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.
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.
Keep them coming AG! These are truly wonderful!
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