Saturday, November 27

Saturday, November 27

It was beyond cold in my little igloo last night and I was still in a New York state of mind. Fleece pajamas, heavy socks, a pashmina wrapped around my neck, thermal underwear and a down comforter were of no help when I had to get up and pee. I was shaking and the toilet seat was frozen. I was afraid to leave the little stufa on all night. What if there was an electrical fire or something? In retrospect that might have been preferable to the arctic air that enveloped me when I emerged from under the blanket.

Preparations for my morning shower included gathering many layers of clothing and bringing them into the bathroom so I could begin dressing while the hot shower was still running. The towels were still damp from yesterday; there’s no way anything is going to dry in this house.

I cannot run the two stufe together; the electrical capacity of the house is limited and running them both at the same time causes the electricity to go off. So it takes a while for the kitchen to warm up and the espresso to percolate. I’m off to Terni this morning in search of the Mercato Usato that Leslie took us to on my last trip. I have vague directions to look for the zona industriale and I figure I will recognize the place when I see it.

Turns out Terni has no less than four industrial zones. Plus it’s Saturday and many stores are only open in the morning, so Terni, a rather large city, is clogged with traffic. I ask someone if they know where the Punta Usato is, but the directions, in rapid Italian, are pretty useless. “Vicino la stazione”, says an auto worker, indicating that the place I’m looking for is near the train station. When I ask where the station is, he begins a rapid fire succession of sinistras, destras and direttos, with a couple of giros thrown in for good measure. I smile and nod and thank him profusely.

I stop in a mini shopping mall just out of curiosity. It occurs to me that there’s little if any middle of the road product in Italy; it’s either high-end or Wal Mart quality (is that an oxymoron?) For a country known for its Bella Figura and luxury fashion designers, most of the clothing and furniture you see is rather ghastly. Even so, the average Italian still cuts a sexy confident figure. You get the impression that they are all thinking about sex all the time. Which could explain why the Italians tolerate a leader like Berlusconi and why their economy is on the verge of collapsing.

I am not successful in finding the mercato and am eager to leave the Terni traffic jam, so I head towards the truffle festival in Valtopina, near Spello. Trawling the internet for my pre-trip research I discovered the beautifully designed on-line promotional brochure for this festival, promising tastings, a presentation of truffle hunting dogs, and even information about joining a truffle hunt, which really piqued my interest. The reality was about two dozen vendors who set up shop in a couple of tents outside of Valtopina centro. The stalls were beautifully arrayed and the products were varied – salse tartuffi, exotic cured meats like mortadella cinghale with truffles, artisanal biscuits, truffled cheeses with fruit compote. I entered a raffle although I’m not sure what the prize was but I was told it was something that would happen in June, so if I win it would be another reason to return to Italy.

I met Stef and Bob (Stefania and Roberto) who were thrilled to find out I was from New York and asked me if I thought they could sell their parmagiano cheese – very special since it’s from a mountain area close by – in Manhattan. I promised to email them some suggested places they could approach and they thanked me by gifting me a burlap sack stamped with PARMAGIANO REGGIANO that I had been admiring.

The truffle hunting dogs were all in a cage at the entrance, along with some brochures about the area and various pet food products, some of which I am sure contained truffles. When I asked about the truffle hunt – even pointing to the description in the brochure – no one seemed to have any information. Valtopina turned out to be a tiny town, with a textile museum that, like everything else, on Saturday after 12 noon, was closed.

This part of Umbria – the Vall d’Umbra – is very different from the Todi side. Mountains are visible everywhere, many with snow-tipped peaks. One had a broad, round top and approaching it felt like I was about to land on the moon. I am scheduled to have dinner at Judy and Fausto's tonight so I stop at a COOP supermarket and pick up a bottle of Lungarotti Rubesco, a local table wine of very good quality that is one of my favorites. The amount of wine that I consume daily when I am here would send me right into a twelve step program back home. I promise myself I will spend time at the gym tomorrow, but for now I am looking forward to Thanksgiving leftovers Italian style!

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.