Friday

Friday, November 26, 2010

Thursday becomes Friday mid-air. The flight is half empty – everyone has at least two seats. There is no one next to me. I am becoming so accustomed to this route it hardly registers that I’m on my way to Italy. Except for the fact that I get dinner and free wine, I could be going to Miami. A little sleep and then I watch Cairo, a very “adult” movie that is more interesting as a travelogue than anything else. Eventually the pinkish-orange sun peeks over the horizon ahead and the Italian morning beckons.

This is by far the easiest flight, including the arrival, baggage claim and car rental I have ever experienced. I must be careful to savor this experience since I’m not likely to ever have it again. I call Nancy, who is back in Rome after a week in New York, and consider picking her up and going straight to Pompeii. But I long to see Le Caselle and to get my house in order first. I have two weeks – plenty of time for side trips.

It's humid and chilly. The sun moves in and out and the combination of dark heavy clouds and sunlight straining to break through casts a beautiful mysterious light over the sky. On the way to the autostrada I begin to drive like an Italian, picking up the pace, switching lanes constantly, tailgating the car in front of me. It happens without thinking. I’m convinced that the only way to deal with the Italian drivers is to become one. It's no use hanging out in the right lane. Pretty soon all of the other terrified drivers become irritating and you can't wait to pass them.

Le Caselle is very quiet and clean. Unusually clean. The contadini are keeping a much tidier front yard and even the area between my house and the next has a more manicured look than I’ve ever seen before. I flatter myself by thinking that my presence here has had a positive effect on everyone in the borgo. Finally they are realizing that American neighbors increase their property values. This is merely an affectation, a conceit; on the other hand, it might possibly be true. In any event, I am very pleased to see the improvement.

The pristine white pebbles that Admir had strewn over the garden are now dotted with dark, wet leaves and sprouts of grass are pushing through. Autumn is everywhere; there are bare trees, alas, no figs; but there is the intoxicating smell of burning firewood all around.

It takes about an hour to unpack and transform this humid little former animal pen into a comfy home. I retrieve dishes and a decorative pitcher from the kitchen cabinet, put a cloth on the wood table, set up a pot of espresso, dress the bed. Light candles. Eventually, the chilly little stone house starts to exude warmth. Dinner is a lettuce/tomato salad with mortadella, penne with olive oil and grana padana, biscotti dunked in piping hot espresso. And wine, of course, a Rosso di Montefalco. I enjoy drinking the local wines, knowing that they have travelled a very short distance so have no need of additional sulfites or preservatives. My tiny stufe – one upstairs and one downstairs – provide plenty of heat.

I call Nancy again and we make plans for a trip to Florence next week. Although I am determined to see Pompeii, she warns me that, considering much of the ruin is outdoors, it’s not best viewed in the rain. A few days later I read in the International Herald Tribune that a wall has collapsed in the historical site and the government is being harshly criticized for not protecting the ruins. I knew I should have gone right from the airport.

Better Living Through Chemistry

Thursday, November 25, 2010

I am not a big fan of the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s not that I object to giving thanks; God knows I have a lot to be thankful for. And it’s very good to be reminded of it. But for me it’s become the starting gun in a race to see how much food I can consume in a one-month period; and the endgame is a lifetime supply of self-loathing and remorse . According to most of the people I know who have traditional celebrations, the Thanksgiving dinner seems to have become nothing more than an unconscious dance of strained gaiety mixed with family angst, to the point where one wonders why the tradition survives except to reinforce some deeply internalized guilt and despair at not having come from the perfect family.

There is to my mind, however, one very wonderful and important purpose for Thanksgiving Day. It’s the perfect day to travel by plane. Especially in the mid-late afternoon, when everyone who is traveling for Thanksgiving is already at their destination. Today, Thanksgiving Day 2010, I was the only person in the security checkpoint line at the Delta Airlines international departure gates at JFK. I was ecstatic and sharing my joy with all of the airline personnel. I didn’t mind taking off my jacket, my vest, my shoes, my scarf and my pouch containing passport, boarding pass and drivers license. I pulled my computer out of my carryon roller and placed it in a bin, happily sliding it on to the conveyer belt. I danced over to the body sensors in the computerized screening area. My phone rang – Nancy had called to wish me a buon viaggio, and while we were chatting I noticed one of the security officers taking my carryon over to another belt for further inspection. The cosmetic tubes carrying my moisturizer and exfoliant were too large, over and above the 3 oz. limit. I had the option of putting them in my checked luggage or discarding them altogether, which seemed unnecessarily wasteful to me. The sympathetic officer walked me back to the baggage drop, confiding that the TSA official was watching the line, otherwise she would have let me pass.

My luggage was too far down the conveyor belt to retrieve. Ordinarily I would have just discarded the liquids, but with nearly 4 hours until my flight I asked a Delta employee to watch my carryon while I went through the security line again and scoured the shops for some little plastic bottles. I ended up striking out at several newsstands and cosmetics shops, finally hitting paydirt at Brookstone. I had to then go back out to the baggage drop area to fill the little plastic bottles with Oil of Olay and St. Ives Apricot Scrub. I created a workspace on the empty ticketing counter. It was like some weird little science experiment, transferring thick, gooey liquids and scrubs into the tiny opening of a 3 oz. plastic bottle. I felt a little loony. In my head I calculated the cost of the plastic bottles vs the cost of replenishing my supply on the other end. But I was too far gone to stop at this point and I struggled, filling four little bottles before I tossed the rest of the stuff away. I proceeded through the security check point once again, and even after all this time I was still the only person at security check. Giving thanks on Thanksgiving Day.

The Delta first class lounge has gone through renovations and is swankier than I remember. The food and snacks have not improved, but the space is more open and there are very few other VIPs traveling today. I have three complimentary glasses of Nero d’avola and several helpings of milk and white chocolate drizzled caramel popcorn. I have bypassed Thanksgiving, but I’m not out of the woods yet. The Italy food orgy has begun.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Sunday July 11, 2010

Last night I made it to the Ben Gazzara film festival in Izzalini. The film was called for 9pm but when I arrived most of the crowd was eating. A long table was spread with pasta, beans, bread, wine and water, and sweets, all for whatever one was willing to pay. There was tiramisu, a blueberry crostata, and a torte della nona, all of which I tasted and all were delicious. A large box labled “offerte” was placed on the table, to receive donations. A dark haired, coffee-colored girl was selling raffle tickets for 2 euro. She asked me to choose a number and I chose 57, the number of my apartment building. I asked her what the prize was and she wrote it down for me: agnello. A lamb.

The social scene was at least as important as the film. It was a mixed group. Locals, contadini, and stranieri – foreigners with homes in the area or visiting. And me. Much to my surprise, Ben Gazzara was there and addressed the audience of about 50 people in Italian. The film was called “Il Camorista”, a sort of Godfather saga with Ben as a watered-down Don Corleone. All in Italian, no subtitles. The most remarkable thing about the experience was the setting; the screen was suspended on the wall of a medieval castle and the chairs were set up in the piazza. When the sky darkened, my attention wandered to the sky, brilliantly lit with thousands of tiny stars, and to the sounds of conversation from nearby houses, dogs barking, and the light clicking of cicadas.

The film went on for more than two hours, and although I wanted to stay to see if I would be awarded the agnello, I left at 11:30, aware that I would need whatever energy remained for the 30 minute drive back to Le Caselle. While there is some risk involved, I enjoy the late night ride back to the house. It is quite, but for the gentle wind and an occasional driver. The roads to Le Caselle is unlit, except for the headlights of my car, and other cars on the road.

Today I joined Judy and Fausto and the boys, Leslie and her two children and Sabra, Fabio and Melissa for a day a Lake Bolsena. The heat persisted, but the area we chose to settle in was shaded, with grass, picnic tables and close to the water. It was a great relief to spend most of the day submerged in temperate water and to share home-made dishes with friends and children. I experimented with faro, tomatoes, garlic and shallots, olive oil and grana padano. Judy made panzanella and Leslie brought meat sandwiches and pizza. Sabra made a pasta salad and a rice salad. We bought coffee and ice cream from a stand. It was the most relaxing day I’ve spent here.

Sabra’s daughter Melissa is a born performer. She is 24-hour a day entertainment.I am told she is shy, but what I see is someone craving attention, an adorable 5-year-old who comes to life when she has an audience. She is fair skinned an dark haired, with huge brown eyes and enviably long lashes. Her laugh is infectious, and she tries hardest to get a response from the boys….Ari, Tino and Marcello.

Lucia is Leslie’s daughter, 9 ½, and mature way beyond her years. Her accent is enchanting, but Leslie describes it as a speech impediment. She is unable to pronounce r’s when preceded by a vowel. So the word “turn” becomes “tawn”. It’s lovely. Her brother Marcello is also quite mature for a 15-year-old. On the way home we have a conversation about computers – he is something of a wiz and advised me on how to set up wi-fi at my house.

It’s a cool evening, and I spend some time doing laundry so that when arrive for my next trip everything will be clean and fresh. I have given my neighbor, Roberta, a gift of a marigold plant, gave Judy the Basil and rosemary plants. Tomorrow I leave for Fabro.

Thursday July 8, 2010

Yesterday morning I took a walk up the road in Le Caselle and on the the main road in Quadro. A little power walk to try to burn some calories. It was also an opportunity to meet some of the neighbors on this little strip; Gino, a hearty old man with gold teeth; Rina and Berto, another Italian couple who sit outside in the shade all morning, then go inside when the hot sun starts to bake the pavement. They tell me that my next door neighbor is her sister. Everyone on this strip seems to be related to my neighbors. When I mention this to Judy she says “Of course”.

Another frustrating morning at the Post Office, as I try to arrange for my mail to be forwarded to Fausto and Judy. After waiting a long while to see the clerk, who of course speaks no English, I find out that I need my Codice Fiscal – a sort of tax number that is given to everyone – and I have left it back at the house. One thing I have learned from spending time in my mountain aerie is to make a list of everything I need to take with me when I leave the house.

My next infuriating task it to try to get Ralph’s phone working again. I have entered the wrong PIN three times and it is now locked, to the extent where even a professional isn’t able to open it. I take it to a local phone store and they are adamant that I need to buy a new SIM card and that Ralph’s phone number is dead – carta scaduto. I call Ralph in New York where it is 6am and he insists that they are wrong and tells me to abandon my mission for the time being. Later in the day I’ll try again in Marsciano at the Euronics store where a very nice employee named Jacapo sees me almost daily. I’m certain he is at the point where he wants to run and hide when he sees me walk in the door, but he is always polite, speaks English beautifully and appears to be extremely knowledgeable. I have met such extraordinarily nice people here, as compared to those I meet in the cities who are always on their way to lunch and can’t be bothered to answer a simple question like “where is the bathroom?” “Non so” (I don’t know), along with a shrug, is what I’ve gotten at the airport from harried Alitalia flight attendants, and from disingenuous young baristas who are standing a few feet from a door labled “Toilette”.

The trip is going too fast. I’m already at the point where I have to plan my itinerary carefully each day in order to get everything done. But it’s time to break for lunch; there really isn’t anything else to do at 1pm. So I stop at a supermercato to get some provisions, even though there is already enough food in the frigo to feed a cavalry, should one show up. I just like to shop in the stores. I crave more plump sweet peaches so I buy half a kilo, and some mortadella, which I have not tasted yet this trip. Also a ciabatta and a bottle of Orvieto. With my sack full of goodies I drive back up the hill to my seventh floor walkup.

It is very hard to keep this place clean. The spiders weave new webs faster than I can swat down the old ones. I am no match for them. Dirt and dust are constantly accumulating on the stone floors, more leaves fall from the trees as you are sweeping the morning’s collection off the terrace. I’ve promised myself I’m going to give up going for the pristine look. While white cotton tablecloths and white pillows on the outdoor ledge are very pure and Zen, it also means many trips to the Laundromat (or else buying a washer, which I will do eventually, but not on this trip), and I have not gone to all of these many years of effort to become a washerwoman or a scullery maid. I will go for another neutral color, maybe brown, something close to the color of dirt.

Later on at the Euronics store, Jacapo is off for the next few days, so I struggle with a nice young girl who speaks no English. She looks about 14 and of course is very well versed in everything electronic. Occasionally she calls for help from someone who speaks a little English, but mostly she enters data into a computer with great confidence and amazing speed, and announces that there is no credit on the card. I must charge at least 5 euro and then wait 12 hours and she will then be able to unlock the phone and Ralph will be able to retain his phone number. Rumour has it that if you don’t add money to a card for 12 months, the number ceases to function. I’m not sure if it get buried in the numerological graveyard or it becomes available for assignation to another user, but for all intents and purposes it’s kaput. Or so I’m told by the local phone store. The staff at Euronics swears otherwise. We’ll see tomorrow when I return after the required 12 hours.

Wednesday July 7, 2010

Wednesday July 7, 2010

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This morning I went to the biblioteca to retrieve the USB port I left in the computer yesterday. Can I possibly lose one more thing? I find a fantastic new store in the centro storico; truffles and truffle products. I ask if I can find their products anywhere in New York and the young woman tells me that they sell in the Chelsea Market. Outside of the store, at the entry door, there is a life size replica of a Cingale that is incredibly life-like. I take a photo.

As a matter of course, I get lost on the way to Jenny and David’s. It’s difficult finding one’s way in a place that seems to have an aversion to efficient signage. In addition, we are in the country, where directions are constructed according to landmarks – a concrete wall, the white road, a yellow house. After much trial and error I arrive at their lovely home, La Favetta. They have held up lunch for me and Tino and Ari are impatient. Tino asks me if he can drive the car. I tell him no, since the car is rented. I have enough difficulties here without risking the possibility of having to explain why a 15 year old without an International Driving Permit (or a regular license, I presume) has wrapped my rented car around a fence.

In addition to Judy and I and the children, there is another guest, Carol, a British friend of David and Jenny’s, who are also British. Jenny has made a terrific lunch starting with home-grown melon and prosciutto, followed by a lasagna made with salsice, green beans and a mixed salad. The lasagna is fantastic and served with wine made on their property . David is a doctor and he and Jenny have spent many years living in Hong Kong, where David has developed a penchant for collecting Chinese objects that no one else is interested in. He buys most of the stuff either on ebay or from a dealer he knows. He is excited to show Carol and I his collection of jade, agate, glass and erotica.

David is a lovely chap, but his enthusiasm for his avocation has comletely run away with him. While the subject matter has a certain fascination, he has clearly gone over the deep end. He has hundreds of objects, all of which he is eager to show and explain, to the point where the details have stopped sinking in. At one point I beg off, telling him that I am not able to retain any more information. I feel badly since he means well, but for my own mental health I have to call it quits. Dessert is apricots from their property along with several flavors of ice cream, one scoop of each. Moderation is a word that hardly occurs to me here; I just tell myself I will work it off back home, I’m on vacation, blah, blah, blah. It’s all a crock, but I’ll think about it next week.

Judy and I head for the pool, where Tino and Ari await the opportunity to harass us. Diving, splashing, hitting us with a soccer ball – anything will do, so long as it annoys us. Essentially they are sweet children, but they are boys and adolescent boys to boot, so irritating grown ups is what they are programmed to do.

In the evening I head to Collazzone, to Al Leone, a ristorante with an outdoor terrace overlooking the beautiful landscape. I meet an American couple, Pat and Tom – she’s an artist and he works for the Metropolitan Museum.. On my way out I meet another couple, John and Cindy, who are into swapping their house in Captiva, Florida, for other places around the world. She is recently retired and has developed workshops for women. They are very chatty and friendly and ask me a lot fo questions about how I came to buy property in the area. I work quite hard not to seem pretentious or affected. I realize how easy it can be to come across as smug when talking to people who find it fascinating that I’ve purchased and restored a house here.

After too many glasses of wine, I head back to Le Cselle. It’s a 35 minute drive and I am very careful when navigating the roads, especially to road up Monte Peglia. But I am getting used to it. It’s sort of like living in a seventh floor walk-up. When you get to the top, if you have forgotten something you don’t go back down. You do without.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

I had my first visitors this morning! Judy and Fausto came to meet Admir and I served them coffee on my terrace. Judy was amazed at the progress on the house. It is really starting to look like a home. Admir finished the work today and it looks fantastic. He covered the outside with white pebbles, called bricciole, and with the leftovers, he created a walkway from the garden stairs to the terrace stairs. Then he lined the walkway with stones he found in the garden. I am absolutely enchanted with the results. W e talked about him doing more work – leveling off the ground in the garden, making an awning for the terrace, and creating a fence around the property.

For dinner this evening I sautéed garlic and onions with olive oil, rosemary, red wine and some porchetta and turned it into sauce for fusilli. It was to die for. A fresh sweet peach for dessert; it doesn’t get any better. There was a light refreshing drizzle late this afternoon and the cool air was a welcome relief from the unrelenting heat and humidity. I went to the supermarket late in the day to buy some water. At this time of year you see Italians buying huge quantities of bottled water. It’s common for people to fill up their shopping carts with 10 2-liter six packs of water – 60 bottles at a time. I guess with a large family and the necessity to hydrate sufficiently in this heat, 60 bottles might last a week, but it’s still a bizarre sight to see carts filled as high as a human with bottled water.

All of the Italians drive with a cell phone or a cigarette, sometimes both. How are they able to do this? The cell phone is nestled between the ear and the shoulder and one hand holds a cigarette while the other holds the wheel. Given the speed at which most Italians drive, this combo is a recipe for disaster. But you see it all over, so they must either feel invincible or are in complete denial about the dangers of multitasking while driving. I try to keep my distance and always allow them to pass when they are in a hurry.

At Judy’s party I meet Belinda, a dutch woman who has won $4 million in the Italian lottery. She has bought herself a million dollar house and a very young husband from Cuba. Belinda is 50 her husband is 27 and speaks no Italian. She has brought him here and has bought him a motorcycle. In Cuba she bought his parents a washer and dryer, even though they live in poverty and have no electricity! The husband has now asked Belinda to bring over his friend from Cuba. Judy gives this relationship about three weeks.

Monday July 5, 2010

It was supposed to be an orderly day. My to do list was arranged according to towns; get money from the bank in Deruta, go to the Monday morning market in central Marsciano for a matching rug for the bathroom and a disposable camera, spend lunchtime at a local gym, then go to Todi in the afternoon to pay my water bill, re-charge the phone and visit the Biblioteca Leone to check my email.

But on the way to the market I stopped at the Polo store in Marsciano – a small department store that sells household goods, furniture, some clothing and toys. A perfect living room chair was on sale for half price! An attractive expandable wooden table also caught my eye. Before I knew it I had purchased these and set about trying to squeeze them into my little Fiat Panda. Assistance came in the form of a small, very skinny young woman who might make a perfect Lisbeth Salander when they make the Italian version of Girl With the Dragon Tatoo. Her strength was remarkable; first she showed me how to lay the back seats flat, then proceeded to nestle in a rather large wooden chair and finally she lifted the extremely heavy boxed table and laid it flat on top of the chair. She pushed and shoved everything until the trunk door closed and seemed very pleased with herself. Of course I was not going to be able to see out of the back window, but she just shrugged and pointed to the side mirrors. I asked her whether the table needed to be assembled and she said yes. Is it easy, I asked. Yes, very easy, she said. Easy for her probably.

By the time I hit the market, most of the vendors were closing up. The rug merchant was nowhere to be found but I did purchase a half-kilo of Porchetta di Pantalla for 10 euro. I had enough porchetta to feed the borgo. Each one of these porchetta trucks has a different name – Porchetta di Norcia, Porchetta di Marsciano, etc. They are basically the same truck, but there’s an implication that one town makes porchetta better than another.

Back at Le Caselle, I discover that I do not have my house keys. This can’t be happening. They are going to show up. They are probably somewhere in the bowels of my purse or shoved into my camera case. I take the extremely heavy table out of the back. Well, I don’t exactly take it, I slide it until it hits the ground. There’s no way I’m going to be able to move this, so I tear into the packaging and move it piece by piece. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but there was nothing to tear it with, since I didn’t have my house keys and the car key was not serated. So I started ripping and the pieces of cardboard fell all around me. Inside the box were some stray pieces, but the tabletop and extendable piece were all together and weighed a ton. So I slid the box inch by inch until I got almost to my door. I went back to get the wooden chair, which seemed almost weightless by comparison. Now everything was at my front door, but I had no key.

I emptied my purse. Nothing. Combed every inch of the car. Nada. I began to worry about my mental health. Was there something wrong with me that I was not admitting? I knew Admir had a key but I didn’t have his number. I called Fausto but a message answered. So, embarrassed as I was, I called Judy. What did you lose today, she asked.? The house keys, I admitted. She laughed, but I was mortified.

Sunday, July 4

Fourth of July in Italy is celebrated by so many ex-pats that I’ve been invited to not one, but two parties. In anticipation, I carried over the lightest bit of patriotism I could accommodate - American flag toothpicks.

The alarm on my new Nokia phone is terribly annoying. A woman with a British accent – let’s call her Margaret - says in a monotone, “It’s time to get up. The time is…….” Beat. Beat. “It’s time to get up ….” I’ve set it for 7 to make it early to the flea market in Pissignano on the other side of Umbria, just above Spoleto. To get there from here, you have to drive way up a hill to Montefalco and then down the other side. Montefalco is wine country and the ride includes breathtaking views of the Antonelli and Caprai vineyards, so I don't really mind much.

Most of the stuff at the market is junk, but there are some beautiful things, most of which are too expensive to consider. After spanning the long strip where the fair is situated, I spot two end tables and the price is right, so I make my first purchase. The vendor and his wife carry the tables down a steep hill to my car – rather, he hands the tables to her and she carries.

Monday, June 28, 2010

What would the world be like if you were not able to enforce the law, for whatever reason? If systems were overwhelmed and couldn’t function, if angry citizens, realizing that their rights were no longer protected , rose up and stormed the barricades, each man thinking only of himself, his own immediate needs, throwing any sense of community and cooperation to the wind?

This was pretty much the scene at the Delta terminal at JFK on Monday, June 28 at 3pm, five hours before my scheduled flight. Stanchions, put in place to create orderly lines, had been knocked down. People broke into lines as the irate fliers behind them raged and railed, grabbing Delta staffers in search of justice, only to be met with indifference or worse, annoyance. Announcements were made every few minutes, searching for people whose flights were about to leave and who hadn’t gotten through the security check yet. That line moved imperceptibly , perhaps an inch every 15 minutes. All around me, fear, fury.

Halfway to the airport, I received a phone call from Delta informing me that my departure would be delayed three hours, so I was looking at 8 hours in the airport instead of 5. The Delta Sky Club is not exactly as I envisioned it. Two free passes came with my new Delta Amex card and I was looking forward to a bit of luxury instead of the usual mosh pit of economy class fliers. Turns out it must be very easy to get into the Sky Club these days; it, too, was rather crowded, snacks were mostly packaged, but yes, the booze was free, and there was television and computers and a printer, which came in handy when I realized I did not have my car voucher and had to get into my email account to print a new one.

An uneventful flight, just as I like it. And in an exit row with extra legroom. The Pisa airport is small, making everything much easier - retrieving baggage, get a rented car.

I manage to make it from Pisa to Sesto Fiorntino to find IKEA. But getting from there to Perugia, I take a wrong turn and end up eventually in Arezzo. It’s getting late. The supermarkets close at 7 and I have not done any shopping for dinner or for the house. I’ll never get to Todi before 7. Near Arezzo, I see a billboard for an IPER COOP, a sort of gigantic supermarket/department store. I manage to do a sweep before the place closes and get enough essentials to get me at least until tomorrow.

It’s past 9 when I arrive at Le Caselle. Even so, there is enough dying light to glimpse the exquisite landscape as I ascend the mountain. It’s been 24 hours since I left for JFK.

The house is a disaster. Admir appears not to have known that I was coming. The kitchen is covered with pails of cement, tarps, the sink is filthy, muddy handprints and footprints all over the place. My lovely wood and canvas lounge chair is soiled, beer bottles are everywhere. And I’m unable to find the key to the laundry room where the scaldobagno is, so I may not have hot water tonight.

It is eerily quiet here at night. Or am I just so used to the din of New York City that the sound of no sound feels weird? It’s nice.

I’m not alone. So far I’ve seen a lizard, a scorpion, several spiders, a host of moths (what is a group of moths called?) on the way up, a rabbit ran across the road. Suddenly I feel a responsibility to these living beings, even though I would prefer not to have to deal with them. Killing them seems senseless – there are many more of them than me. Can I cohabit peacefully with them?


Wednesday, June 30, 2010

It’s cleaner here since the oldest brother died and the vicini moved into a smaller house down the street. No more garbage in front of my garage, no more porcelain sinks and bathtubs strewn across the front yard. The dogs are still there but they are a bit less filthy it seems.
I left my cell phone battery charger in NY and the phone is so old that I could not find a place that carried one. I purchased a new phone for the same price as a charger. I went to the Mercato Usato to look at some used furniture, but I thought the prices were high and I hadn’t looked around enough.

Lunch with Fausto and Judy and her grandsons Tino and Ari. Once again I'm all fired up and no where to go once everyone shuts down at 1pm, so a long lunch is not just an option. After lunch I went to the Internet Point and checked on work emails. There were 35 of them and because of some computer glitch I was unable to answer any. I have to return tomorrow.

When I left I had gotten a ticket for not paying for parking. I have parked on this same street on many past trips, but it seems there are new regulations. The Italians have figured out a million ways to generate revenue for the state! I had purchased a broom and some plastic garbage bags so went back to Le Caselle to clean up. I will certainly have to figure out a way to deal with the bug situation. I am no match for the armies of ants, moths, spiders and other creatures that have laid claim to the Italian countryside. I fill three large trash bags with garbage – empty soda bottles and beer cans, paper towels, cigarette butts, paint chips, coffee grinds, insect remains and various and other sundries and assorted objects. I sweep the kitchen floor vigorously but there always seems to be new dust, fresh dirt. A battalion of ants march towards the leftover cookie crumbs from last night’s biscotti. I wipe them out with a swish of my sponge and make a mental note to clean thoroughly after each binge.

A moth appears from nowhere and flies dangerously close. I must have my swatter at hand at all times. At dinner tonight, Judy and Fausto tell of a miraculous new product that you mix with water and spray on the outside of the house, and all bugs disappear. This magic elixir was given to them by a neighbor and they don’t have the name or know where to get it.

Dinner was al fresco, with Judy, Fausto and the boys, Jane, Leslie and her half-Italian, half-American children Lucia and Marcello. We have rotisserie rabbit and also a fried version, which is delicious, pasta cooked in red wine, and a butter-less, egg-less chocolate cake which was extremely tasty and surprisingly moist. We discussed the difficult situations faced by American ex-pats who don’t have the proper papers. If you are older and you are not here for school or work, you have to prove a certain level of income or savings in order to assure the authorities that you will not become a burden on the system. Jane has to go to Immigration services tomorrow and she is deadly afraid of being deported, even though she owns a house here and has been here for many years.

Leslie’s children are very impressive, especially Marcello, age 18, who entertained us by singing “Putting on the Ritz” and spouting his knowledge of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Judy’s grandsons are both talented musicians. It’s wonderful to be in the company of such unconventional children.

Fausto has made an appointment for Admir to meet me at Le Caselle tomorrow morning at 9.

Thursday, July 01, 2010

Admir was here at 9:20, contrite and full of elaborate excuses for the state of my house. He said he was planning to clean up the house when he found out I was arriving on the 28th. But on June 14th he received a call from his mother saying his grandmother was terribly ill and he had to go to Albania immediately. It’s hard to be angry at someone as sweet and gentle and handsome as Admir, even though part of me is convinced I’m being royally conned. I try to stay almost expressionless while ever so slightly skeptical. I show him the photos I took of the house when I arrived – the filthy sink, the cigarette butts on the kitchen floor. He apologized and said he felt bad.

He says he can finish the work in two days. Two days, I asked, incredulously. Can you do it while I’m here? Yes, he answers , but he doesn’t want to disturb me. That’s not a problem I say. And immediately I begin to envision the entry way covered with white stones and the fence around the property He will return tomorrow at 9am to begin to finish the work.

Franny has a bug and cancels our date for this evening. We reschedule for Monday. I drive into Marsciano to check my work email and try to find a charger for my camera, to no avail. Back at Le Caselle I make a delectable lunch of lettuce, mozzarella and hard boiled eggs with hummus, accompanied by some local Orvieto and rosemary grissini. After lunch I do something truly miraculous….I assemble the clothes rack I purchased at IKEA. Precisely following the pictorial instructions and without too many flubs I managed to erect a structure that looked amazingly like the drawings that came with the box. I am filled with pride.

Follwing dinner at Oasi – white pizza with fresh porcini and black truffles, I am sitting on the terrace at Le Caselle enjoying some grappa and peaches. There are faint sounds of dogs barking and the hills are dotted with nervous flickering lights. There are faint voices but I don’t know where they are coming from. A family at dinner or friends gathered for a card game. There is life here in this little borgo. People, dogs, insects, electricity, The night is heavy with stars. A tiny ant crawls across the computer screen.

Friday, July 02, 2010

The day began in Todi where I went to pay my parking ticket. You must go to the Post Office and take a number. It's not unlike going to the Motor Vehicles Bureau in New York only the cast of characters is different. The clerk asks for my passport but I believe I have left it in the car, so she uses my International Drivers Permit to obtain my name and address. When I return to the car I don’t see my passport, so I think I must have left it at the house.

Back at Le Caselle Admir is hard at work in the blistering heat. I feel sorry for him, working alone and trying so hard to make a better impression. I search the house but my passport is nowhere to be found. I look under the bed, in drawers, under sheets, behind the pillows, in my suitcases and the back to the car, combing every inch. Nothing. I know I had it yesterday afternoon so I must have left it somewhere – the internet place, at the restaurant where I ate last night, or at one of the stores where I shopped. I return to Marsciano and retrace my steps, certain that I will find it. But I don’t. I call Ralph and he suggests going immediately to the Caribinieri. The last time I lost my passport, nine years ago, it was winter and I was leaving in two days. I had to rush to Florence to the Consulate and get a new passport, which was a slow and frustrating process.

The Caribinieri asks for my passport number, and although I have traveled for years with a copy of my passport, I have not brought it on this trip. I have the number in my American phone, but when I turn it on I’m unable to find the memopad. I think there’s a copy at home so I call Ralph and ask him to find it. He can’t go until Monday. The good news is I have 12 more days here so there’s no rush. The bad news is if I don’t find it I will have to go through the laborious process of getting a new one.

Tonight we went to a Sagra in Collevalenza, which was distinguished not by great food, but by a large dance arena and a loud and lively band of four men and one woman, doing Italian and American pop songs. I am always impressed by the number of couples that get up to dance and how well they do. It’s tradition and it’s generational. Judy's friend Sabra explains to me that in Italy the family is sacred; families live together, married children and parents, grandparents, and they all depend on each other, share the income. Italian parents are required to leave their money to the children; they can only leave one quarter to someone else and there has to be a good reason. Even parents and children who hate each other are doomed to reconnect after death.

Saturday, July 3

I have definitely dodged a bullet. This morning I went to he Caribinieri in Todi and as soon as I told the officer that I had lost my passport, he miraculously pulled a copy of it out of a drawer!! Someone had found it in the Piazza in Todi and returned it to the local office. I drive up to the centro storico and get the passport. I am told that an old woman found it under the arch, she must have seen me in the post office and recognized me from my passport photo because she described exactly what I had been wearing yesterday.

Joy at knowing I won't have to go through the agony of getting a new passport. I go to Izzalini to an antique market and notice that tonight and every Saturday in July, they are having a Ben Gazzara film festival in the small piazza! A native son. If I don't make it there tonight, I will go next Saturday. It's a real Cinema Paradiso moment and one not to be missed.

The Bad News and the Good News

A call from Judy...
I have some good news and some bad news, she says. I think I'll give you the bad news first because the good news is so good that when you hear it you'll forget about the bad news. All I hear is that there is bad news and my throat clamps up, as though I am being strangled. When I was in Umbria in November I left behind a post-dated check for Fausto to give to the mysterious MM in case he called back for the remainder of what he said I owed him. I later decided I did not want him to have the check, since his claim against me was unfair, so I told Fausto not to give it to him. Apparently I was too late; Fausto had already given him the check. Now he had tried to cash it and for some reason the bank would not honor it. Judy was afraid that I did not have enough money in the bank and I'd fall short of my mortgage payment. I assured her that the money was there but reiterated that I did not want this moocher to get paid. My heart began to race, a headache of major proportion was looming. Had something gone awry with my bank account? I had recently sent over $5000; how could it be empty? Had MM altered the amount on the check and taken everything?

Now for the good news. One of the neighbors - the gentleman who made a tremendous fuss because he claimed never to have been paid for yardwork that Carlo engaged him for; the same one who insisted I remove a small pile of rocks that had fallen into his garden twenty years ago - had been struck by a car and killed. I suppose Judy must have thought that this would bring me unbridled joy, this prospect of never having to bend again to the will of someone who saw me as an income stream and a way to improve the value of his property. Judy added that the man's wife had been unhappy living in the borgo so it was likely that she would be moving at some point (was she taking the mother and two brothers-in-law with her, I wondered?)

I thought about what it might be like to be a young woman sentenced to living in a place she dislikes with a feeble, aging mother-in-law and a yard full of junk. What are her prospects of marrying again (better than mine, probably)? It's also certainly possible that the entire family could move and be replaced by one even more troublesome. And how would any change really affect me since I'm only there a few weeks out of the year?