christs. And a Madonna. (And a big-ole cross all on its own).

As I learned by the end ... each statue came from a different church, each group wearing its own colors. Our parade had burgundy, brownish purple, brown, black, and white I think.

The procession was more intense and powerful than I can possibly express. It was a series of six "floats" (statues that were carried by between 10 and 20 people at a time), some as much as 15 feet tall. The first four depicted Christ in the various stages, I think, leading up to crucifixion: in the garden at gethsemane, flagellation, wearing the crown of thorns, and carrying the cross. The fifth float is the cross on its own, and the final float is the Madonna (that one carried all by women).

The streets were filled - both with people watching the procession and people following along, others hanging out of their open windows in the narrow cobblestone streets to participate. It was a relatively warm, breezeless night and the aura of the crowd was palpably 'respectful' - though it was obvious that for some this was more a cultural phenomenon than a personal religious tradition. However, the crowd was very solemn as songs and the twelve stations of the cross were recited and broadcast over portable loudspeakers (carried on people's backs) to the crowd. I must presume that there were multiple loudspeakers, as the entire procession was amazingly long. It wound its way up and down and around the hilly, uneven, narrow streets of Cortona, finally passing by Bimbo & Barky's apartment and then ending in one of the main piazzas. We walked along with the procession for at least half of the solemn, two-lined parade. One note: I did feel particularly conspicuous the whole time, having left the house that day wearing a white corduroy jean jacket. Who wears white to a funeral procession recreation?!? How gauche of me. I keep expecting myself to show up on the Vatican's worst-dressed website.

Since we're all going to hell anyway (Ask for Viaggiatore's party, I've got a table reserved): we skipped out on the end bits - had a fab dinner at a favorite local restaurant and then went out for dancing and martinis at the "Route 66" club around the corner from their house.

The whole evening was a dizzying confluence of anachronism: Very oldworld-meets- Macy's-Thanksgiving-day-parade-meets-meets-klu-klux-klan-(the outfits!)-meets-disco-and-martinis. Whew, it really was "one night in Cortona"!

PS: EuroBimbo is a rockin' photographer. I, typically, was sans-camera. I've waited to post this until now so you can go to her site to see what it was all really like, minute by minute... enjoy!

It's a small world, after all

Truly, there isn't much I love more than sharing this place with friends. And particularly, having the chance to connect kindred spirits with each other. Life really is all about the people, when it comes right down to it.

As a triumphant finale to the many weeks of guestness, my friends N.Terza* and the Ancient Historian (along with their little ninja) came for dinner Saturday night. They live about a half hour away, but she is originally from Michigan... as is MaryAnn (of The Professor & MaryAnn) who were in visiting for a few days.

Turns out that N.Terza and MaryAnn went to the same school, had the same major, same crazy professors, worked for the same company, LIVED IN THE SAME APARTMENT BUILDING, and generally have lived totally parallel lives a few short years apart, never having met. MaryAnn now lives in California, N.Terza in Chianti, and they run into each other through a random friend. CRAZY! The world's six degrees of separation just might be shrinking again. It shall suffice to say that it was a fantastic evening and the whole group got on like a house on fire (without ACTUALLY setting the house on fire, as the previous dinner party extravaganza did!)

FieldSalad, my chef friend, has written to ask for recipes. The problem with recipes is that I'm totally useless with measurements, everything seems to need a substitution of some sort, and, worse - this is totally a braille cooking culture: you just feel your way through! Evidence: when I ask someone here for a recipe, it never includes measurements.

For now, I'll post the menu so you can live vicariously. I *will* come back and give the recipe for at least two of the items, once I work the measurements out.

Starters
Pecorino Nero Semi-Stagionato (partially aged sheep cheese from Pienza)
Finocchiona (traditional tuscan salame flavored with fennel)
Marinated olives
Prosecco (the italian version of champagne with slightly smaller bubbles. We drank Ferrari and Berlucchi that night - nice mid-range sparklers. Prosecco is the worlds most perfect beverage!)

We walked with our bicchieri di prosecco up the wooded path to the ruins of the Roman Road that runs through the property, because I wanted Ancient Historian to see it and tell me what he thought ... literally, he's an archaeologist who specializes in Roman and Etruscan history. He had some fascinating insights and said he wanted to come back with a shovel, which I think is a good sign. Standing on that road, I always get a little shiver up my spine as I can literally FEEL the history vibrating through me, nearly able to see the centurions on the path and making camp here.

Primi
Carciofi (artichoke) & salsiccia (sausage) risotto cakes on bed of wilted greens
Pappa pomodoro (traditional tuscan bread 'soup' with just a kick of peperoncino)

Secondi
Cinghiale (the remainder of my gift from the hunters, the wild boar from my property.)
Baked paprika chicken with water chestnuts in a sherried sour cream sauce (this is one of my favorites: not Italian, but rather from the 'San Francisco a la carte' cookbook. The water chestnuts had been imported in my christmas stocking and I had been saving them for a special occasion!)
Steamed white rice (a totally non-Italian side dish)
Asparagus (okay, well, we were SUPPOSED to have asparagus but we totally forgot to make it.)

Dolce
Chocolate chocolate chip fudge cake with Baileys' drizzled over the top (also not an Italian dessert, but the little ninja loves chocolate....!)


Wines

Cannetto, Vino Nobile di Montepulciano 2000
Col d'Orcia, Brunello di Montalcino 2000
Castello Banfi, Cum Laude, Montalcino 2002

Grappa
Tenuta di Collosorbo, Grappa di Brunello di Montalcino (*amazing, amazing, amazing Grappa. Smooth as liquid silk. Beautiful winery, too, near Sant'Antimo.)

All in all, a brilliant evening. Old and new friends, sitting beneath the real-candle candleabra** in the tiny farm kitchen; laughter filling the old stone house. I'm confident that this place has been witness to much sadness and joy in its 350 plus years, that it is the keeper of countless secrets and stories, and it is my hope that we honor it with our celebrations.

*It's rare that I explain a nickname, but N.Terza deserves a mention. In my life, I have had three really significant, "life-altering" moves. One, from California to Chicago as a child. The second, from the midwest to Washington DC. The third, from DC to Italy. IN EACH PLACE, my very first friend (and inevitably, over time, my closest) has been named Nancy. They are, actually, the only Nancys that I can even recall knowing in my life. Two things make a coincidence, three makes a pattern, and so with N.Terza (the third Nancy), I have come to consider the name Nancy as a marker of sorts - the sign of guardian angels to new experiences.

**Pic courtesy of Eurobimbo, my brilliant photographer friend and fellow expat. Her adventures are well worth reading, too, especially if you want stories with more visual appeal than mine have!

04 May 2006

Beware the False Cognates, Part II

Camera: not "the machine that takes pictures", but actually room. A "camera da letto" is a room with a bed.

This explains that puzzled look when you hand an Italian your machine that takes pictures and excitedly say "camera" to him. He may be wondering for a moment if you want to find a room with him... and put it on film.

The twelve days of guestness ...

"It's the end of the world as we know it ... and I feel fine."

Okay, all apologies to REM for ripping off their lyrics. (which I hope you can't get out of your head either now!) But that's absolutely how the twelve days of guestness started.

It wasn't quite "signs of the apocalypse"- worthy but an interesting first few days... we were visited by a seemingly-unending "seven plagues" that eventually became downright hysterically funny. When you're with good friends, anything becomes more liveable.

In a forty eight hour period, we were plagued by...
Overabundance: of traffic. Enroute to pick up Beatrice from the train station, I got stuck in a THREE AND A HALF HOUR traffic jam. Literally not moving for that long. Unlike anything I had seen, ever, anywhere in the world. And what luck ... her train was sold out, so she arrived four hours late anyhow, and in a different town.

Machinery Failure: the rental car of The Mom & First Timer was a FIAT, which isn't interesting in and of itself ... until they tried to pull out of the parking lot at the Autogrill ... and couldn't get the car to go into reverse (FIATs are tricky that way.) Seriously, I can't imagine much that would be funnier than two jetlagged english-speaking women PUSHING a stickshift car out of a parking space with all the Italian men watching. You go, girls!

Noxious Fumes: We took an outing to nearby Arezzo (to keep the gals awake) and stopped on the way to fill the gas can for the lawnmower. Except... the cap was broken, and we ended up with Simon's back end (not really a 'trunk' since he's a hatchback!) full of benzina, which nearly made everyone in the car pass out from the fumes. Two days, the rug of the trunk cut out, lots of vinegar and baking soda later it seems liveable again.

Electrical Storm: While waiting for the gals to return from an afternoon outing to Siena, I gazed out the window from my desk at the beautiful spring day. And not five minutes later, the sky was black and I was watching lightning touch down on the hills in front of me. I ran around frantically unplugging everything (remembering that this house is apparently its own lightning rod!). I wondered briefly where it would be safe to take shelter, able to remember nothing other than "don't stand under a tree" and something about rubber tires on a car... and then just sat and marveled at how fast it came and went. An hour later, it was sunny again ... as if I had imagined it all.

Fire: During our dinner party Friday night, Gabriele ran into the house saying "viene qui, velocemente..." (come here, quick!) It turns out the ceiling in the capanna (guest house) had caught fire. A few nervous moments of racing around, getting water and a ladder (all done in Italian, I'm proud to say!), we had caught it just in the nick of time. Crisis averted.

Water:
Saturday morning, while the group of us was out gardening, we saw a fountain of water shooting up from the side yard. Turns out that my sweet garden gnome had run over the irrigation system with the lawnmower. Sigh. Repairable, but high drama for a few moments.

Ants:
Sunday morning before the first cup of coffee, we realized the kitchen had been taken over by a marching swarm of ants (the first I've ever seen in a year here). A quick Googling told us to create a barrier at the point of entry using powder laundry detergent (what DID we do before Google?!?) and we spent the next hour in a campaign of systematic ant-o-cide.


At each turn, we laughed in disbelief. How is it possible that all these strange things keep happening?!? As we retold and counted the tales of strangeness over a bottle of wine that evening, we realized with relief that we were at seven and that the ants must have been the last of it. And sure enough, the next ten days of guestness passed with no drama whatsoever.

But The Professor and Mary Ann arrive tonight (pillowcases already pressed!) and it seriously wouldn't faze me if the moon turns red.

Animal Planet, Italian Style

Okay, here's the obligatory mea culpa: I am sooooooo behind in my posting. EuroBimbo, my friend in Cortona, just emailed to give me shit about that ... (telling me to stop ironing and start blogging again!) Fair. Except she's the photographer in the gang, and I was waiting for HER blog to catch up so you could see some cool pics about what I've been up to for the last month. It's getting there! (You CAN click here to see pics of the amazing journey into Monte Oliveto Abbey that we both took this past month ... and, yes, I'm the friend who wasn't fazed when Bimbo & Barky were 2 hours late for lunch. Life's waaaaaaaay too short to worry about that crap.)

Today was totally an 'animal planet' kind of day. This morning, while out gardening, I heard a loud noise that sounded like a cross between a pig oinking and a duck quacking. So loud that it stopped my hoe-ing (no pun intended, but a damn funny line nonetheless!) It turns out it's a BIG MOUTHED FROG by my pond (which reminds me of The Dreamer's joke about the BIG MOUTH FROG which is only funny in person, so I can't retell it here. But it made me laugh.)

That pond (kind of more 'water retention area') by the way, has upwards of 70 goldfish in it, some of them HUGE. I'm like the new Tuscan koi farm here. Nice work if you can get it. I've always been entrepreneurial.

And then, this evening at sunset, I saw two deer eating my garden in the backyard -- a teenage girl deer and a boy deer, I think (one had antlers, though they were youngish antlers). I watched them for a while quietly ... since I don't have anything interesting enough in the back garden to really care about it was more fascinating just to have the wildlife around and watch them. City girl, I guess. That was about 2 hours before sunset, just as I was going outside to have my massacre.

Yes, I'm the now-infamous caterpillar butcher of Tuscany - perhaps you've heard of me? I discovered a whole series of 'webs' (webworms? tent caterpillars?) in the tree/shrub at my front driveway this morning when I was watering. More than 150 individual 'webs' in this young tree. Each web had more than 20 little tiny white & black worms (caterpillar larvae? pupae?) in it.

All the sources I talked to said while they weren't sure what specific species it was, that it couldn't be good to let them keep going like that (after only 2 days, that's the damage they had ALREADY done!) So I spent an hour carefully pruning each nest out of the tree. And then putting the box of the cuttings onto the firepit, listening to the crackle of five thousand caterpillar bodies and taking a little too much delight in that.... though, seriously, I did wish we had s'mores here!

(I know, I should have taken pics of ALL of this. But I was too busy playing Jane Goodall today.) Maybe tomorrow.