Category — Italy

The people I’ve met are fantastic. Simply fantastic. It can be difficult convincing them that I’m alright. Yes, I’ve had enough to eat. Yes, I’m happy. No, we don’t need to plan an elaborate day. I’m more than happy to tag along and do whatever they are doing. Really. Here’s why:

During practically every experience I’ve had in Italy, every time something has fallen-through I have ended up having amazing, beautiful, sometimes life-changing experiences. Today, my weekend hostesses, Franca, Giovanna and Vittoria wanted to take me to the sea, but when we woke up it was raining something fierce. Change of plans. So, we went to the bookstore to find a book for Gio. They didn’t have what she was looking for, so another change of plans. We wandered the streets a little, and ended up at an amazing gallery tucked away next to a church. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t for Giovanna pointing it out. After Giovanna talked with the owner a bit, he escorted us from the front galleries into the labyrinthine back galleries where some of the more interesting installations were.

One was a sculptural piece that involved a hunk of raw marble – one that had been blasted out of the side of the mountain. The artist took the raw piece and set out to carve a copy. Very, very interesting – and well executed.

The place was strange, barely finished, and vaguely reminiscent of a hospital or psych ward from a horror movie, with red painted cement floors and broken black and white tiles adorning the walls in places (although that might have been a sculptural installation now that I think about it). As we wound through the galleries, the sound of dance music got louder. “Push it, push it real good!” ran in a loop. I started to wonder if someone was working with a boom box in a back room, or if the Gio and I were about to meet an untimely end.

When we reached the final room, it was dark. We found a projector sending an image of a middle-aged woman in a brightly colored moo-moo shaking her life-sized money maker.

We chortled a little as the gallery owner explained that the project gave 3 minutes to various people to dance for the camera. He told us to sit and left us. We perched ourselves on a chaise that was against the wall opposite the screen and sat back. First one than another interesting characters came on the screen – a fairly normal looking man, a hippy dude complete with a VW bus and huge beard, and a man in a very proper suit. It became clear after about the third person that they were all being instructed from somewhere off-camera to do the steps they were doing. Waive your arms like this then step to the left. Point to your crotch and swing your hips to the music. Now slap your ass and turn around.

As we watched the entire loop of maybe six people, I became more and more engrossed. What seemed a funny, almost silly installation became really quite powerful. This dance, executed by so many different people showed their insecurities, their individualities, and their beauty. By the end of their three minutes, each person was panting, and each person was smiling. Even those who seemed most unlikely to enjoy the experience got into it.

Check out the artist. She was really great, and by the sound of it has some equally interesting ideas for new projects.

After more time looking and talking with the gallery owner about our fantastic artist-friends Deb and Sandra, we cruised past some of the churches in the area and headed back to the flat.

Lunch brought an excellent pumpkin risotto and turnip greens (we had to go online to see what the English was for turnip).

For the afternoon excitement, we talked about going to a movie, which was mildly interesting, but just as I was falling asleep on the sofa, Giovanna pulled out a double-deck of cards.

Over lunch, Franca and Vittoria were talking about a card game, Burraco. They said it was fun, but difficult to explain. Not one to miss out on a good game, I jumped up from the sofa to see what Giovanna had in mind. “Burraco!” “Will you teach me?” They all looked at me. “You want to learn?”

And it was on.

For the next two or three hours we played, Franca and I versus Gio and Vito. The ladies patiently taught me the rules, and we exchanged more vocabulary words as we played. They laughed when I shuffled, “Las Vegas” they chuckled. There was a lot of chuckling. Well, at least until I started winning. (I’m sorry, I just can’t give up trash-talking. I’ve tried, and I’m not sure I can live without it, so there it is. Franca and I won, twice. Sure, Gio changed the winning point amount so we could keep playing, but when it was all said and done, Franca and I won, won, won. Both times. Brava, Franca. Brava.)

It turns out that playing cards is a fantastic way to learn numbers as well as slang. I am now fairly confident in my ability to trash-talk in Italian. Deb and Sandra will be so proud.

Time for the movie came and went, and dinner was prepared in between hands of Burraco. We had a beautiful soup made with broccoli, potatoes and pasta. This was seriously delicious. I’ll ask for the recipe tomorrow, so hold tight and I’ll try to translate and post it.

We also had a selection of cheeses (always) which included a garfagnana specialty cheese topped with faro. This was good. I mean, really good. I’m going to try to find and bring some home, because it was on par with the Rogue Bleu that’s made by Rogue Creamery in Oregon – the cheese that’s wrapped in brandy soaked pinot noir leaves and stored in a cave. Only, it was had in Lucca with friends, so it might even be better.

I’m sure the sea would have been lovely, too, but for today I’m very happy to have learned slang over a game of Burraco!

I just got back from dinner with two of the nicest people I think I’ve ever met. We met two weeks ago on my first night here. Giovanna and Franca live in the city of Lucca, a wonderfully beautiful city that lies within an ancient wall. They live near the base of the Guinigi tower in a beautiful flat that overlooks a giant clock-tower and piazza.

I am spending the weekend in their home – an extra adventure from my day-to-day in Barga and Fornaci.

The day started with my figuring out the train schedule from Fornaci to Lucca, packing for the weekend, and seeing Sandra and Deb off for their own adventure on a family cruise. Sandra’s mom, Albertina, and I waved goodbye as the van pulled away, and then headed back into the house, as she mumbled about how I don’t speak; shaking her head and looking concernedly at me.

I pulled out a couple of words of Italian, and it seemed to make her feel a little better about me. I went upstairs with the dogs and she went downstairs to bustle around the garden.

As I finished up packing, Berti came by to say “ciao.” In Italy, you don’t just say goodbye. You say ciao, and then you talk for a while. Then you say ciao and talk for a bit longer. When you finally say ciao, it’s more like “cia-ciao,” or as Deb says on the phone “cia-cia-ci-ci-ci-ci-ciao”. The problem is that Berti and I can’t chat so much, so she came in, kissed me on both cheeks and then said ciao, looked at me, shrugged, said ciao, shook her haid, said ciao, smiled and said ciao, and then left. I took that as a good sign. I think it was a breakthrough for us.

As I went to grab my gear, and get ready to leave, I noticed it had gotten substantially darker in the house. The dogs were both firmly inside, as well. About 10 minutes before I was set to walk to the train station, the rain came. Cazzo!

Not to be daunted, I grabbed my rain pants and pulled out the rain cover I bought for my backpack. Why not test everything to its fullest on its maiden voyage? I mean seriously, why not. Everything fit beautifully.

I rounded up the dogs, picked up the keys, locked the door and headed out. The first stop was the “New York Cafe,” a nice little shop around the corner from Deb and Sandra’s that serves all manner of pannini, pizza and paste (pastry). (Update:  evidently the name of the shop is actually “Pasticceria De Servi”. “New York Cafe” is the brand of coffee they serve.  Of course.) I had been instructed in my first days in Italy that you can never go to someone’s house without bringing something. So I stopped for a bite of lunch and paste. After picking out a fantastic egg sandwich and a plate of paste, I gently packed the lovely pastries in the place I’d saved in the top of my pack just for them, and struck out to find the station, egg sandwich in hand.

Sandra and Deb had told me that the station was at a “T” in the road with big trees lining the street, and pointed in the general direction . There are a lot of big trees in Italy, and a lot of forking roads. So, after a short, slippery walk on not so wide shoulders of the wrong road, I made my way to the stazione, figured out the ticket machine (I even managed before a local could work it out), remembered to validate my ticket, and even got on the correct train (with the help of the same local who couldn’t work the ticket machine).

After a beautiful and thought-filled train ride with a load of apparently commuting high-school students, I reached Lucca, where Franca and Giovanna picked me up. Two hours and two cappuccini later (neither of which I was allowed to buy), we had attended a conference on prostitution (as in violence against women, not a how-to course), gone shopping with another friend, Vittoria; and I finally had my first Italian copy of Harry Potter e la pietra filosofale. (I am 100 percent – cento per cento – convinced that this is how I will become fluent in Italian.)

Then it was off to dinner at the house of yet another friend. It is amazing to me how open people have been with me. Not only do they open their homes for dinner, preparing vegetarian meals for a stranger, but they open the houses of their friends and families as well. A woman I met for the first time tonight asked me if I’d like to spend a few days with her daughter. Then she bought me a macchiato. Seriously, she asked Giovanna to send my phone number so we could plan the trip. Amazing.

Dinner was lovely. We spent an hour in an extended vocab lesson. I find fascinating the usage of words that sound similar – probably because I’m listening all day, trying to identify words, and noting the sounds that I hear repeated most often. This seems to be very endearing, because every time I ask a question like “is ‘fiore’ ‘outside’ or ‘flower’” I find a new person who is willing to spend a ridiculous amount of time talking with me about the language. (By the way, fiore is flower and fuori is outside or out.” They sound super similar when spoken by the people around me.)

Then we spent another hour or so eating – eggplant, zucchini, peppers, garbanzos, bread, rice, and a fabulous pair of torte, one made of apples and one made of vegetables. Eight of us sat around the table by the end of the meal. We had decided that, even though most spoke better English than I spoke Italian, it was important for me to learn. So the talk was almost exclusively in Italian. I don’t have my verb tenses sorted out yet, but everyone was super kind and super helpful as I muddled along. We shared vocab words for each and every item on the table (and some on the floor, including a fabulous doormat that had a 3-D Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs).

We left with hugs, kisses and more vocab words hurled back and forth on our way out the door.

Back in Lucca, Giovanna and Franca showed me to my private suite complete with an amazing Italian bathtub (very deep and luxurious). Then, with sly grins, they pulled out a bag of clothes. O dio! Time for a dress up party. Evidently, after my last visit to Lucca – one week ago – they put aside some clothes that they thought would fit me and suit me. I was more than a little skeptical, but after Franca put the first jacket on my shoulders, all doubt went out the window – into the beautiful piazza below.

Tomorrow when I go to Viareggio – a city on the Mediterranean sea – with Franca, Giovanna and Vittoria, I’ll look less like the American visitor in my fabulous long wool coat. And the white and navy jacket that Franca says is for summer is going to be worn long before it’s warm out. Maybe just around the house – when I’m practicing my Italian vocabulary.

Things are starting to be familiar in the little towns of Barga and Fornaci. Some of the shop workers recognize me when I walk in, and I don’t get lost every time I walk the curving streets of the hilly city. I even understood two complete sentences yesterday. Amazing.

Last night, we visited a familiar place, a restaurant with tall ceilings and exposed rock walls, and a deep-voiced owner. Six months ago I sat in that same restaurant with three new friends, my dad’s cell phone, stashed deep in my pocket the only lifeline to my family and my ride home – and to the life I was about to leave.

Six months ago!

Six months ago I owned a home, two cars, a bunch of stuff, had a steady job and a home with a wonderful woman. I had a lot of good friends who made me smile regularly and the best dog ever. And I felt lost.

Six months ago my life changed. I can’t really explain, other than to say that the deep feeling of belonging and connectedness that I found in the one day I spent here with strangers rocked my world. I was struck with the immediate understanding that the world is full of fantastic people and places, people and places that I was waiting to see.

Waiting. Waiting. And, the idea of waiting to live hit me in the gut. What was I waiting for? I like to think of myself as a pretty self-aware person (I know, insert laughter), but the justifications kicked-in. My job , my house, my life, my dog, my bank account all asserted themselves as good reasons for waiting. I heard myself saying that it would be great to travel when I retired. And in that moment, something snapped.

Six months ago, on the last day of my family vacation, I spent the evening in a restaurant with three beautiful, perfect strangers who welcomed me with open arms and open hearts. And that was enough. The questions about my life, my purpose, my place in the world, questions that plagued me for years melted away, replaced by a much simpler dialogue: “go back to Barga” and “okay, I think I will”.

Sure, a bunch of my stuff is in a storage facility, and my car is at my sister’s. Sure, my dog is living with my wonderful ex-girlfriend and I have standing offers to stay with friends whenever I need. It’s not like I joined the Peace Corps and moved to Africa.

But, it’s still a little shaking to think how little things can change someone’s world so completely. One evening of kindness and six months later I’m living with strangers who look more and more like family every time we cook together, and every evening when we say goodnight.

I hope that I will take with me the knowledge that anything, and I mean anything is possible in my life, and that kindness shown to a stranger can do amazing, powerful things.

When my family gets together, we spend our days largely eating, and talking about what we’re going to eat at the next meal. I have no idea if this is a uniquely Italian trait, or just something that follows me.

Today was a planning day. We don’t have dinner plans, so we talked at lunch about dinner. We’ll likely make “jacket potatoes” with a bag of potatoes that Sandra’s mom bought from the local fields.

Yesterday was an eating day. Sandra and Deb are putting together a very cool exhibition in the region (I’ll post as soon as info is online), and every few days they have meetings to talk about the project with potential contributors, sponsors, collaborators. Last night was a dinner meeting in Castelnuovo, just up the road in Garfagnana.

The restaurant/shop had exactly two tables: one long one that seated 10 of us (and a couple others who wandered by or transferred from the other table when their party broke up) and a second one that could probably fit 6 if it needed to. We were first to arrive, and seated ourselves in front of three great slabs of wood placed as chargers. The first of Deb and Sandra’s friends arrived, and I was introduced half in Italian, half in English, as the English-speaking visitor. We all smiled at each other, traded what pleasantries we knew in each other’s languages, and then I sat back to observe and soak up as much Italian as possible. As others arrived, the routine repeated itself.

Being the only one at the table who doesn’t speak the language is one thing. I, apparently, seem the deep, exotic observer, snapping pictures, and not the mildly thoughtful, painfully self-aware outsider that I sometimes feel. Bonus. Adding to that the fact that I’m a vegetarian who doesn’t drink alcohol, and doesn’t usually drink coffee or eat sugar, and I’m like someone from Mars. Especially in a shop that has legs of dried meats hanging in the corner.

Fortunately, my hostesses are very kind, very thoughtful women, and they made sure that the shop owner knew I am vegetarian. I’d been looking forward to the type of meal that we were about to have – one where the owner of the shop just starts bringing food, plate after plate, specialty after specialty. And, this shop specializes in local dishes. Sacks of local potatoes and walnuts sat in heaps around the shop, and bottles of wine, honey and all other manner of things lined the walls.

The shop owner, a man who clearly loved his work, and looked remarkably like the painting of Baccus on his wine cask, came over to speak with me in broken English about what, exactly, I do and don’t eat. Once we established ground rules (no fish, but yes cheese), he set to preparing dinner. First came focaccia. No, not like the kind in the states. Much, much better. Then a plate of farro (spelt) which is a regional staple.

This was prepared with oregano, olive oil, cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. It was really, really good. The meat eaters also had some kind of fish salad.

Second came smoked trout, lovingly carved at the table and passed from friend to friend.

Every dish, even those I wasn’t eating were proudly explained to me, with questions of whether I was familiar with the ingredients; whether we have trout where I come from.

Next came beans on squares of delicious, toasted bread. The olive oil that was drizzled over the beans was intense and beautifully colored. As seems to happen at meals, the surplus food ended up next to the visitor. That meant not only extra beans for me, but access to the plate with gorgeous, green olive oil – perfect for more focaccia.

Then, two fantastic “cakes,” one with rice and one with spelt. Lovely and eggy and savory. Again these ended up at my end of the table for far too long. (Side note: last time I was here, I realized on the last day, that the fabulous pastries I had been eating in the mornings were made with rice. Rice is used in a ton of dishes. After eating the rice pastries, I feel like it’s really underutilized in the states.)

The owner then came by to make sure I was alright. He let me know that he would be preparing vegetables and then “pop beans” to make sure that I would get enough to eat – you know, because I was really feeling underfed at this point. Evidently my athletic frame is cause for great concern to most of the people who feed me. “Anchora? Anchora!” is a familiar phrase at meal time. “More? More!” Pop beans are something like pop corn Nobody else at the table knew what the owner was talking about, but we were all game to try something new.

The vegetables were beautiful. They included artichokes, which are known to be some of the best in the world, as well as fennel (which is something I never know what to do with when it comes in the harvest box. Turns out it is fabulous sliced, with a little olive oil and salt).

And then it was on to the pop beans. These were excellent. I don’t really know what he did to make them, but they were definitely “popped” open and contained a good amount of olive oil. They were a hit.

After pop beans came a great wood slab of salami, sliced from various hunks of meat that still resembled the animals from which they came. And cheese. Everyone else, transfixed by the meats, passed on the cheese. I tried to decline, but Deb and Sandra know that I love cheese, and the owner wasn’t going to let me out of his shop without sampling his fabulous cheeses. Here’s a side-by-side. I really think I got the better deal.

The cheeses included a mozzarella coated in local herbs, a misto (cow and sheep milk together), and a couple of other sheep’s milk cheeses: one with balsamic reduction and one with something that resembled marmalade. These went perfectly with the several different kinds of bread on the table – including pane coto nel forno a legna.

Along the way, the table had several carafes of red wine poured from big bottles, and small amounts of an amber dessert wine.

As for dessert, we had an assortment of fantastic things. A chocolate cheesecake, some kind of pound cake that might have made me a bit tipsy, and the best thing: a nochi torta. Walnut torte. The walnuts were so delicate and the torte so fresh, I was totally absorbed.

From the other end of the table, where he was now sitting and smoking with the ladies, the owner caught my eye and asked whether I enjoyed the desserts. “Bella, i noci.” “Anchora, more!” he declared, over my objections, and the plate was passed down to my end again.

While we ate and drank, Sandra explained her project. Given over to the confidence that only comes with being surrounded by supportive friends, she smiled, joked, and commanded great attention. It’s amazing what you can understand even when you can’t comprehend. Sandra’s passion and vision were palpable – as were the enthusiasm and admiration in the room.

People continued to chatter, excited about the project, as the owner walked around the table, humming “here comes the bride” and handing out little, paper-wrapped bon-bons that he pulled from his apron pocket. He reminded me of an Italian Hagrid.

Coated in delicate dark chocolate, these little gems were an absolutely perfect end to areally great night of food. We had been eating for over two hours. We didn’t just sit and snack, we ate – for two hours. When we got home it was almost midnight – and time to plan for breakfast.

I’m posting a little later than usual today. Last night was a busy night. Sandra’s mom lives downstairs, in the apartment off the garden. When I first arrived, she was getting ready to move in with her son for a while, because of some serious work that needed to be done on one of the walls. And old, unused pipe was leaking. While that might sound like an easy job, it’s not.

In the US, I would have just bopped down and capped the pipe. Here, it’s taken a team of 3 or 4 guys over a week to do about half the job – banging and drilling every morning. The walls are made to last. They’re built of stone and brick and mortar and stuff. Many of the houses in the town are older than the United States as a country.  So, Sandra’s mom moved out for a bit while the work is being done.

Every day I try to take a little time to study one of the text books that Sandra has loaned me to use. I look at the pictures and try to pronounce the vocab words. Yesterday morning over breakfast, I was studying. “Tubo” stood next to a drawing of a pipe – the elbow of a pipe, to be precise. I thought this was funny given the work that wakes up the household at 8 am every day.

I had a great day at the studio, cleaning for 8 hours or so. It was good, but nothing really to write about, and I expressed that to Deb, wondering what I’d come up with. On the way home, Deb and I chatted a bit about the differences between Barga – the city on the hill – and Fornaci – the city at the bottom of the hill. I said how pretty Fornaci looked in the dark and mist, its lights twinkling in a friendly, seedy kind of way. Deb’s sneer made it powerfully clear that she preferred Barga and would be happy to be walking home to a place in Barga rather than driving to the bottom of the hill, regardless of how pretty I thought the view was.

When we got home, Sandra had prepared another fantastic meal. We joked about the tuna touching the mozzarella and all the cheese I eat. Sandra whined a little about how she’d rather stay home instead of driving up to Barga for a meeting. It was one of those misty nights that’s best spent in front of the fireplace. She drug her feet and stalled, and talked about playing Pictionary. Deb practically pushed Sandra out the door.

As Sandra and Deb were getting their jackets on to leave, there was a knock on the door. One of the neighbors calmly asked for Sandra to please come downstairs and have a look at something. About 2 minutes later Sandra was running up the stairs, telling us to collect as much water as we could, and mumbling something about a “casino” (a big mess). What the neighbor had neglected to mention when he so calmly came to the door is that, while prepping the wall for the next morning, he had drilled directly into the main water pipe that feeds the house. The pipe in the wall that runs through Sandra’s mom’s apartment.

It seems that there were a number of reasons this shouldn’t have happened, including that no pipe is supposed to be in the wall where it was. But It really didn’t matter. We gathered water in all the pots and pitchers and headed downstairs to help. “I think you’ll be able to write tonight. I think it’s going to be a really interesting night,” said Deb walking out the door.

Fortunately, the apartment has tile and marble floors, and has a series of rooms that step-down, eventually leading out into the garden. When we entered the dining room, we found 2-3 inches of standing water.

Tom and I grabbed brooms, and Deb went to find something to stick in the pipe (kind of like the little boy sticking his finger in the dike, but with a twist). When Deb handed the makeshift plug to the neighbor woman who was clutching a towel to the hole, the woman let go of the pipe, shooting the water directly into Deb’s face.  The water was shooting out of the pipe so hard that when Deb moved, it shot out the door and completely across the street, maybe 20 meters away.  Not letting this get her down, Deb scrounged around and came up with an elegant solution. When she came through the dining room with it, I laughed. She put together some tubing and a funnel, which she held up to the shooting water in order to direct it out the door and onto the ground in a slightly more controlled manner.

In the mean time, Tommy and I had cleared the dining room, put down sawdust to soak up residual moisture, and closed it off. That meant, however, that we had to stand in the hallway and sweep as fast as possible to keep the water away from the closed door and direct the ever-coming water into the basement, where it could make its way out to the garden. We did this for just about an hour. Nonstop. As fast as we could.

If you’re looking for a new workout, try this: turn a garden hose on full blast at the top of a playground slide that is pointing directly into your front door. Then, take an ordinary broom and try to sweep fast enough at the bottom of the slide to keep the water out of your house. Seriously, for you crossfit types, this is going to be an awesome oblique/lat workout.

In addition to offering workout tips, I’d also like to take this opportunity for a gear endorsement. My Vasque Blur Gore-Tex shoes are not only comfortable, but they held up in 3 inches of water for 90 minutes and were totally waterproof. Totally awesome.

In the end, someone who was able to patch the pipe showed up. We weren’t able to turn the water off, because someone had cemented over the external shutoff valve. Really great news. But, the guys who fixed the pipe rigged a compression patch from rubber sheeting and zip-ties.

It totally held all night. Until they started banging away again at 8am.
When we finally walked back upstairs, we sat down for a cup of tea. “You know, this is your fault. You wanted something interesting to write about.” “You’re not blameless. The house knows you want to move to Barga.” “Well, Sandra, you didn’t have to go to your meeting after all, but there was no need to make the pipe explode.”  We spent time blaming each other for the event, truly believing that we were responsible for the evening’s entertainment.

It was nice to affirm each other as powerful women (donne potente) capable of creating our worlds, but we decided that next time, we’ll be a little less passive-aggressive in our creating of things and use our powers for good.