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.