Over the next few days the electricity short-curcuited frequently, and until we learned that our capacity was a mere 3000 watts, we’d turn on the two stufe (1000 watts each) immediately upon entering the house, along with a couple of overhead lights. Throw in the computer and battery chargers and “boom!”; we are in darkness.

Fumbling in the dark and cursing the teeny lock that Fausto had put on the fuse box outside of the largest house, Ralph dutifully came to the rescue each time the lights went out, sometimes two or three times in one evening. It’s common in the Italian countryside to be suddenly thrust into darkness for a few minutes. Natives take it in stride and continue doing whatever they were doing until the lights come up again, always having candles at the ready.

I was determined to use the large kitchen fireplace for the first time. I constructed a small tower of twigs and logs from the supply that Fausto had thoughtfully provided. There are few things more evocative than the sight and smell of a wood-burning fireplace with its promise of warmth, coziness, romance and history. A fire, a book, a blanket, and the leisure time to enjoy them – these, to me, spell a happy and contented life. I approached this first flame with great anticipation of peace and tranquility.

The kitchen began to fill with smoke almost immediately. Ralph padded down the stairs and rearranged the logs and twigs to conduct the smoke upwards, but to no avail. I opened the front door to allow the smoke to filter outwards, and for a while at least the room cleared. But it grew cold, and I had no choice but to bulk up with more clothes or let the fire die down. I grabbed the camera and started clicking from every angle, capturing this inaugural fire for posterity; indeed, one of the photos, later uploaded and paired with poetic good wishes for the New Year, became my 2009 Holiday e-card.

Friday, November 18, 2009

We were awakened by the front door buzzer at 10am. Fausto and Admir, a young handsome Albanian, who has done some work on the house, were outside and they were soon joined by Carlo, the geometra who I engaged eight years ago to draw up the plans and sub-contract the restoration work. Carlo gave up on me when the money was not flowing and I have not heard from him in nearly four years. But he is needed now in order to inspect the work and report to the commune so that I can get the authorization to legally inhabit the house. My premonition that involving Carlo again would lead to trouble turned out to be well founded, but for the moment everyone was friendly and smiling, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.

For someone who arises at 5:30 every morning to begin the daily ritual of reading the NY Times over coffee at Starbucks, followed by an hour at the gym in order to ready myself for a workday that begins at 9:30 and often ends after 8pm, being able to sleep until 10 feels like an almost shameful luxury. Truthfully, I believe I would have slept til noon if Fausto hadn’t rang the bell. The beds were surprisingly comfortable and the comforter did a more than adquate job of providing a cozy protective womb against the cool air. Amazingly, the morning crow of the neighbor’s rooster did not penetrate the house, a testament to the thickness and tightness of the windows and shutters. I am overjoyed and smugly pleased at myself for not having stinted on such an important architectural element.

There are many distinctive characteristics of Italian culture, one of which is the tendency to spin every problem, significant or insignificant, into the highest possible drama. Things begin at a fever pitch that creates in me - anxious to begin with - almost more anxiety than I can stand. Three years after purchasing the house, I received a threatening letter from the realtor who handled the transaction, saying I owed him money (I did not) and that he was going to seize my property if I didn’t pay up. I flagellated myself for days for being so naïve as to think that I could pull this off, this dream of mine, without paying a price. With my limited resources I was not rushing to find an Italian lawyer to dispute the charge, nor was I inclined to fight, but rather to run the other way, surrender the damn property and live my life in peace! A wise and knowledgeable friend advised me to do nothing (a novel approach for me) and sure enough, not another word was heard. Today, somewhat experienced in operatic interactions with agitated Italians, I have learned to quell my anxiety in most cases and adopt the “do nothing” mantra until more information is revealed.

So when Carlo declared that the house was far from finished enough to get the approval of the commune, I did not immediately start quaking at the thought of transferring more weak American dollars to my Italian bank account. I wasn't able to follow the conversation entirely, but when Carlo strutted over to the edge of the garden and began making dramatic gestures indicating that something from my garden (a wall, perhaps) had fallen down below on to the neighbor's property, I got the distinct feeling that some restitution was being proposed. Admir looked serious, nodding his head in rhythm to Carlo’s rapid-fire pronouncements. Fausto, too, seemed perturbed, took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair and crossed his arms against his chest. I tried not to read anything into this, instead directing my attention to a little piglet – a cinta senese - that had wandered into the garden from the neighbor’s property just below my house.

“It’s a cinta,” declared Ralph. “They’re very expensive, the little pigs with a white ring around it,” he said, causing me to speculate as to how these grimy contadini, who appeared to be salvaging garbage, could afford an expensive pig. In fact, the spread of land below my house that appeared to be their property, was enormous, with olive groves, a chicken coop and a great expanse of grass to feed the goats and other creatures that roamed their field. I glanced over to Fausto and Admir with a worried look, needing some reassurance that the pig was harmless. They found this highly amusing, but I’m not someone who typically welcomes uninvited neighbors of any species. I decide not to approach Miss Piggy, recalling the questionnaire at Customs when re-entering the U.S., asking whether you’ve touched any farm animals. I envisioned being subjected to a battery of tests to determine if I had contracted swine flu or some other contagious disease and being sprayed down with disinfectant by a snarky officer in the Customs restroom.

Later, Fausto and Admir explained their plan to me. While Admir was able to do the required work, if he began immediately, without Carlo’s agreement, the neighbors would likely make trouble; using his index finger to pull on the skin below his eye, he warned me that they will be watching everything that happens and will report any suspicious activity to the commune. So Fausto would meet again with Carlo to get an estimate of the work, and then Admir would do his own estimate – presumably much lower - and present it to Carlo, who could not help but see the discrepancy. After that they lost me but I more or less got the picture – there was a process that needed to happen before Admir could begin, one of those incredibly convoluted paths that are the order of everyday business in Italy.

In the late afternoon I met up again with Fausto at Brico to get the scaldabagna, which had finally arrived. We then drove to Todi to pick up the idraulico who would install it. He was a tiny, jovial man, accustomed to making house calls to the frazioni, or local towns, surrounding Todi. At 5pm it was already dark. On the way, Fausto pointed to a light in the distance. “La tua casa” he said, indicating that the light was coming from Le Caselle. “Vicino ma lontano”, he said to the idraulico, who responded with a hearty laugh. So near and yet so far.

That evening, we took Judy and Fausto to a brand new restaurant in Marsciano called Citrus. Like many places around here, the entrance was nearly impossible to find, despite a very visible sign only a short distance from the restaurant. It was an upscale, modern, “American-looking” place, all white walls, white furniture, lots of glass and mirrors and little other décor. Absolutely nothing Italian about it, not surprisingly, as the chef was trained by Jamie Oliver, a British TV celebrity chef. The dinner was excellent, but not what I come to Italy for. But for Judy it was a welcome change from the Umbrian cuisine which Fausto demanded almost exclusively.

At dinner, Fausto revealed to me that following our meeting that morning, Carlo had contacted a mason who had done some work on the house four years ago and whom he had never paid, to tell him that I was in town. The worker – identified to me only as MM – called Fausto and demanded his money – 1800 euro, he claimed. It seems that even though I paid Carlo, he did not pay his workers and now he set them after me to get their money. I was livid, and initially refused to pay. But Fausto said that MM had engaged a lawyer and he did not think it was worth it for me to fight back for this relatively small sum. He suggested I pay him some of the money and then wait a few months and see if the guy called back.

I swirled what was left of the maile sautéed in red wine with radicchio around my plate with a fork while contemplating the injustice of the situation. My decision to cave was based solely on the knowledge that MM would continue to harass Fausto, not me, and that was unacceptable. I was falling into traps that had been laid for other stranieri; the locals had concocted myriad ways in which to separate foreign homeowners from their money, assuming them to be not only rich but ignorant of Italian law and customs. In my case, ignorant, yes; rich, hardly.

November 2009

November 12, 2009

T,S.Eliot may have declared April the cruelest month, but November, in my opinion, can be infinitely crueler. November in Umbria is damp, chilly, windy and enveloped in dense fog, that sometimes lifts in the early afternoon, but is often followed by icy rain that soaks the ground and makes driving even more treacherous than usual, especially when navigating the hill towns of Italy. Not the ideal time for a visit, but it was the first time Ralph and I were able to travel together and I figured it might be a good time to get work done without the distraction of the seductively beautiful weather that inevitably leads to long lazy afternoons and evenings of al fresco eating and drinking.

The first order of business, given the chill, was to stop at IKEA and get a comforter for the bed. But with only a vague idea of the Roma Nord location, we managed to miss the highway exit. Plan B was to look in Marsciano before going up to Le Caselle. Judy had mentioned that the mist was thick in Umbria but traveling up the autostrada the sky was bright with sun and the foliage still green. Approaching Terni the fog appeared to be rolling towards us, the distant hills largely obscured. We stopped at the Conad store in Marsciano to get some provisions – an espresso coffee maker, wine, cheese, coffee and milk, cereal for breakfast – and then headed to Todi.

Ascending the road to Le Caselle, we eventually rose above the fog, as if a magical land had suddenly opened up. A land of sun and warmth, greenery and silvery olive trees, leaves ruffling in the gentle wind. I called Judy to tell her how lucky I felt to have arrived on such a gorgeous day. She didn’t know what I was talking about; down in Collepepe, just a few miles away, it was damp and gray.

The welcoming committee was not there when we arrived, but the neighbor’s front yard was overflowing with even more junk than I remember. Apparently someone in the family is a metal worker, and, as Ralph reminded me, no one here throws anything away, particularly if it can be reconditioned and sold. Rusty machinery, ancient car parts, old porcelain toilets, stones and wood are all useful commodities, and if one is not concerned with aesthetics, the garden is a perfectly adequate substitute for a shed or garage.

A car was parked in the midst of the very narrow public road that circles the borgo, denying access to my house with our Fiat Bravo. The contadini are used to having Le Caselle to themselves and for the moment I don’t wish to make myself unpleasant by asking them to move their vehicle. Besides, the path is so narrow that I'd have to fold back the car mirrors and proceed with extreme caution to avoid brushing against the houses on either side.

It feels like an achievement to have arrived here, intact, on this glorious day. In total, from my apartment in New York to this spot, it has taken more than 15 hours. In another sense, it has taken more than eight years. Even in November the grass is full and a saturated green – likely the result of a wet autumn - not at all patchy as it sometimes is. Entering the house my eyes are drawn immediately to the stairs – the stairs that I ordered on my previous trip and were installed after I left. I can now go upstairs without going outside! For me, this is a milestone of huge significance. They are the exact color wood of the kitchen cabinets which stand to the side. They’re quadrant, not spiral, meaning that the edges are angled rather than curved. The overall effect is what I can only describe as exceedingly handsome and somewhat artful.

Fausto has provided us with two small electric stufe, or space heaters, one for downstairs and one for upstairs. Later I will decide whether to buy a device for temperature control that will provide both heat and air conditioning. Electricity is expensive in Italy and I am not a fan of air conditioners, preferring ceiling fans. Although a scaldabagna , or hot water heater, was ordered, it has not yet arrived at the store, so for tonight at least, we will not be able to shower. In the morning I will heat water on the stove to wash my face, as I have done periodically over the past 20 years in my rent-stablized New York apartment in a comparatively young 100-year-old building.

After setting up and dressing the newly purchased beds - still wrapped in plastic – and placing the Umbrian copreletto matrimoniale over both to create a large “double” bed (there are only two sizes of beds in Italy – singolo or matrimoniale; you are either single or married) , it is time to toast our arrival.

A little metal folding table is transported to the garden and covered with a thin airline blanket. Along with two folding chairs, Ralph brings out a wooden cutting board upon which sits a loaf of fresh unsalted Umbrian bread and a large block of cheese. Some olive oil, a bottle of the sublime local Sagrantino di Montefalco, and two small glasses complete the tableau. The sun is strong and we feel incredibly fortunate to have this temperate weather that enables us to sit outdoors in November in just our sweaters. As always, the panorama is exquisite and justifies the effort involved in getting here. In fact, it’s hard to recall the details of just a few hours ago, when we got stuck between two parking gates trying to exit the airport this morning, so quickly does the scenery and ambiance begin to work it’s magic.

In the evening we go to Todi, taking the tram from Porta Orvietana. The little park at the top is something out of a movie set, at night eerily tranquil and theatrically lit with ornate street lamps. At Pane e Vino, a small ristorante, we sit upstairs with only one other occupied table of two women chatting in Italian. A few days later, we discover that one of the women is someone who we were scheduled to have dinner with while here - a friend of Ralph's friend, Nancy - but had only met by phone. Such is life in November 2009, in this small Italian town, where two Americans can be so easily identified by someone they have never met.

October 8, 2009



More than eight years after purchasing my little house, I will finally get the chance, in a few weeks, to sleep in the tiny bedroom and make morning coffee on my little stove! The prospect is not only thrilling but likely to be chilling as well; my trip is scheduled for November 11th, a time of year when, as Judy says, the "Umbrian killer chill" takes over the region. With no radiators, I need to purchase a "stuffa" - a sort of space heater - a down blanket and serious sweat socks in order to make it through the night. Despite the fact that the dollar is at an all time low and airfares at a record high, I've decided that I need an Italy fix, and, more importantly, I need to break in my miniature villa, my petite palazzo, my rustica. I need to spend a night there.

In order to legally "inhabit" the house, a certificate is required, one that can only be issued through a geometra. Fausto has paid a visit to Carlo, whose wife has informed him that I owe them money, apparently for the horrific, poorly constructed staircase leading from the terrace to the garden; a staircase that was built, but the cost of which was not included in the original estimate. I consider what might happen if I don't pay up: a penalty, a serious fine, the rest of my life in prison? Will anyone know if I spend one night or perhaps two at the house? This is Italy! Amanda Knox has been on trial for more than a year. Yes, yes, that's a murder trial and this is potential construction code violation but I'm a foreigner and this is a country that takes its real estate and its draconian customs seriously. The commune rules!

A Pig out of Place

A breezy, sun-soaked September afternoon finds me at a pig sagra. Il Buco, a restaurant in Nolita featuring Umbrian cuisine, strives to bring a little Italy to America with this annual pork roast, attended by serious foodies from around the city. It's Rosh Hashannah, the Jewish New Year. I wonder if this is a coincidence or some twisted plot designed to weed out the irreverent, the sinners, those members of the tribe who prefer cingale to challah.
in downtown Manhattan

The air on Bond Street is thick with smoke, intense and overwhelming. There's already a critical mass lining the sidewalk, desperately seeking panzanella, homemade sausage and porchetta sandwiches. The enormous roaster is open for viewing, the unfortunate boar drawn head to hoof, stretched on a spit, rotating for the pleasure of spectators holding video cameras and canon elphs.

Therein lies the problem. In the Italian countryside, a pig roast is a normal Sunday occurence. Sagras are organized and attended by neighbors and include music, activities for children, raffles. The food is inexpensive and delicious. This is a promotional event for the restauarant, $20 a plate, $8 for a glass of wine. No refills. It's a little depressing, confirming for me the absolute futility of trying to duplicate the Italian rustic experience in mid-Manhattan. At least Florent, the bygone French diner in the meatpacking district, had included a petting zoo and a Marie Antoinette look-alike contest in their annual Bastille Day celebration. Come on, Il Buco; a little imagination, authenticity, or just plain fun, is in order.

Scale

An email from Judy:

hi kiddo
been meaning to write but its been so f... hot noone has the energy to do anything.... been working, which after Zoe and the baby is a piece of cake!!!!!

good news though................... you now have inside stairs!!!! they were delivered and installed on thursday..... we also picked up the beds so they too are in the house................ unfortunately (you knew all this good luck something wasn't going to be right!!!) the toliet is still pending!!! not sure when hopefully before sept... which means at the moment no water or gas!!!

one more thing......................... your property......... do you have the papers that explain exactly what you own........... the exact borders etc............. to make a long story short. the house you bought and are now redoing was once the home of a relative of faustos. during a conversation with him this week he mentioned that if you go around the road that circles your garden and under your house built into the wall there is a hugh cantina that should belong to you. but again we don't know if in your bill of sale this was specified etc. etc. etc. its something that you'll need to look into when you get back here.

am assuming that you are swamped with work so when you get a free moment write. will have fausto send the pictures of the stairs this wekend...xxxxx judy

I am delirious with joy! I have stairs! I can now go up and down in my house without going outside. My joy is equal to the frustration I feel at not being able to see the stairs in person. But this is such a milestone that I also feel tremendous satisfaction at having finally reached this point. And perhaps this news from Judy is true; maybe my property is bigger than I thought. This kind of thing happens in Italy where houses have been bought and sold with a handshake for centuries and boundaries and property lines are blurry. After all, if I am to believe the realtor that sold me the house, it was built in 700, making it nearly 1400 years old. In all that time I assume it has gone through many transformations, shrinking and expanding as it passed through the hands and lives of the various owners who laid claimed to it.

I'm not even sure what it might mean to find a cantina below my house; would I have a subterranean room? Is that where I would keep the wine made from the grape vines that don't yet exist on the property? And what would be the cost of bringing a cantina back to life? I've already got two houses and a garage that need restoration and no money to complete the task. An embarassment of riches, so to speak.

Tasting

I spent the better part of today in the elegant tasting room of one of New York's top caterers, along with the public relations team from Versace USA. We are collaborating on a gala event with the famous fashion house and part of the process is menu selection. A table has been set for us, adorned with creative touches designed to impress - a pure linen table runner, several crystal goblets (one each for water and red and white wine), and a dizzying assortment of utensils. Ten fantastic hors d'oeuvre selections - from truffled eggplant with green olive aioli to cauliflour-reggiano flan and brown butter jus served in an actual egg accompanied by a teeny spoon - are offered up in a variety of imaginative presentations, followed by two entrees and three different desserts, one more luscious and mouth-watering than the next. Having watched my dress size go up after two weeks in Italy, I decide to take small bites, forgo the free-flowing wine and pass on the tantilizing cheddar biscuits with three butter choices that are parked next to my plate.

With this array of delicacies before me, I am struggling to get rid of my recently acquired stomach, or at least slow the growth. Next to the Versace team - young, bronzed Amazons in platform stilettos and tight fitting dresses - I feel like the house mother, hiding her tummy under a mumu. One of the girls confesses to me that the bottle of wine she consumes nightly is making her fat (or what passes for fat in the fashion world). She looks extremely thin to me.

I would trade all of this splendor for some of my gorgeous figs. I converse with the caterer, who travels to Greece annually, about the superior quality of home-grown, fresh-picked mediterranean fruit. Figs, olives, cherries. All of this fancy stuff is fine, but a steady diet of it makes for poor nutrition and leaves you longing for something pure and simple. That's why rich people take holidays in Sardegna, Positano and Mykonos; to get a taste of how the people in these places live, and especially how they eat. What they find is uncomplicated cuisine and exquisite ingredients.


How do I reconcile my life in New York with my burning desire to be in Italy? It seems absurd to complain about spending my days among some of the world's most beautiful art, organizing elaborate events for a world class museum. If you have to work for a living, it's certainly not the worst job to have. And if there aren't a lot of people who would kill for it, I'm guessing there are a few (some on my staff) who wouldn't mind if I disappeared so they could fill the vacancy.

It's not that I want to live there; 365 days a year in Todi, or any part of Italy, would wreak havoc on my nerves and my waistline. For better or worse, I am a New Yorker, one who loves the diversity of the population and the variety of options in every conceivable category that comes with living in New York. My city-bred intolerance for long lines and long waits makes me a poor candidate for full-time residence in Italy.

What I long for is a good chunk of time, maybe three months, from April through June, or September through November. Enough time to make the transition from American Urban Woman, to one more in tune with the pace of Italian rural life. What typically happens is it takes three days or so to get over jet lag and begin to feel comfortable with the strange rhythm produced by the mid-day shut down; then just as I start to get into the groove, a sort of panic creeps in, when I realize that there's only another week before I head back to the U.S. How will I possibly do everything that needs to be done? And how soon will I be able to come back and do this again?

Back in the U.S.A.

It's not unusual to return from a trip with souvenirs, and mine include hand-painted ceramic wine corks, bottles of grappa and vin santo, and a curious rash that has invaded my legs and torso. My first thought was that this came from the garden - perhaps poison ivy. The rash first appeared in Italy, then vanished for a day or two before re-emerging on my second or third day back in New York. An emergency dermatologist visit had my doctor prescribing an anti-itch creme and some medication to help me sleep. Among other things, this afflication has reminded me of the potential hazards that lurk in any garden, and the need to protect oneself, even while blissfuly surveying the extraordinary landscape view from an Italian garden.

Back in New York I am a junkie for the Italian experience. The newspaper never fails to provide a brief fix. There is always some fresh story of the buffoonish president Berlusconi, today having shrugged his shoulders (in that quintessential Italian fashion) when accused of palling around with prostitutes. "I'm no saint", he says, and the Italians love him for it. Earlier this week, a new (at least to me) strain of crime family, the 'ndrangheta, described as "a mob organization based in Italy's southern Calabria region" was identified as owners of a cafe on the Via Veneto, scene of the Fellini film "La Dolce Vita".

Another story features a group of convincted criminals in a maximum-security prison in Volterra who have formed a theatrical company called "Compagnia dela Fortezza, named after the fortress that houses the jail where the convicts are imprisoned. Right now they are doing Alice in Wonderland. The article is accompanied by a photograph of the inmates in heavy commedia make-up, elaborate wigs and tutus. Turns out more than half of Italy's prisons have theater programs; I am surprised that it's only half of them. There is no more theatrical personality than the Italian, inventors of opera, commedia dell'arte and Anna Magnani. I love these stories; they remind me that while the rest of the world goes global Italy remains provincial. That is its charm.

Ralph prepares a dinner of fresh bufalo mozzarella from Agata and Valentina (the very best in New York, and believe me, we've tried them all), sliced vine ripened tomatoes, grilled asparagus and a crisp Pinot Grigio, followed by chilled, sliced peaches and strawberries which we splash with Vin Santo brought back from my trip. We slice up some crusty Italian bread and dip it in Umbrian olive oil. After dinner we watch the Italian news channel, even though neither of us knows the language well enough to understand the rapid fire speech of the on air reporters. The newscasters are much sexier than their American counterparts - the women especially are provacatively dressed and bejewelled, and deliver the news in an almost defiant manner - how can I describe it? It's like listening to a dominatrix.

L'ultimo Giorno

The last day is the most difficult. Fausto and I went to the district office of water control to arrange to have my water bill paid automatically from the bank account. On the advice of friends, we arrive early, since the line forms quickly and the wait can be considerable.

We are there a half hour before the office opens and already there are five people before us. The waiting area is small and not air conditioned. Everyone is fanning themselves with a hand fan or booklet or whatever is available. The topics of conversation are the heat and the long wait. Fausto and I manage to converse despite the language difficulty. There are two categories of women here ; the elderly nonne, all of whom wear sunglasses by Fendi, Versace or some other Italian luxury brand, support hose and orthopedic shoes; and the younger sexy type, dressed to show what she has to offer. There is a young woman in her 30’s with platform heels, a very short one-piece skirt/tank top combo and white rimmed sunglasses, dangling earring. Her hair is dyed an unnatural shade of orange.

There are two small offices and when one’s turn is called, you go into the office and do not emerge before at least an hour. What could be taking so long? When our turn is up we find out; it’s not the business at hand that takes so much time, but the intermittent phone calls, the bathroom break, the time out to deal with some unrelated matter. We are told that in order to arrange to have the bank pay my bill, we must arrange directly with the bank and not here. But so the trip is not a complete waste, I ask I can pay my current bill in cash, and I am able to do so.

Following this episode, I drive to the Deruta branch of my Italian bank. Rather than driving the 40 minutes to the bank where my account sits, I think it will be easy for me to write a check at another branch and get some money for last minute expenses, since I’ve run out of cash. I discover that getting money from this branch is not so easy. Many years back, this account was opened by someone who was helping my realtor and it is her name that is the authorized name on the account, even though the account is under my name. So she is the authorized person to make withdrawals at this particular branch, not me. Even Judy’s name is on record as being able to withdraw funds. I show them my passport, but they tell me that they cannot cash a check for me.

This for me is the ultimate ridiculous Italian experience. I show my passport, with my photo. I tell them this is my last day in Italy and I don’t have time to go to Ponte San Giovanni. An officer is brought into the situation and after much explanation, phone calling, a call to the P. San Giovanni branch to fax a copy of my signature, I finally am able to withdraw 200 euro from the account, exactly five minutes before the bank closes for lunch. Everyone at the branch is so happy that this is resolved successfully they cheer, and I fully expect them to open a bottle of wine to celebrate.

I hurry to Todi to purchase a copriletto, or bedspread, that I had seen a few days ago. It is simple, beautiful, washable and affordable, things not so easy to find here. My last day at Le Caselle is sad. I don’t want to leave. There are several trees with obviously dead branches and I hack away at them with the rake. Branches are falling all around, helping to sculpt the view. I save all of the dead wood to burn in the fireplace on my next trip. Fausto arrives and we talk about a variety of things, what kind of pavement is best, what sort of fence to build, how to do the ballustrade on the internal staircase. There are two small sprouts of grape plants in the garden and Fausto suggests connecting them with a metal arch and allowing them to grow around it. I think this is a great idea, and the garden begins to take shape in my mind.

In the evening, against my better judgement, I go with Judy and Fausto to a barbeque at the home of one of their friends near Assissi. In the end, I’m happy I went, since the both the company and the food are great. We are at an agriturismo owned by Vickie, an Australian married to an Italian, her neice is visiting from Greece, a friend Sabra is from England - each one of these meals is a microcosm of the new global society.

Mellow Monday

The most precious time I spend here is at Le Caselle, getting to know the house and the land. Today is just a gift, a day with no time constraints, when I can look at a window and imagine a tableau. Simplicity is the word I keep coming back to. This is a "rustica", not a palazzo, so while I am attracted to the ornate aspects of Italian design, what is appropriate here is the basic, the muted colors, the various shades of green that color the garden. The materials - stone, iron, wood - that define the rustic nature - are what feels right at every turn.

What a wondrous world we live in where we can be connected to thousands of miles away with a cellphpone or a computer! Just fifty years ago a phone call across continents was not something to be taken for granted by the average person.. And computers were not even part of the collective consciousness. Perhaps there was a Leonardo da Vinci-like person somewhere who saw possibilities that might become actualities. But for most people, still trying to comprehend the concept of space travel, this kind of communication did not enter into their minds.

This morning I awoke at around 5:30 - the same time I awaken in New York. There is not much to do here at 5:30 so I shower, eat breakfast and take a walk. The road behind Piedicolle is serene and affords the "bella panoramica" of a hill town. Wealthy people are constructing homes up here and I study the details to see if there is anything I can translate to my little house. Suddenly two bear-like animals cross the road ahead and I realize that these are maiali, a boar that is distinct from the cinghiale, and which look something like a hybrid bear/pig. They are hefty and heavy, but cross the road swiftly. They make me think of my friend Jane and a trip we took nearly ten years ago when we rented a house near Siena and encountered some local boars one day making a mad dash across the road in front of us as we drove up to the property.

It's still early so I go to Ali Blu for capuccino and then reutrn to Pidicolle to sit in the local park. This time of the morning is very quiet. No one is out except the person assigned to clean up from last night's festivities at the soccer game. He is an elderly man wearing shorts and a baseball cap and goes about his work very methodically. I ask him if it's okay for me to sit here and he smiles and nods his head.

I have not been able to find my phone since last night. I head for Judy's in the morning thinking that I left it there. The phone is not at Judy’s but she suggests I look in the car. “I have turned the car upside down,” I say. “It’s not there, it’s not at Piedicolle”. After misplacing nearly everything during this trip, have I finally lost something. I go over in my mind the steps needed to replace the phone and I get a headache. Nothing is easy. Judy says she’ll look in the car, even though I know it’s futile. Of course she finds the phone stuck in the pocket of one of the doors. Once again, I have been spared.

Whoever will be the first person to stay at Le Caselle will need things to cook with, so I go to the discount store in Marsciano and buy a menagerie of pots and pans, covers (sold separately), utensils, cutting knives and a cutting board, a cheese grater, scissors and colander. The whole thing costs about 49 euro, a considerable bargain. This will do until I can decide exactly what kind of cookware I really need or want. Maybe in the end this will really be enough.

I buy two bottles of wine and some white paint to re-do the mirror that came with the bathroom sink and cabinet, and drive to Le Caselle. By the time I get there it is 2pm and time for lunch. I have purchased a folding table to complete the terrace dining capabilites and unload everything, cover the table with a colorful cloth and settle down for lunch. After several muscular attempts I am unable to open either of the wine bottles. It’s amazing how desperate one can feel about the inability to open a simple wine bottle. I call Ralph. He suggests I ask one of the workers in the borgo to open one bottle and give him the other as a thank you. I am reluctant to establish this kind of relationship , but decide that Ralph is wise in this area. So I take a breath and walk two houses down and call out “Ciao”! “Bisogno ayuda” I say, lifting up the wine bottle. The young man tries but can’t get the cork to loosen. He calls for another worker. “bisogno ayuda” I say again” and hold out the other bottle “Per tu”, I say. “Per noi?” he asks, as though he can’t believe I’m offering him a bottle of wine for his assistance. “Si,” I say. With little effort he opens my bottle and then asks for the corkscrew back to open his. He smiles and thanks me. “Saluti”, he says as he puts the bottle to his mouth, raises his head and drinks.

I call Ralph back and thank him for his good advice.

Il Tradizionale e La Contemporanea

I have found a new place for my morning capuccino, my Starbucks in Italy. Ali Blu is situated right on E45, the main road through Umbria and is an unlikely place to enjoy a morning brew. But newly renovated with lots of outdoor tables, it's my perfect place from which to plan for the day. Following breakfast is the daily pilgrimage to the internet place. Staying in touch with work means daily trips to Marsciano for internet connection. I spend a long time there this mroning, checking emails, finding a New York Times article on sagras to send to Judy's son -in-law, uploading photos on to the blog, and not caring at all that I was missing a warm sunny morning.

At 11 I meet Judy and Fausto at Brico to purchase the toilet, toilet seat and cassetta. When we need help there is not a salesperson in sight (just like the polizia). Fausto tells me he is going to install the toilet himself since he's been unable to get a reasonable estimate for the work. In addition to the big items, there are a dizzying number of accessories to purchase for the various water connections - tubes, bolts, funnels and other totally mystifying items.

In mid-day I return to Piedicolle to change clothes for the evening, which includes an exhibition opening in Deruta. In Deruta's centro storico I find Judy and Wyatt trying their hand at painting ceramics and the entire street alive with festivities, tourists, outdoor dining, and of course the astounding beauty and variety of majolica displayed in the shop windows. It is a trip back to the renaissance, to the most lovely artistic tradition. There is a tent in which potters are working from designs that are posted on the wall. They are professionals of a time-honored art, using every muscle in their bodies to shape the clay as it spins, slapping on water to keep it maleable. It's a truly remarkable sight.

Also tonight is the opening of 4X5, the exhibition of contemporary majolica organized by Grazia Ranocchia. Gianni Cinti, Grazia's friend who I met in New York, has designed part of the exhibtion and is there with his partner, Gianmarco, for the opening. For Deruta, it is a lavish affair with a sizeable crowd, including the mayor, his chest puffed out with pride and importance. There are remarks by Grazia, by the art professor at the local school, and by the mayor himself, the latter two addressing the audience as if it were a ceramics class and a crowd of voters

This is the contemporary take on majolica and there is so much creativity here! Ceramic clothing, including bustiers and sandals with ceramic hardware; deconstructed ceramics featuring the elemental powder from which ceramics are made and personal interpretations; seeds and flowers from which perfumes are made set in artistically arranged ceramic bowls; a "curtain" made of suspended discs of gold-painted ceramic stones that make gentle sounds when they are stroked. Gianni, in his spectator shoes and bow tie, has taken a gorgeous shirt he designed for Gianfranco Ferre and suspended it over one of his paintings laid flat on the floor below, covered with charcoal and displayed against a large fleur-de-lys scarf. The effect is a drama of contrasts, black and white, disciplined and wild, organized and messy. I love this broad range of possibilities.

There is a lovely reception elegantly presented with substantial food and Umbrian wine. Gianmarco and I discuss the difficulty of doing this kind of exhibition in a place where no one really cares about such things. The locals are lazy and don't understand the potential of a show like this, the possibility that it could travel elsewhere if there was some sponsorship money, and the necessity of allowing more than one day to put it together! He said that when they arrived yesterday to help set it up, there was not even a pair of scissors to be found. Everyone donated their services, so there was no incentive to take it too seriously.

Back in Piedicolle there is a tremendous crowd. I inquire at the circolo and am told that the festivities are due to a futbol (soccer) game in the field. Sure enough, there are two local teams playing, but the crowd, food and drink seem out of proportion to the action. I think everyone is just happy to have some excuse to sit outside, create a picnic under the stars and have a cantina set up where they can purchase bottles of wine. I sit for a while watching the game, and the people around me, for the night is calm and cool and peaceful.

Girasoli

The sunflowers continue to amaze. There is something anthropomorphic about them. They are like a crowd at a rock concert, standing thousands together with their broad hungry faces turned to the source of light and heat. In the early evening with the sun in retreat, heads drooped, they resemble grief-stricken mourners at a state funeral. Finally, as the season passes, the petals fall back, stems weaken and the once regal stems fall over like the cool aid gang at Guayana. You don’t see a sunflower alone here, they exist in masses only, and therein lies their particular fascination, because as a group, in a field, they are so much more seductive than any one flower alone.

Fine La Settimana

Fine di Settimana

The weekend begins with Friday here. Some businesses are closed and others close for lunch and don’t re-open.. Any business needs to be done in the morning. So I head back to Corciano to return the faucet I bought by mistake, having forgotten I had already purchased one.

Some of the small Italian towns – called paese, I was told last night by Massimiliano – have the most curious names. Madonna shows up a lot, in various guises….my favorite is Madonna di Mezzestrada, Madonna in the Middle of the Street, or Middle of the Road, or Half Road, I ‘m not sure which. Many of the names sound almost identical….Marsciano, Marschiano, Ponte Naia, Ponte Nuova, Ponte Rio, Colvlaenza, Collevalenza. And some of the names are so lyrical you almost have to sing them – Montecastello di Vibio, for instance, which very appropriately, has a tiny theater that stages musical concerts throughout the year.

But this morning I am in Perugia and passing the Cavallo in Ferro (Iron Horse) exit towards Brico. I successfully return the faucet and receive a cash refund, very proud that I completed this transaction without help. On the way back I am about to enter a traffic circle when the car behind me hits the back of my car. Apparently I am about to have the Italian car accident experience and I already count myself fortunate that it’s such a mild one. Given the way Italians drive it’s remarkable that there are not more accidents or worse ones more frequently.

I retrieve the rental car documents from the glove compartment in order to find an emergency number. The other driver concedes that the fault was his and examines my car with great relief, remarking that the dent is so slight. He is clearly worried and wondering if I am going to claim some personal injury. I assure him that the damage is not bad and that I am not hurt, but that it’s necessary to report the accident in any event. I am told that there is a form to fill out and although I’m not able to locate one in my car, Mr. Vencenzo conveniently has one on hand. I wonder how often this happens to him. We got through the process in a very civilized manner, each filling out our portion of the form. I do however, take a photo of his license plate just to be on the safe side. When we are done, he rips off a copy for me and shakes my hand, ascertaining once again that there is no personal injury, and noting that on the form. I am to give this to the rental car company when I return my car next week.

I am surprised by the ease and civility of the process. Of course , there was not a police car in sight (never there when you need them but often when you want to avoid them), and drivers all around us were honking horns and urging us to move further on to the curb. I return to my car and without missing much of a beat, head on towards Piedicolle for lunch.

At the moment I am enjoying a relaxing late afternoon on my new lounge chair and the new landscape view I have created by chopping away at some of the overgrowth at Le Caselle. It did occur to me while I was pruning that a local might think me savage for just chopping away at anything that blocked my view. I am a city girl, so I don’t know my weeds from my healthy plants and I have no idea what’s going to turn into a flower unless it’s already there. I know there’s a huge rosemary bush that’s out of control, so I snip it back, figuring that there’s only so much rosemary that one can use and in any case it will grown back in no time. I love the terrace, the only drawback being that I can see all too clearly how much work needs to be done in the garden. I would so much love to be looking at something further along in the process, but then I remember that I was in a car accident today and I am lucky to be here at all. So who am I to complain. All in good time.

Thursday July 9, 2009

Technology is the bain of my existence, especially here, having brought all sorts of electronic devices with me to try to make life easier only to find a multitude of complications. To begin with, leaving the apartment each morning takes an hour, while I try to determine which devices I will need to take. Each device has a charger, and since most of my equipment is American, I have to make sure I have an adapter on hand at all times. Today’s challenge begins with my cell phone. I have to add money to my prepaid service and Ralph has given me his phone chip to add money to his as well. Somewhere in the process I have locked myself out of my cell phone by entering the wrong PIN three times in a row. Even Fausto, with 25 years of service in the phone company, is unable to help. Did I mention that the cell phone is out of juice, so while I can’t get into the phone to make a call, it still needs to be charged.

My camera battery also needs to be charged, but the charger is at Judy’s. When I get there in the am her daughter and son-in-law are still asleep so I can’t go into the bedroom to get the charger, which I left on shelf on my last trip.

In anticipation of my daily trip to the internet place, I must also be sure to have my flash drive with me. And my computer needs to be re-charged which I prefer to do at Le Caselle so I’m not utilizing Judy’s electricity and costing her money. Then there are the car keys and the house keys, which are not strictly speaking technological devices, but in my head I categorize them as hardware, so they get thrown into the mix.

All of the strange Italian customs converged on me today to remind me that I am not in control here. My plans for the day were foiled when, already in Todi, I discovered I had only one eighth of a tank of gas and all of the gas stations in the area were on strike. Each station I approached had a sign saying “Chiuso” (closed) followed by an explanation of the two-day work stoppage. Quickly I had to decide what to do with the miniscule amount of gas left in my tank. Corciano, to return the faucet I mistakenly purchased at Brico, was out of the question. That was a good quarter of a tank away. Le Caselle was questionable – it was close enough, but what if I miscalculated and got stuck up on Monte Peglia with an empty tank and only the weird neighbors to rely on for help. Was I doomed to spend the entire day in Piedicolle , and if so, how would I pass the time; sitting outside near the circolo under the scrutiny of the local nonne? Or within the cool stone walls of the apartment, missing what turned out to be a beautiful sunny day? A real dilemma when one has only a few days left in Italy.

Suddenly I remembered that just yesterday I had gotten 20 euro worth of gas near Marsciano, so perhaps not all of the gas stations were on the Wednesday-Thursday strike. I decided to try to make it back to Marsciano, which would use up most of the available gas. I went back to the same station and found it functioning as usual. So apparently only the stations in Todi were on strike and only for two days. With the day now opened up to me I head up to Izzalini to a wonderful mercato with a huge warehouse full of antiques.

I want everything. But this is just a piccolo casa, a small house, so I have to be careful not to clutter it up. In particular I fall in love with a white wrought iron outdoor table with two folding chairs. I decide to wait until I have looked around more. So I take lots of photos and measurements and buy nothing. I speak with the owner about the poor economy. Everyone is suffering here because Americans are not traveling.

Lunch is al fresco on the terrazzo at Le Caselle. I long for the day when I can move the table (once a have one) to the garden under a pergola and grill some bistecca on the forno. The urge to barbeque is not just an American trait. Italians love their carne. Especailly the men, who are definitely a throwback to an earlier time. If a woman appears to have any sexual juice left in her Italian men look at her as fresh meat. They assume you are open to getting laid – by them – unless they are told otherwise.

In the evening I go to Al Leone in Collazzone for dinner. It’s a modest place high on a hill with outdoor talbes and a good, affordable menu. The best deal is the pizza for 6 euro, and a half-litre of wine for 4. I run into Judy’s doctor, Emo, who comes to give her vitamin shots every Tuesday and in exchange she makes a multi-course pranzo for him and his son Andrea who works in the local pharmacy. Emo speaks no English, but is very welcoming, inviting me to sit at the table with him and his friends who have mostly finished eating. I show Emo the rash on my foot which I suspect may be poison ivy, but he purses his lips and pronounces it from some "animali", so it's probably just an insect bite. The men are all ages and some speak only a tiny bit of English, so conversation is a struggle. But my Italian improves each time I have to converse this way so I don’t complain. One by one the men say goodnight and I am left with Massimiliano, who apparently thinks because he’s the last man standing that he must pay for my meal. I vehemently protest, even finding the owner and forbidding her to let him pay. At the end of the meal I am given pnna cotta, compliments of Massimiliano, a perfect Italian gentleman.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

You don’t really know a lover until you have felt every curve of his body, just like you don’t really know a child until you have changed her diapers and nursed her through an illness. And I don’t think you can really know a property unless you have weeded the garden, raked the land and beaten spider webs out of the ceiling. The three hours I spent at Le Caselle today were like moving from infatuation to intimacy. With a pair of pruning shears purchased at Brico, I attacked the overgrowth like Attlia, revealing a whole new view of the landscape. Pieces of plastic and broken bottles, cardboard, dead plants and weeds were raked and tossed into trash bags. In the end I still wasn’t satisfied, but at least some of the debris was gone and I began to be able to see the beautiful soul of the garden.

I rewarded myself with some ripe figs and settled down on the terrace to a lunch of mozzarella, figs, and rosemary breadsticks with local wine. Apparently the butterflies and bees found the menu equally appealing. I split open one of the figs and tossed it into the garden, creating another place setting for the hungry lizards and insects.

Tonight I accompanied Judy and family to a maiale sagra (pork). San Fortunato della Colline hosts one of the largest sagras around arranging three tiers of long picnic tables in a public park to accomodate hundreds of people, mostly families that arrive in sometimes large groups. There were games, a gelateria, a dance floor and band, and a pizzeria to satisfy those with more basic tastes, like Master Wyatt.

We all order stinco maiale, which refers to the kind of spicy rub applied to the pork. What arrived were plates full of large pork legs, something I think I saw in a painting of Henry VIII, before utensils were invented. Trying to cut through the meat with plastic knives proved futile, so, throwing manners to the wind, I picked up the leg and started chomping. Ordering the tortellini as a prima piatti was a mistake, but I picked at it anyway, not wanting any of this delicious food to go to waste.

The fine band was called “Music Group”. We were all impressed with the older Italian couples dancing Fred and Ginger style, and the line dancers moving in perfect synchronization, older children dancing with little ones, a 4-year old out there stomping his feet and shaking his head to the beat, a little princess with glitter sneakers traipsing around the floor casting spells with her wand. There may be nicer ways to live but at the moment I can’t think of any.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Today was about the stairs. Judy, Fausto, little Wyatt and I drove to Passignano to see the angular (as opposed to spiral) stairs that Fausto found to fit my house. Essentially, the hole that was originally cut for the staircase is very small, so my options are limited. My Italian is not good enough to converse with these local artisans about details, so the task is tedious. I express my views to Judy, who translates in her pidgin Italian to Fausto, who translates to the salesgirl (this is a family business, so she is the daughter of the owner and sister of the guy who does the installation.) Do I want wood or metal or a combination of both? What color wood, chiara (light)or scuro (dark)? Do I want a rail? The stairs are narrow and having a rail that is connected to the stairs will make them even narrower. I decide that I can put a rail directly on the wall, or even better a rope, which I have seen in other homes. This is not the fun part of restoring a home, at least not for me.

Afterwards we drive to the lakefront and stop for lunch at a café right on the water. Judy’s daughter and son-in-law have gone off to Florence today so she is babysitting the precocious, curly-haired Wyatt. He goes right for a little rides at the café - a 50’s style convertible with an Elvis sticker on the windshield. There is an old fashioned Wurlitzer juke box sitting right on the waterfront with lots of American songs. American pop is big here. There are three islands in the middle of Lake Trasimeno, accessible by regular ferries. Judy tells me that at night the cafes are packed with kids.

I am eager to see Le Caselle, so I take my leave and drive back towards Todi, stopping at Marsciano. At Brico, the Home Depot of Italy (called Il Fa Di Te, or Do It Yourself), I purchase a nice wooden lounge chair with a canvas seat. It looks as though it might rain again, a daily occurrence it seems. When I arrive at Le Caselle, there is a sense of more than usual activity. Fausto has told me that my neighbors are moving (good news), but that they are moving to another house in the borgo, two doors down from mine (bad news). I wonder how they will manage to accommodate their menagerie – the dogs, chickens, goats and generations of family – in a much smaller house with almost no outdoor space. But something is clearly afoot; there is construction going on in the smaller house. Perhaps the animals will live downstairs and the people upstairs, the norm in these parts for hundreds of years.

The kitchen countertop, newly installed since my last visit, looks wonderful. There are no faucets yet either in the kitchen or the bathroom, and no running water for that matter. It is amazing how many little steps one needs to take to get a basically functioning house. I have, of course, bought a bottle of wine and some snacks and there is the matter of setting up my new lounge chair. I protect the pristine white canvas seat with the Alitalia blankets provided on the flight over. There is not one, but at least three fig trees bursting with fruit and perfect for a late afternoon snack. Is there anything better than pulling your snack off a tree? I don’t think so; unless it’s pulling your snack off a tree that grows on the property you own in Italy.

At the end of the day I return to Judy’s little house in Piedicolle. There are only two streets and all of the houses on each street are connected. Judy’s house is on Via Dante Alghieri which I adore for the sheer poetry - no pun intended. As small as it is, Piedicolle has a circolo, or recreational area with a soccer field and a little cafe where everyone sits and gossips, plays cards, listens to music and watches the children play. At any time of day you can find a line of nonne and nonni - grandmas and grandpas - sitting in the piazza waiting to comment on everyone that goes by. You absolutley must say "buongiorno" in the morning, or "buona serra" in the afternoon, otherwise you are risking the evil eye and god knows what else. I suppose I am immediately suspect because I am a middle aged woman who is not dressed in all black or wearing support stockings and orthopedic shoes. Actually, come to think of it, I really am sort of....but I guess Merrells and an ace bandage under my jeans isn't recognized by this group. My camisole is black though, so I'm only once removed from the locals. They really have no idea how close I am.

Day One

Sunday July 5, 2009
Flight. It’s something we take – like a flight to Europe. Or something that takes us – like a flight of fancy. It implies something swift and/or elevated. But those of us who have experienced the banality of modern day international flight know that it’s anything but swift and except for the actual altitude it’s anything but elevated.

Dozens of us have been standing by the carousel awaiting our luggage for over an hour. A couple of pieces have slinked down and the smug owners have long since departed. But the remaining unlucky passengers – the young tattooed Italians, a small group of angry New York tourists, two Latinas from Miami – are jet lagged, hot and fuming. We go over to the Alitalia Customer Service desk seeking answers because we don’t know what else to do. In frustration, one man storms the Alitalia office behind the service desk, assaulting a uniformed manager on his way out. “Are you a manager?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. “We’ve been waiting two hours for our luggage!” The handsome young Italian, obviously experienced in dealing with aggressive Americans, looks him in the eye and replies calmly, “You’re waiting on the right line” and walks off.

Eventually, the remaining luggage drops from the chute and lands with repeated thuds on the carousel while relieved travelers are secretly thankful that it came at all. I am thoroughly exhausted from a sleepless flight, the result of having the unfortunate experience of being surrounded by a Neopolitan extended family that spent eight hours shouting to each other across several rows. The video capabilities were down so there no movies, and this group had clearly never entertained the idea of reading a book or sleeping. My earplugs were useless and when I tried to enlist the help of a flight attendant to lower the volume, she shrugged her shoulders (the universal Italian answer to nearly everything) and said “you can’t change people’s customs.” To further illustrate her point, she told me that when Alitalia flies to Tokyo the bathrooms are impeccably clean when the plane gets there.

After getting my rental car I head towards IKEA to find more of the folding chairs I bought on my last trip. I had not anticipated the Total Fucking Nightmare of a Sunday trip to IKEA. For one thing, I was completely unable to find the entrance to the parking area. In the U.S., not only can you see an IKEA from miles away, but there are big blue and yellow signs every few feet to point you right to the front door. Here IKEA was clearly visible – in fact I could almost touch it I was so close – but there was no indication of how to get to the entrance. I rode around the city of Anagnina about ten times, each time failing to find an entrance and having to follow the one-way road wherever it would take me. I finally gave up and parked across the way at a mall and entered by foot.

Of course, the chairs I was looking for were at the self-service area near the cashiers, at the very end of the IKEA experience. The store is arranged so that you must walk through it entirely before you can leave –there are no shortcuts. So off I went through a veritable sea of customers. This is a place that has deconstrunced every room in the house, and the garden, and has made a fetish of the details. There are separate rooms for curtain rods and pillows, rugs and storage bins, dishes, glasses, beds, sofas, towels, faucets. And there are scores of model rooms, everything with a price tag on it. Lamps, candles, flower pots – everything had it’s own department. And each time I thought we had exhausted every possibility, the next room would prove me wrong and I’d be staring at closets, then desks, then mirrors. It truly seemed endless, or else I was just hallucinating from lack of sleep. And there were hundreds of families all pushing gigantic carts and dragging yellow dollies with IKEA bags attached to them. And when I finally did reach the self-service area lo and behold, they were completely out ofl the chairs I was seeking. I left in disgust and hiked back to my car.

I was happy to leave suburban Rome and head towards Umbria. My first glimpse of a field of sunflowers was exhilarating. Sunflowers are the glory of summer here, covering the landscape with a yellow fur. It is absolutely breathtaking. The combination of the magnificent sunflower fields and the silvery leaves of olive trees shimmering in the gentle breeze reminded me of why I keep coming back to this place that’s so hard for me to get to and frustrating to navigate.

In the distance a sliver of lightening breaks through a gray sky. A storm is in the near future, even though behind me is beautiful sunshine. I anticipate a soft rain, but suddenly it is pouring, pounding, so much so that I take shelter at a service area and decide to have some lunch. Afterwards, it’s a gorgeous summer day again, especially lovely after the rain. Half an hour later a huge black cloud appears before me, looking like a sack about to burst from the weight of its contents. Sure enough, the rain begins again, this time causing motorists to stop and wait it out. Just as well for me since I’m about to fall asleep at the wheel.

I arrive in Fratta Todina to meet Judy at the home of Jenny and David, where Judy and her daughter and grandson are enjoying a day in the pool. Jenny and David have one of those fantastic villas and grounds that I can only dream about….olive groves, a cantina where they make their own wine, manicured grounds, a gated driveway. Once in the grip of this rural magic I forget about the airport carousal and about IKEA and I am a contented cow, chomping on custard-filled pastries and gulping down Italian coffee.

Later I go To Deruta for the majolica festival activities, which tonight includes an outdoor concert in the historical center of town. I love Deruta, which is wall to wall majolica, both traditional and more contemporary. The concert is great, with lots of pop favorites, it’s like being at an Italian wedding; there are tastings of Sagrantino di Montefalco, and stands set up where you can try your hand at painting ceramic plates. I purchase a bottle of local wine to take back to Judy and Fausto and the store owners give me a pastry for free since they are about to close.

Back at Judy and Fausto’s I am presented with enormous, gorgeous purple figs that Fausto has harvested from my garden. I have never seen anything quite like them, and they become part of our dinner of cured meats, mozzarella, rosemary breadsticks and hearty wine. I am home.

On My Way

It is a beautiful July 4th in New York, warm, sunny and practically deserted. Everyone has taken off and later today I will be doing the same. In Italy it is hot (over 80F), and the forecast is for some rain almost everyday from now until at least Friday. Do I care? Not a whit.

Checking Umbria Online for the most updated listing of festivals and events in Umbria reveals a host of food "sagras" (sacred feast) ranging from the mouthwatering to the totally absurd. Every nook and cranny borgo in Italy serves up it's specialty at some point and summer is a popular time to get the locals together to push their delicacies on the public and on each other. Lisciano has a bringoli festival (some kind of pasta); San Guistino has a frog fest; Dunarobba has a hare sagra. I've never heard of any of these places, but obviously they've got a PR agent feeding listings to the Umbria Online website. Typically, these small towns set up tables outside and everyone in the town cooks something based on a theme. There are fragolini (strawberry) sagras, porchetta (pork) sagras, snail sagras; you name it. There is not a place on earth that is prouder of their cuisine or more eager to celebrate it than Italy.

Todi will be hosting its annual Hot Air Balloon festival while I'm there, and Umbria Jazz is in full swing, as well as the Spoleto Festival. And Deruta has a summer long program of classes, exhibitions, lectures and other events centered around the art of Majolica or painted pottery. Although the theme is artistic and visual, there will no doubt be copious amounts of Sagrantino wine, cured meats and truffled products available at every turn.

Having a home in Italy is just like having a weekend house anywhere else, except it takes much longer to get there and costs more to visit. I have appointments for deliveries, for someone to come and measure for the stairs and I must buy a lot of practical things this trip - an iron, some pots to cook with, a lounge chair for outside.....and, of course, lots of wine and food to fill my empty refrigerator. A corkscrew I already have. As last minute preparation for this trip, I've printed out some NY Times articles - a recent one on renting a summer villa in Umbria, and a ten-year old article by Barry Unsworth, the Booker Prize-winning British author who has lived in Umbria for many years, and who wrote the very brilliant "After Hannibal", a cautionary tale about foreigners purchasing property in Italy. I read it for the first time before I had even heard of Umbria, and found it charming and evocative, beautifully written and insightful. Had I even had a thought of buying in Italy, this novel would have been a strong deterrant, filled as it is with stories of insane and frustrating Italian legal customs and unsuspecting foreigners being fed to the conniving locals.

Second time around, I was already a homeowner, wanting to kick myself for not having studied the book more carefully before I wrote the check. But here I am, living the story, and finding it altogether true and yet, not quite as bad as I imagined. Yes, with the inequitable exchange rate I lose a small fortune everytime I send money over to Italy; yes, my neighbors have shown their true colors by hooking into my electric box, and using the cucina of the large house (unrestored) to dry their laundry; and each time I'm there one of the neighbors' sons reminds me that I owe him 200 euro for garden work that I never asked him to do. And yes, its been frustrating doing the restoration work so slowly that eight years later I have yet to spend a night in the house. But lack of money and long distance have dictated this and the result has been the adoption of a philosophical, almost Zen attitude about the process and the conviction that the restoration of the house is a kind of metaphor for life. The point of it really does seem to be the process and not the result. Every small achievement - the installation of the kitchen, the clearing out of the overgrown garden, the purchase of a toilet - has been something to celebrate. And in true Italian fashion, that usually means a bottle of wine, delicious food and some friends to share them with.

I am on my way to becoming the Umbrianista I have decided I want to be.

A message from Judy this morning....."....Plummer (sic) is set for next week so you will be able to pee at last in the house..." Who knew that the word "pee" was capable of making my heart skip a beat! Judy is the harbinger of news that alternately causes me extreme agita or total elation. This update is, I am delighted to say, one that brings the latter. In nearly eight years of ownership, the closest I've come to waste elimination on my property was a clandestine episode, an emergency, when I slipped into the subterranean entry way of the smallest house and dropped my drawers. No further details necessary! To know that I actually have a toilet and a functioning shower mechanism is absolutely thrilling.



Judy is my alter-ego in Italy, a dyed-in-the-wool, no-nonsense New Yorker, who can turn a full page to-do list into an "All-Done" list in a matter of hours. Or so it seems. Her better half is Fausto, a native Umbrian of mild temperament, good humour and an endless network of skilled laborers and artisans who he can call upon to help in the reconstruction of my house. He is honest and hard working and while he is retired from the Italian phone company, his days are filled with freelance assignments that help bolster his modest pension.

July 4th weekend is days away and I leave for Italy exactly on the holiday. If you are looking for a half-empty transatlantic flight so you can stretch out on two seats, travel on a holiday. It's only the day before and day after a holiday that are big travel days. Trying to wrap up things at work is excruciating. It's the end of the fiscal year, a time of frantic accounting and lots of activity before everyone settles into their vacations.

A quick phone call with Judy on Skype yesterday. The kitchen countertop is finally in place, after Fausto waited five hours for the installation team. The garden is clear of all debris. I am hopeful of mild warm weather, little or no rain and the opportunity to relax and enjoy my house in the first warm-weather trip I've made in a while. The beds will be delivered at some point during my trip, and I need only purchase pillows and linens in order to spend my first night there. As usual, I throw open a suitcase or two a week before leaving and fill it with a little bit more every day. I look for things that I can leave there, clothing, small appliances, a personal thing or two to add warmth. This trip has come up so quickly, just as the pace of my life in New York has accelerated in recent weeks.

I look forward to the lazy, food-filled afternoons of Italy and I feel myself giving in to the magnetic pull of my little casetta.

Beginnings

Umbrianista....a female inhabitant of what is called the "green heart of Italy". As a part-time resident, visiting for now only once or twice a year, I have hardly earned the name. But I am doing my very best to remedy that by spending more and more time in my favorite country and putting down roots in the garden of my miniature compound atop Monte Peglia on the outskirts of historical Todi. Le Caselle is the tiny borgo of five or six stone houses and only one family in permanent residence. My vicini - the Italian word for neighbors - are the real deal, having lived off the land for a generation. I, on the other hand, am a curiosity - a single American woman, a New Yorker, no less, who purchased a package of three modest crumbling houses on a large giardino from which one can see in the distance, the misty silhouette of Santa Maria della Consolazione, the famous round church that distinguishes Todi from the surrounding hill towns.

Le Caselle lies in Quadro, a frazione of Todi; a rural spoke on Todi's bustling wheel. Quadro consists of the narrow road that leads to Le Caselle, along which a rag-tag community of elderly Italians and new immigrants from Muslim countries make their homes. There is, in addition, a circolo, or community recreational center where locals gather to play cards, socialize, gossip and have a hearty meal in the downstairs cantina/restaurant. I am certain that I am discussed if not regularly, then from time to time, most likely in the context of being an American of some means, and thereby the source of potential income via the restoration of my house. Across the way there used to be a Tabacchi that was owned by an elegant elderly couple, who must have passed away since it was closed and boarded up last time I was there.

Ascending the serpentine road leading up Monte Peglia one gets an increasingly broad and dramatic view of the landscape. Vineyards, olive groves, restored villas and new construction, open fields, luxurious driveways lined with cypress trees. It's a fantasy of the Italian countryside; the sort of thing you see in films and glossy magazines, come to intoxicating life. It all makes you pine for fresh figs, oilve oil and umbrian bread, and one cannot help savoring the lushness of it all as you climb towards what is certainly heaven or Xanadu or whatever one calls that perfect place of tranquility.

Le Caselle has a welcoming committee of three mangy canines - Bruto, Piubruto, and Brutissimo (Ugly, Uglier and Ugliest). Straining against metal chains, their barks like bullets in an echo chamber, their matted coats and filthy faces warning of fearless attack capabilities, this security team ensures that no one enters the borgo undetected. For this, I suppose, I should be thankful, but I can't help imagining waking each day to an alarm clock of yelping, barking and croaking (from the rooster in my neighbor's chicken coop. ) Not having spent a night there yet, I am filled with fear about having made the most foolish purchase in Italy's long history of selling off ruins to foreigners. But another part of me can't wait to throw open the shutters and breathe in the in the bright mediterranean sun on that first morning, just like the English ladies of that delightful film "Enchanted April", who, having arrived in the Italian countryside the night before in a depressing rainstorm, found a burst of glorious light waiting outside their window when they awoke. Reality will probably fall somewhere between the two scenarios, so I resolve to be prepared for either Nirvana or murder.