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.