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.