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?

Over the next few days the electricity short-curcuited frequently, and until we learned that our capacity was a mere 3000 watts, we’d turn on the two stufe (1000 watts each) immediately upon entering the house, along with a couple of overhead lights. Throw in the computer and battery chargers and “boom!”; we are in darkness.

Fumbling in the dark and cursing the teeny lock that Fausto had put on the fuse box outside of the largest house, Ralph dutifully came to the rescue each time the lights went out, sometimes two or three times in one evening. It’s common in the Italian countryside to be suddenly thrust into darkness for a few minutes. Natives take it in stride and continue doing whatever they were doing until the lights come up again, always having candles at the ready.

I was determined to use the large kitchen fireplace for the first time. I constructed a small tower of twigs and logs from the supply that Fausto had thoughtfully provided. There are few things more evocative than the sight and smell of a wood-burning fireplace with its promise of warmth, coziness, romance and history. A fire, a book, a blanket, and the leisure time to enjoy them – these, to me, spell a happy and contented life. I approached this first flame with great anticipation of peace and tranquility.

The kitchen began to fill with smoke almost immediately. Ralph padded down the stairs and rearranged the logs and twigs to conduct the smoke upwards, but to no avail. I opened the front door to allow the smoke to filter outwards, and for a while at least the room cleared. But it grew cold, and I had no choice but to bulk up with more clothes or let the fire die down. I grabbed the camera and started clicking from every angle, capturing this inaugural fire for posterity; indeed, one of the photos, later uploaded and paired with poetic good wishes for the New Year, became my 2009 Holiday e-card.

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.