Category — People

Have you read the book “The Alchemist”? Several people have been telling me to read it for a number of years. On my trip home to Idaho before I struck out to Italy, my sister handed it to me. It was one of those rare moments when I decided to do a bit of reading for pleasure. After the first chapter I realized that I’d tried to read the book before.  That time I ended up putting it down somewhere, where it stayed. This time, however, the book grabbed hold, and I spent the next day absorbed in it.

Somewhere toward the end, the boy in the story makes a deal with his heart, that if his heart would stop protecting itself by making him fearful of everything, he would listen to it, and really hear the messages it was sending.

I liked that idea very much, so I made the same deal with my heart. If I could be released from the daily doubts that cluttered my heart, I would listen to the little voice that whispers advice. So far it’s worked fairly well. The crippling self-doubt I’ve felt in the past is, for the most part, gone, and I’m listening and hearing. Sometimes, however, the little voice needs to yell a little to be heard over the excitement that can distract me. Today was one of those days.

My friend Franca , who is the regional secretary for the largest labor union in Italy, invited me to attend the sindacato manifestazione. Best I can tell, it’s a million person rally in Rome for the rights of workers (constitutionally guaranteed). Coolness. But a little voice wasn’t so sure. Damn. Really? But it’s a huge political rally IN ROME! I put in motion plans to go. I asked Franca for details and looked up the train schedule while cooking lunch. I’d meant to ask my friend Frank for his thoughts about the rally, but hadn’t. Maybe I’d do that in a bit…

When you’re tasting tubular pasta to see if it’s done, make sure there’s not scalding hot water hiding inside. This is a good tip, and one I shouldn’t have needed. The hot water shot into my mouth and onto my lip and chin, painting a great red stripe down my face. Damn. That sucked.

The pasta wasn’t done, so while I let it boil a bit more, I went to take care of a stray whisker (yup). I reached into my bag, feeling for the tweezers, and found a razor with its cover askew. What in the world is that doing there? It took a moment for the blood to come to the surface of my knuckle. Looking down at my red thumb I was a little miffed. What the F was going on? (Please pardon my abbreviation.)

I wrapped up my thumb and hurried back to the table to read about the rally on the union website, throwing myself into the chair. SMACK!!! I rammed my kneecap straight into the table leg – hard. Are you joking me about this?

Over the last year I’ve really tried to listen to the cues I’m being given. Today, it seems that the little voice was tired of being ignored. It had gone from an uncomfortable whisper to a full out scream. So I sat back. “What? Just what?” I was a little impatient. “Don’t go.” It wasn’t the answer I wanted. So the rational part of me emailed Frank, my local political expert, to see if I was missing something on the surface of the situation. It was totally unfair to pit him against the little voice, but he had the answer I wanted. And he had an invitation. Come to coffee and meet another writer/political thinker.

I sent a confirmation text to Franca to see if I could crash at her place after the rally, and I grabbed the car keys. I’m really lucky the little voice didn’t crash a meteor into the car on my way to Barga.

Still, I had a nice drive up, found a parking spot and managed to locate the café where Frank and Tom were sitting. It turns out that Tom really is the brilliant political thinker that Frank described. In the 5 minutes I had between Frank’s invite and leaving the house, I was able to do a quick Google search and read a piece Tom had written for the Huffington Post regarding health care. The next hour or so was consumed by rabid discussion of foreign policy, sprinkled with the niceties afforded a stranger. The guys, who clearly walk the same intricate paths they walked today with some sort of regularity, and had to keep each other at bay with “now, wait” and “let me finish,” were generous when it came to listening to the views of a newcomer. They sneered only slightly at the hyper-optimistic policy suggestions I’m prone to give.

When I left the evening it was with an updated understanding of US policy in Afghanistan, a firmed up concept for my next post, and another really interesting contact – something I would have missed out on if I hadn’t emailed Frank to ask his opinion regarding the rally.

And the little voice was quiet again. While I was sitting with Tom and Frank, I’d received a text from Franca. Giovanna’s mom was in town, so there was no place to stay after the rally. We’d have to try for next time. It made me smile.  Now I’ll have the weekend to nurse my face, thumb and knee. And to practice my listening.

There is snow in the mountains. You can see it from the balcony in the morning. My friends in Oregon are starting to talk about the ski season, and my mom is writing with snow updates.

Ryo, Luigi’s father, asked if I’d like to go with him and André, Luigi’s little brother, into the mountains to check out the snow conditions. I’m always up for new terrain, so I put on 4 layers and packed up everything warm that I brought with me to Italy (I came fairly well equipped – we’re talking the Alps here).

We started in Barga and wound our way up from 400 meters to 1500 (I think). Through quiet stands of poplar and along mountain ridges we wound, chatting about Italian driving and life in the mountain towns. The landscape was striking and, at times, startling. It reminded me very much of the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho where I grew up, except that in Idaho, you would have had to hike for an hour or so to reach a mountain ridge like the one we were casually driving along.

André, who is something like 20 months old fell asleep on the ride up the mountain, tranquilly dreaming as we drove.

We reached a village perched astride a steep ridge, and Ryo pulled over. “This is San Pellegrino. Want to have a roam around?” He stayed with the car and the child and I struck out toward an old archway and a sign to the sanctuary.

I stopped inside the church that was tucked inside the rocky tunnel, but missed the mummy (evidently there’s a mummy). I left an offering and took a holy card then headed back down the passageway that lead from the streets of the small town out onto the ridge. I fell in love with the view from the tunnel and spent quite a lot of time trying to capture it.  By the time I emerged, my hands were nearly numb.

I turned to look at a cat sitting in the alpine sun, when a little Dachshund came running up behind me. She sniffed my pants and ran up ahead into the snow on a mission of her own. My attention was captured by a placard that explained the history of the place. I walked over to it and began reading, but was interrupted by a shrill and persistent bark coming from just behind the placard. The little Dachshund was suddenly barking at me and did not appear to have any intention of stopping. Her ears were flapping as she jumped with each bark.

There was nobody around and she was raising quite a racket. So I did the only thing I could think of: I bent down and put my bare hands in the snow, made a snowball and tossed it in the air for her to catch. It was exactly what she was looking for. She ran and jumped and pounced and champed. Ball after ball I threw as the little dog danced around in utter delight. After maybe 5 minutes of this, I said “ciao, ciao” and continued along the path to look at the shrine perched at the furthest point out on the ridge.

I took pictures, admired the scenery and pondered the complex in utter silence and solitude. Until my friend reappeared. She came from below the trail and started barking again. So, my hand finally thawed from our earlier game, I reached back down and started again. She was absolutely transfixed. Every snowball was magical to her, worthy of total exploration and attention. She would thrust her face into the indentation left by a missed catch, searching out every last bit of fun. We played our way back to the arch, me tossing increasingly shorter throws to reel her in, her short legs carrying her through the snow. Before I left she chanced a tentative poke at my hand and then ran a few feet away waiting for another toss.

The cats came over to see what was up and I bid them all “ciao,” heading back through the arch, past the church and out into the town where Ryo and André were both asleep in the car. We stopped for a quick cappu and headed down the mountain to the ski slopes that were our real destination. As soon as we crossed over the ridge at San Pellegrino, there was snow everywhere, the landscape completely transformed.

Down the mountain we wound, the bare tracks of the ski slopes sliding in and out of view as we drove. It became increasingly clear that we would not be skiing this weekend. The parking lot at the bottom of the slopes where we stopped the car for lunch was completely bare, and the tennis courts below were green. Still the trip to the slopes brought us to a lovely place for lunch, where we had pasta frita (fried pasta dough) and gelato with blueberries. Fantastic.

And I learned the valuable lesson: even if the waiter says it’s pasta with funghi, confirm that it’s not also with meat. Bastard meat sneaking in places it doesn’t belong… Anyway, Ryo was kind enough to share, and André liked the meaty mushroom pasta, so it all worked out. Then we headed up the mountain for a hike to check out the snow.

Once again, my Vasque Blur Gore-Tex shoes were awesome, if a bit unnecessary. The snow, at deepest, was about 4 inches – not so good for skiing but just right for a hike and breathtaking scenery.

We headed back, collected ourselves, and started the descent from the parking lot to Barga. Along the way, Ryo brought us to Sasso Rosso , a notoriously beautiful town set into the side of the mountain, and built out of the local, pink rock. It looks like a giant grabbed a hunk of the hill, crushed it and then rearranged the pieces.

On our way from the pink town, André started to melt down. It had been 5 exhausting hours of excitement in the mountains, and he had had enough. We tried singing and little piggies. We tried peek-a-boo and cookies. Nothing worked. Something would hold his attention for a short time bringing a smile to his little face, and then the smile would fall into a tragic, gaping pit of despair, wailing about his boots, always his boots.

André has a pair of yellow wellington boots. They’re perfect for going to the horse arena, or into the mountains. He loves his boots. He loves that they are yellow. “Lello.” He calls them. Today it was:

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!”

There’s something about a child crying – I mean really crying their heart out – that has an effect on people. I think it can go one of two ways, usually. 1. A person will want to comfort the child, in order to make them stop crying. 2. A person will want to kill the child, in order to make them stop crying. When it’s a child I don’t know, it’s a toss-up for me, comfort or kill. When it’s a child I do know, though, I just laugh. I know it’s not helpful to the situation. I know it won’t make them stop. But the honesty with which a child will cry when they are truly melting-down is amazing, and André was crying with complete honesty.

We had taken his boots and socks off when we got in the car. It was warm, he had wanted them off earlier, and there was really no need for them now. Or so we thought. After the initial 5 or so minutes of negotiating about the boots staying off, we thought the situation was solved. He was grumbly and obviously tired, but so was I. We drove, sang, talked. And then it hit. Full on tantrum. It took us at least another 10 minutes to figure out that he was still upset about the boots. After some excellent kiddy translation by Ryo, he reached down, tugged a boot off the floorboards and handed it to André. Quiet. Then “two.” So I reached back, picked up the other and handed it to him.

He clutched the boots to his chest and a great, shuddering sigh came out of his little body. Ryo and I chuckled. There are times to put your foot down with a child, but this was not one of those times. If he wanted his boots, that was totally fine with us. The next 10 minutes was quiet. André flirted with sleep, his boots pulled to his body, his breath coming in great heaving gasps.

Ryo and I looked at each other and smiled.

We were fools.

“ONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONON.” Ryo was first to reach back and pick up one of the fallen boots. He had it on André’s foot in about 2 seconds while maintaining perfect control of the car on a mountain road. “Is he saying ‘on’, or ‘no?’” I asked, fumbling for the other boot. “On, I think.” André was definitely awake, and the presence of the boots was no longer enough. I jammed the other boot on his bare foot thinking how difficult it would be to get it off later.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS!”

I tried to tell him softly that they were his; that nobody would take them from him. I imagined him in therapy years later, clinging to a pair of yellow boots, talking about vague memories of a stranger in aviator glasses taking his most favorite thing in the world and how is dad let it all happen.

“DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY!” “Yes, André, I’m right here.” “DADDY!!!!!”

There was nothing for it. Ryo comforted his son as best he could, and André did his best to scream himself out of the car. I just laughed to myself.

There are times when we can communicate our wants and needs so clearly that, with a single bark, a stranger knows to throw a snowball for us. And there are times when we want something so terribly much that we want to scream ourselves to sleep. Even after we get it, the wanting is so intense that its memory won’t let us go.

When I dropped Ryo and André in Barga on the way back home, I was ready for some quiet. And I was happy for the invite from earlier in the day. “Want to come to dinner tonight?” “Sure, Ryo, that would be great. Thanks. What can I bring?”

As I’ve mentioned, I really enjoy Italian words that sound similar to each other.  Come to think of it, I really like English words that sound similar to each other.   For years, I kept a list of homophones in my underwear drawer.  They might still be there.  I’ll have to look next time I’m home.  Yes, I know I’m a freak.

Anyway, one set of words that I’ve learned is ancora (stress on the first syllable) and ancora (stress on the second syllable).  The first means “anchor” – as you would find on a boat.  The second means “more”.  I use the second word quite a lot.  When Franca and I won at Burraco, for example, “Ancora!” and we played on.  When I finish a befuddlingly good meal, “Ancora!” and my plate is suddenly full again.

Today was a day of ancora.  More great food, more beautiful places, more fantastic people.

I had no idea (my Italian is improving, but I miss some of the finer points), but Franca works in Florence!  Fabulous.  She’s the regional secretary for the country’s largest union.  Too cool.  So, Giovanna and I decided to take the bus with her and bum around the city while she worked.

When I was here last time, my family visited Florence for a day.  We knew it was a bit insane, but armed with Rick Steves’ (incomplete) guide to Italy, we got up super-early and hopped a train to Florence for a whirlwind tour.  One major thing I want to accomplish on my current leap is to experience places with locals, as though I’m living here, and not as a visiting outsider.  Today, that happened in a couple of ways.

First, we took the bus, and not the train.  Interesting.  While the train ride from Lucca was kind of dirty and took a couple of hours, stopping in a gazillion little towns along the way, today’s bus ride was just over an hour, very clean, and direct from Lucca to Florence.  We were really proud of ourselves to have figured out the train last time.  I would never have thought to take the bus.  Good tip:  take the bus when traveling from Lucca to Florence.

Second, while we tried to cram everything into one day last time, today, we picked out one exhibit and spent the rest of the day wandering around.  The exhibit was at the Palazzo Strozzi, and was about all manner of trompe-l’oeil.  Everything from the program to the paintings to the floors of the exhibit were designed to fool the eye.  The art was beautiful-  but the exhibit was marvelous.  I kept trying to step over decals that had been placed at the thresholds of rooms, making it look like you needed to step up or down to enter.

And there was an entire gallery dedicated to experiential art.  Giovanna and I took turns posing with the other optical illusions, walking through a wonky room that looked normal from the right perspective, and donning 3-D glasses to watch rotating images pop to life.

Then it was off to wander.  We grabbed a sandwich and coffee and strolled the streets of Florence.  In this off-season, the streets were very quiet and the experience was much different than last time.  The temperature was perfect, prices were really reasonable, and we were able to walk through the streets easily, just enjoying the day.

This morning, I had a pretty serious fashion crisis.  This is somewhat rare for me, but it hit today.  Over the last couple of days, Franca and Gio have outfitted me with new coats and boots, totally suitable for strolling around fabulous Italian cities.  I wasn’t able to wear anything new yesterday, because it was raining the entire time.  However, today, it looked like the rain had stopped, and so I decided to get duded up.  That meant figuring out what, exactly would go with the navy blue coat and tan suede boots.

After a wardrobe change or two, I had it worked out.  Now, walking down the streets of Florence in my hip Italian clothes, I felt like I could melt into the city.

After a while we decided to visit Franca at her office across town.  A short taxi-ride later we were sitting in her second-floor office surrounded by union slogans, books and materials.

We chatted about Franca’s work – what she does, how much she truly loves it – and when I left, I had a film about workplace discrimination and a beautiful book detailing the history of women in the union over the last century.  Bello.  But heavy.

When she finished up work, we headed back downtown for some shopping at a fabulous department store, and then a bookshop, where I picked up a super-handy Italian-English dictionary.  At this point, my little computer bag was overflowing with goodness – heavy, heavy goodness.

While we waited for the bus to Lucca, we sat in a café drinking tea and eating a chocolate-dipped cookie.

By this time in the day, I’d had 4 coffees and declined two more.  I especially love that the people I’m around not only drink coffee, in actual cups at bars, but they also take English-style tea – in pots – in the afternoon.  It’s lovely and somehow more civilized than grabbing a venti latte to go, or drinking tea all day long from a mug at my desk.  It means more stops for little coffees, and more interactions with more people.  Ancora.

Once we were back in Lucca, we sought out an open restaurant.  Many restaurants are closed on Monday, especially in the off-season, but we found one where they knew the owner and the lights were on.

As has become customary, we sat at the table identifying food items in dueling languages, deciding what we would eat.  Tonight it was gnocchi with truffle and pumpkin.  Buono.  The ladies had spaghettini arrabbiata and some kind of fish balls.  While they ate fish I had a plate of baked cheese with honey and tomato.  This cheese and honey thing that the Italians have going is pretty great.  I’d suggest trying it, but I can’t remember exactly which cheeses you’re supposed to do it with, or which honey goes best.  I’ll let you know if I get a hard and fast set of rules

Finally, it was time for dessert.  When we walked in, Franca and I rushed to the counter to look at the torte.  All manner of yummy things stared back at us.  The most interesting is a vegetable pie that has peppers and pine nuts and spinach, I think.  Tonight’s was extraordinary.  Giovanna asked for a sampling for one person, and a plate big enough for three arrived.

Franca, who pretends not to like sweets the way she pretends not to speak English, and Giovanna, who had declared herself too full, found it in themselves to help polish off the plate while we examined my little dictionary for words we weren’t able to translate during the day.

As we walked from the restaurant to their flat, a stone’s throw away, the night was magical.  We saw only one other person in this often busy city.  Very few stores had open windows, and the cobblestones of the street glistened with the memory of that morning’s rain.

“WHEN you return…” Franca had said over dinner as Giovanna nodded.  “WHEN you return we will…”  Ancora, ancora.  It’s a lovely feeling to know you aren’t the only one wanting more.

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.