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.