Looking up at the sky, I swear I'm back in my high school planetarium in Pennsylvania watching the ceiling as my Astronomy teacher takes us around the heavens. The stars are so many and so clear. Stunning all around.
But this is to be expected because I am in rural Italy. The closest town is a good 10-15 minute drive away and it's not even that big of a town (less than 2,000 people). The house sits on 75 acres where it happily accommodates 17 cats, three horses, numerous chickens and Lucie and Peter, two Brits in their mid 40s. Never wanting to have children, they directed their love towards animals, especially cats. They are everywhere. But all kind and sweet, each with different personalities (as I type this, Pip, the softest kitten ever, sits on my lap).
I have been in the house two nights and I already know that this stay will be quite different from my last host. I couldn't put my finger on it until I got here as to what I felt was wrong with the last host stay. There was such a disconnection between everyone in the house and most of all, it seemed to lacking joy. Not this house. Between Peter, Sue and Rob (two other helpers from the UK), someone is always cracking a joke or laughing out loud. Rob and Sue have to be some of the happiest people I have ever met. You would never know that are completely bankrupt and carry everything they own in their suitcases. Having lost everything in a business gone bad in New Zealand, they are forced to travel doing HelpX as a way to stay afloat until they sort out matters. In their mid 50s, you would think there would be some sort of stress on their face, but no, they seem to be having the time of their lives.
For anyone that knows me, they know that I can't stand being cold. That is a serious problem here since the temperatures have started to drop, making it only to the mid 50s during the day and down into the low forties at night, sometimes lower. The first frost came just today. The source of heat for us is one I am getting used to - two wood burning stoves that if not lit, we have no hot water in the sinks and showers, and no heat anywhere in the house. Let's hope we don't run out of wood, shall we? Additionally, every day water needs to be pumped up from the well that sits on the property so that we have water at all. Did I mention I'm in rural Italy?
The thing about that though, is that this house is cozy and full of love. Granted, it is a bit weird to have 17 cats, but it seems to suit them quite well and in turn makes staying here a happy place to be. Being here has also cleared my head a bit and I feel better than I did in Florence. Something about listing to jazz by a wood stove, drinking wine while cats sleep cozily around you puts you in a good state of mind. To that end, I have planned out the last of my trip overseas. This weekend I head to Cinque Terre, a region of Italy everyone has demanded I see. It's only a day "walkabout" trip, but it's my best shot at seeing the whole area without committing too much time to it. Next week I will be heading to some smaller Tuscan towns while the following two weekends hold local festivals that all of us in the house will be attending.
At the end of my stay here outside Arezzo, I have decided to take in some sights other than Italy. Being that the temperatures will continue to drop and I really do not have the clothes to bundle up adequately, I have decided to head south to Athens, Greece. I'll be there part of the last full week I'm in Europe and then will head back to Rome to finish out my Italian days. I land in Philadelphia on Tuesday, November 23rd and have Thanksgiving dinner with my family that Thursday. A flight to Austin on Friday and then nothing. A blank page to fill.
Well, after a margarita and veggie nachos at Polvo's.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Three Hour Tour
My mother says that from the pictures she's seeing on Facebook, she thinks I may be losing weight. Whatever imaginary weight I may or may not have lost has been totally nullified by the meal I just had at La Giostra. It's 11:17 and the bill has just arrived with a total cost of 37 euros. 37 euros!! How did that happen!?!
La Giostra is nestled in this small side street off of one of the more major roads in Florence. Given to me as a "must" place by a very good friend of mine who's taste in food I respect, I decided to try it out. Friday night Sally and I had tried to walk in just as it had opened it's doors at 7pm without a reservation. "Full until 9pm, sorry." I knew that restaurants filled up on the weekend quickly, but there was no one there so I didn't understand the problem. Until tonight.
I had made sure to call ahead this time, which seemed silly for one person (Sally had left Florence that morning for Naples) but I decided to play the safe route. "8pm. Solo. Si. See you then."
I get ready at my hotel, donning the best outfit I have. A turtleneck I had thrown in my suitcase at the last minute, thinking there was no way I was ever going to need it - yeah, right - a grey, soft mid thigh jacket-sweater, and a cream scarf. Everyone in Italy wears scarves, all the time. You can tell what is important to them by walking through the markets - belts, purses and scarves. Everything else, who cares.
I grab my only pair of jeans and unlike my European counterpartrs who don amazingly beautiful boots of all heights and colors, I am forced to put on my Merrills shoes. The Merrills that have trounced through dog shit, pig shit, goat shit and rabbit shit. Oh yes, I feel fancy.
In an attempt to offset my sub par foot wear, I put on mascara as well as the usual eye shadow and liner. I never put on mascara unless I'm tying to feel extra special or to look good for my date. Going out for dinner alone, you do all these things for yourself. The makeup, the straightened but still slightly wavy hair, the scarf adjusted just so to help me blend in rather than scream tourist who doesn't speak Italian. There is no one here to impress, no one to bat eyelashes at, no one to appreciate anything you have to offer other than you, yourself and you. Dressing up makes me feel a bit more human, a bit more like myself.
I set off from the hotel with lots of time to spare just in case I get lost. I've walked around Florence quite a lot in the 31 hours I've been here and have a gotten a good lay of the land. Still, I feel better knowing there a complementary map folded up in my pocket. I overestimate how long it takes for me to walk there and arrive by 7:40. I walk around for a few minutes waiting until 7:45, hoping they will let me in a few minutes early.
The 7:30 crowd has already been seated and I realize immediately that this would be listed in tour books as "an ideal romantic restaurant for couples, complete with candlelight." Well crap. Eating alone surrounded by couples. AWESOME. I could turn back now, I'm sure they wouldn't care. One more table to sit TWO people at rather than just one. But no, I'm going to stick this thing out. This food had better be amazing or my "very good friend" is going to get chewed out on the phone in the near future for sending me here.
Seated in the back, there are several couples around me. I can tell that having a single eater sitting next to them is making an American couple well within ear shot uncomfortable. They know I can hear their every word and it isn't until their wine starts flowing that they start to talk more openly. For me though, and everyone else, the night starts out with a complementary glass of procsecco and a complementary plate of hors d'oeuvre, usually to be split between two people, but I get this all to myself. Alright, maybe I won't kill my friend quite yet, she's bought her self a little extra time.
I've gotten by with mostly Italian, but when it comes to ordering, I have no idea what to get. I ask the waiter in english for recommendations and he rattles things off quite quickly, but I hear one of them has something to do with a lot of cheese and the other is pear ravioli. Those both sound good to me. And to drink? Well, actually, can I just have another glass of prosecco? I was in the Uffizi museum earlier today (not the one with the David, the other one with the Madonna) and had a glass of prosecco to celebrate myself, why stop now?
The waiter seems to wave it off like it's not even an order, saying he'll take care of it. Not sure what that means until he comes back with a bottle that has been used to fill other diner's complementary glasses but still has a good two glasses left in it. He fills my flute to the brim and after inspecting the bottle, says something about there not being that much left and leaves the bottle on my table. Well alrighty then.
After scarfing down my plate of complementary appetizers, the cheese plate I ordered has arrived. A bowl of cheese that isn't quite like mozzarella - it's light and creamery and slightly stringy - is the main event with sides of sliced grapefruit, walnuts, pine nuts, jam and honey, all to be made into different delectable combinations with the cheese. And delictable it is. Again, a plate to be shared between two people, I scarf it down myself.
While I eat, I tune into the conversations around me. The two couples flanking me could not be more different. To my right, newlyweds who go from periods of long silence to talking about their GPAs and where he should go for his next degree. I hear them say A&M in Galveston, and my ears perk up. Then they discuss Univesity of Texas at Austin, but dismiss it saying it's all medical there - I'm guessing they've never been to Austin. I think about interjecting but that would be admitting that I had been listening in and it sounds like they have just forgotten that I am sitting there, so who knows what good stuff they may get to talking about.
The other couple near by is the complete opposite. They chat away without a lull in their conversation. I can't help but think about the man on the bus to Amalfi giving his theory about couples that go through meals without speaking. This couple clearly had a lot to talk about. And, it turns out, it's their 40th wedding anniversary and they are traveling Europe celebrating his retirement. The discuss their daughter, the food, their neighbors - not that I'm listening or anything.
All of this around me has me missing home. A daughter and her parents are seated to my diagonal right and I wonder what it would be like if my parents were here with me right now. I'm sure they would know what to think, but I wish they were here. Or my friends. All of the wine and cheese snobs would love this place. And with that I have come to a very clear realization that has been germinating in my head for days now. While this trip is a really interesting experience, it isn't a lot of FUN. There's no one to share things with and without someone else here, it's just not the same. I can't imagine the amazing time I would have had on this trip if I had a friend or a boyfriend to share it with. I don't regret the decision to take this trip, but I wouldn't do it again. So to pass the time I make a list of the things I miss most about being home. About being around the people who make my life fun, the ones that make me laugh. (see list below)
To lighten the mood more food has arrived. I'm pretty full, but I must give it the college try and press on though this lovely dish of ravioli, a dish that looks more like yellow pillows sent from heaven than pasta.
At this point the prosecco is gone and I figure I'll have one glass of red before calling it a night. I grab the waiter's attention, but he assumes I just want more prosecco. Ok then, let the celebration continue. Again, he brings a bottle, fills up my glass and leaves the bottle. I swear, people take pity on you when you dine alone, which I am more than happy to take advantage of.
Another waiter, the strangest of strange, has been milling about helping other tables when he turns his attention to me. In his late 30s with scruffy shoulder length brown hair, a pair of 80's white sunglasses tucked on the top of his head and more bracelets than I can count down both arms, he is not someone that you miss. You can hear him coming, jingling bracelets as soon as he leaves the kitchen. He asks me in Italian if I would like some cheers for my ravioli, which I say yes to and then he proceeds to babble to me in Italian. I put on my standard deer in headlights face that is typical for me when this happens (when you speak Italian to Italians, they assume you can understand their response) and tell him I only speak a little Italian. He switches easily over to English and says, "Are you ok princess, anything else I can get you?" Princess. Princess? In the US this would have irritated me to no end, but in Italy it seems somewhat endearing. I thank him but tell him no, I'm fine and proceed to carefully work my way through the plate in front of me. After a good 30 minutes of slowly eating with purpose, I finish the dish and take a look at my watch. 10pm. Eesh. I thought I would have been back at the hotel by now, but it's just turning to limencello time. I'll be home by 11, surely. The two tables with the couples have already turned over by this point which I find mildly amusing. How does a person eating by herself outlast a couple who could be savoring so much of what is around them? I still don't know the answer.
The tables are replaced with two American women at one and two Italian women at another. No more couples thankfully. The table with the daughter and the parents have also turned over, replacing it with three young men who are now just siting down to eat. At 10:15. I don't get how this works, but apparently the restaurant will be seating people until midnight. I order my limencello to expedite the process - I mean, I have been here for over 2 hours already alone, it's time to wrap it up. The waiter brings the bottle of limencello and pours me a small standard glass. And what do you think he did with the bottle? Yup, he left it there. "Have as much as you like," he says. Are you insane? This stuff is 40 proof! But ok, don't mind if I do. I still have the prosecco bottle on my table as well as the water bottle. Between the three bottles, I look like a raging alcoholic. Sitting by myself with numerous bottles of various liquid. Lovely.
I finish my glass and have a very small amount more. The waiter comes back around and fills my glass again. Oh good god people, what is it with Italians and trying to get me drunk?! He comes around a third time and I stop him from adding anymore and ask for the check.
I start to do the numbers in my head. A glass of prosecco in the States would be $7 so that means about 5 euro and I had four, approximately. And then limencello. Another 5 or 6, at least. Two bottles of water at 2 euro each, the service charge of 3 euro and then the actual meal, 14 euro for the cheese dish and 18 euro for the ravioli. That's approximately 67 euro. Humph. That's not cheap, but it's 11:15 and I've been here for almost 3.5 hours, at a table by myself eating delicious food and drinking wonderful wine and spirits. And it's not like I'm doing this often in Italy, so I can indulge the the higher cost. A little wooden box with the check inside comes and there is the completely unexpected number of 37 euro.
I pay the bill leaving a little extra to say thanks and attempt to breathe in my now very tight jeans. I feel like everyone is watching me getting up, watching the person who came to the restaurant eating alone. Why is she alone? And why would she come out in public? All of these irrational accusations go running through my head, but I know they are completely exaggerated and unrealistic. This is my obsession with being alone, not theirs.
I wrap myself in my coat, adjust my scarf to keep the cold from winding its way down my neck into my jacket and set off for the hotel. 11:30 and the town is just coming alive. Bars and gelatarias are packed, everyone is filling the streets for the start to a typical Saturday night in Florence. Me? I'm headed back to a queen bed in a room that barely fits it, to my iPad where Facebook will tell me about all of the goings-on in people's lives for the day and to knowing that tomorrow I will leave for Arezzo, home to my third and final host in Italy. My stay is coming into its final chapters and (unlike my previous more bold and steadfast Half n Half post) that is just fine with me.
La Giostra is nestled in this small side street off of one of the more major roads in Florence. Given to me as a "must" place by a very good friend of mine who's taste in food I respect, I decided to try it out. Friday night Sally and I had tried to walk in just as it had opened it's doors at 7pm without a reservation. "Full until 9pm, sorry." I knew that restaurants filled up on the weekend quickly, but there was no one there so I didn't understand the problem. Until tonight.
I had made sure to call ahead this time, which seemed silly for one person (Sally had left Florence that morning for Naples) but I decided to play the safe route. "8pm. Solo. Si. See you then."
I get ready at my hotel, donning the best outfit I have. A turtleneck I had thrown in my suitcase at the last minute, thinking there was no way I was ever going to need it - yeah, right - a grey, soft mid thigh jacket-sweater, and a cream scarf. Everyone in Italy wears scarves, all the time. You can tell what is important to them by walking through the markets - belts, purses and scarves. Everything else, who cares.
I grab my only pair of jeans and unlike my European counterpartrs who don amazingly beautiful boots of all heights and colors, I am forced to put on my Merrills shoes. The Merrills that have trounced through dog shit, pig shit, goat shit and rabbit shit. Oh yes, I feel fancy.
In an attempt to offset my sub par foot wear, I put on mascara as well as the usual eye shadow and liner. I never put on mascara unless I'm tying to feel extra special or to look good for my date. Going out for dinner alone, you do all these things for yourself. The makeup, the straightened but still slightly wavy hair, the scarf adjusted just so to help me blend in rather than scream tourist who doesn't speak Italian. There is no one here to impress, no one to bat eyelashes at, no one to appreciate anything you have to offer other than you, yourself and you. Dressing up makes me feel a bit more human, a bit more like myself.
I set off from the hotel with lots of time to spare just in case I get lost. I've walked around Florence quite a lot in the 31 hours I've been here and have a gotten a good lay of the land. Still, I feel better knowing there a complementary map folded up in my pocket. I overestimate how long it takes for me to walk there and arrive by 7:40. I walk around for a few minutes waiting until 7:45, hoping they will let me in a few minutes early.
The 7:30 crowd has already been seated and I realize immediately that this would be listed in tour books as "an ideal romantic restaurant for couples, complete with candlelight." Well crap. Eating alone surrounded by couples. AWESOME. I could turn back now, I'm sure they wouldn't care. One more table to sit TWO people at rather than just one. But no, I'm going to stick this thing out. This food had better be amazing or my "very good friend" is going to get chewed out on the phone in the near future for sending me here.
Seated in the back, there are several couples around me. I can tell that having a single eater sitting next to them is making an American couple well within ear shot uncomfortable. They know I can hear their every word and it isn't until their wine starts flowing that they start to talk more openly. For me though, and everyone else, the night starts out with a complementary glass of procsecco and a complementary plate of hors d'oeuvre, usually to be split between two people, but I get this all to myself. Alright, maybe I won't kill my friend quite yet, she's bought her self a little extra time.
I've gotten by with mostly Italian, but when it comes to ordering, I have no idea what to get. I ask the waiter in english for recommendations and he rattles things off quite quickly, but I hear one of them has something to do with a lot of cheese and the other is pear ravioli. Those both sound good to me. And to drink? Well, actually, can I just have another glass of prosecco? I was in the Uffizi museum earlier today (not the one with the David, the other one with the Madonna) and had a glass of prosecco to celebrate myself, why stop now?
The waiter seems to wave it off like it's not even an order, saying he'll take care of it. Not sure what that means until he comes back with a bottle that has been used to fill other diner's complementary glasses but still has a good two glasses left in it. He fills my flute to the brim and after inspecting the bottle, says something about there not being that much left and leaves the bottle on my table. Well alrighty then.
After scarfing down my plate of complementary appetizers, the cheese plate I ordered has arrived. A bowl of cheese that isn't quite like mozzarella - it's light and creamery and slightly stringy - is the main event with sides of sliced grapefruit, walnuts, pine nuts, jam and honey, all to be made into different delectable combinations with the cheese. And delictable it is. Again, a plate to be shared between two people, I scarf it down myself.
While I eat, I tune into the conversations around me. The two couples flanking me could not be more different. To my right, newlyweds who go from periods of long silence to talking about their GPAs and where he should go for his next degree. I hear them say A&M in Galveston, and my ears perk up. Then they discuss Univesity of Texas at Austin, but dismiss it saying it's all medical there - I'm guessing they've never been to Austin. I think about interjecting but that would be admitting that I had been listening in and it sounds like they have just forgotten that I am sitting there, so who knows what good stuff they may get to talking about.
The other couple near by is the complete opposite. They chat away without a lull in their conversation. I can't help but think about the man on the bus to Amalfi giving his theory about couples that go through meals without speaking. This couple clearly had a lot to talk about. And, it turns out, it's their 40th wedding anniversary and they are traveling Europe celebrating his retirement. The discuss their daughter, the food, their neighbors - not that I'm listening or anything.
All of this around me has me missing home. A daughter and her parents are seated to my diagonal right and I wonder what it would be like if my parents were here with me right now. I'm sure they would know what to think, but I wish they were here. Or my friends. All of the wine and cheese snobs would love this place. And with that I have come to a very clear realization that has been germinating in my head for days now. While this trip is a really interesting experience, it isn't a lot of FUN. There's no one to share things with and without someone else here, it's just not the same. I can't imagine the amazing time I would have had on this trip if I had a friend or a boyfriend to share it with. I don't regret the decision to take this trip, but I wouldn't do it again. So to pass the time I make a list of the things I miss most about being home. About being around the people who make my life fun, the ones that make me laugh. (see list below)
To lighten the mood more food has arrived. I'm pretty full, but I must give it the college try and press on though this lovely dish of ravioli, a dish that looks more like yellow pillows sent from heaven than pasta.
At this point the prosecco is gone and I figure I'll have one glass of red before calling it a night. I grab the waiter's attention, but he assumes I just want more prosecco. Ok then, let the celebration continue. Again, he brings a bottle, fills up my glass and leaves the bottle. I swear, people take pity on you when you dine alone, which I am more than happy to take advantage of.
Another waiter, the strangest of strange, has been milling about helping other tables when he turns his attention to me. In his late 30s with scruffy shoulder length brown hair, a pair of 80's white sunglasses tucked on the top of his head and more bracelets than I can count down both arms, he is not someone that you miss. You can hear him coming, jingling bracelets as soon as he leaves the kitchen. He asks me in Italian if I would like some cheers for my ravioli, which I say yes to and then he proceeds to babble to me in Italian. I put on my standard deer in headlights face that is typical for me when this happens (when you speak Italian to Italians, they assume you can understand their response) and tell him I only speak a little Italian. He switches easily over to English and says, "Are you ok princess, anything else I can get you?" Princess. Princess? In the US this would have irritated me to no end, but in Italy it seems somewhat endearing. I thank him but tell him no, I'm fine and proceed to carefully work my way through the plate in front of me. After a good 30 minutes of slowly eating with purpose, I finish the dish and take a look at my watch. 10pm. Eesh. I thought I would have been back at the hotel by now, but it's just turning to limencello time. I'll be home by 11, surely. The two tables with the couples have already turned over by this point which I find mildly amusing. How does a person eating by herself outlast a couple who could be savoring so much of what is around them? I still don't know the answer.
The tables are replaced with two American women at one and two Italian women at another. No more couples thankfully. The table with the daughter and the parents have also turned over, replacing it with three young men who are now just siting down to eat. At 10:15. I don't get how this works, but apparently the restaurant will be seating people until midnight. I order my limencello to expedite the process - I mean, I have been here for over 2 hours already alone, it's time to wrap it up. The waiter brings the bottle of limencello and pours me a small standard glass. And what do you think he did with the bottle? Yup, he left it there. "Have as much as you like," he says. Are you insane? This stuff is 40 proof! But ok, don't mind if I do. I still have the prosecco bottle on my table as well as the water bottle. Between the three bottles, I look like a raging alcoholic. Sitting by myself with numerous bottles of various liquid. Lovely.
I finish my glass and have a very small amount more. The waiter comes back around and fills my glass again. Oh good god people, what is it with Italians and trying to get me drunk?! He comes around a third time and I stop him from adding anymore and ask for the check.
I start to do the numbers in my head. A glass of prosecco in the States would be $7 so that means about 5 euro and I had four, approximately. And then limencello. Another 5 or 6, at least. Two bottles of water at 2 euro each, the service charge of 3 euro and then the actual meal, 14 euro for the cheese dish and 18 euro for the ravioli. That's approximately 67 euro. Humph. That's not cheap, but it's 11:15 and I've been here for almost 3.5 hours, at a table by myself eating delicious food and drinking wonderful wine and spirits. And it's not like I'm doing this often in Italy, so I can indulge the the higher cost. A little wooden box with the check inside comes and there is the completely unexpected number of 37 euro.
I pay the bill leaving a little extra to say thanks and attempt to breathe in my now very tight jeans. I feel like everyone is watching me getting up, watching the person who came to the restaurant eating alone. Why is she alone? And why would she come out in public? All of these irrational accusations go running through my head, but I know they are completely exaggerated and unrealistic. This is my obsession with being alone, not theirs.
I wrap myself in my coat, adjust my scarf to keep the cold from winding its way down my neck into my jacket and set off for the hotel. 11:30 and the town is just coming alive. Bars and gelatarias are packed, everyone is filling the streets for the start to a typical Saturday night in Florence. Me? I'm headed back to a queen bed in a room that barely fits it, to my iPad where Facebook will tell me about all of the goings-on in people's lives for the day and to knowing that tomorrow I will leave for Arezzo, home to my third and final host in Italy. My stay is coming into its final chapters and (unlike my previous more bold and steadfast Half n Half post) that is just fine with me.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Photos - Next Batch
Saturday, October 23, 2010
My Top 15
After having just completed a three hour dinner alone in Florence - details to come later - I have come up with my own "15" list. These types of lists seem prevalent on Facebook about movies, songs or places and so I have concocted my own. The top 15 (kinda personal) things I miss most about being home (in no particular order):
1) Driving my car wherever and whenever I want
2) Tuesday dinners with Waltonian (and her other half for allowing us to do so)
3) My cat Simi (who will finally be allowed to sleep in my bedroom at night when I get back)
4) Conversations spanning all of everything in life with BlueDuke
5) Hitting a solid forehand during tennis practice
6) Weekend mornings with my ex
7) The "L" in my couch where I can just sink in and zone out for a bit
8) Being chatty Kathys with LaceFace
9) Polvo's - and all that comes with it
10) Going anywhere with the Kealeys - they never make you feel like a third wheel and are always awesome to hang out with
11) Being able to clean 100+ lbs at the gym
12) Vixen's honest and no BS advice and LCs unwavering positive attitude
13) Phrogaritas and hearing the two owners latest stories about where they've been and what they've been up to
14) Anything having to do with my family or with my friends back in Philly
15) Warm Austin weather where people put on scarves if it gets below 70
1) Driving my car wherever and whenever I want
2) Tuesday dinners with Waltonian (and her other half for allowing us to do so)
3) My cat Simi (who will finally be allowed to sleep in my bedroom at night when I get back)
4) Conversations spanning all of everything in life with BlueDuke
5) Hitting a solid forehand during tennis practice
6) Weekend mornings with my ex
7) The "L" in my couch where I can just sink in and zone out for a bit
8) Being chatty Kathys with LaceFace
9) Polvo's - and all that comes with it
10) Going anywhere with the Kealeys - they never make you feel like a third wheel and are always awesome to hang out with
11) Being able to clean 100+ lbs at the gym
12) Vixen's honest and no BS advice and LCs unwavering positive attitude
13) Phrogaritas and hearing the two owners latest stories about where they've been and what they've been up to
14) Anything having to do with my family or with my friends back in Philly
15) Warm Austin weather where people put on scarves if it gets below 70
It's As Easy As Riding a Bike
The yellow leaves everywhere send the clear signal that it is autumn in Italy. Not only that, but the highs are hitting maybe 55 degrees with the lows in the low 40s. Despite the favorable weather forecast, our Saturday bike trip to Imola seems destined to be cold and wet.
There are five bikes to choose from. The newest, a Gamma, looks like a standard bike with three gears. With it's fairly new blue paint, the brand name in shiney silver and the considerably reduced amount of rust compared to the rest, this is obviously the newest and best bike to have. Sally has comendeered said bike since it has the best seat, which will suit her bum quite well, she says. Leaving the two bikes with the worst seats to the youngings to deal with - they are only 22 and skinny as rails - they'll fare just fine. This leaves me with a light blue or light green - I can't tell - bike that looks like it was made in the 70s. By the horizontal bar, I can tell it's a men's bike, but the height fits me just fine. If only I had a basket, I could feel like I was completely basking "under the Tuscan sun". With our misfit collection of bikes and just as much a misfit collection of women, we set off for Imola.
It is chilly. The one store we pass signals to us that is 10 C or ... f. I have my Eagles knit cap on, my rain jacket and two different colored socks used as gloves. All bundled up, we trek the easy 40 minute bike ride into Imola, stopping to take picturesque photos and admire where we are.
Imola is a fairly small town and not very touristy, thankfully. We arrive on a Saturday were the market is going on, one very similar to Rogliano. I end up making my first clothes purchase in Italy and then Sally and I decide it's wine o'clock. We have all locked up our bikes, but the youngsters are no where to be found. They must have gotten distracted at one of the market sellers, so we set off in search of wine.
We settle into a cafe and have a few glasses with complementary crostinis. We chat about what life is like for each of us back home, what we miss, what we hope to do in the future, and what we've experienced so far on our trips. Sally hopes to someday buy a large plot of land in New Zealand and renovate it to become a home stay. She has the land all picked out, she's just trying to convince her husband to take the plunge and move from Perth back to her native country. After about an hour or so of people watching and talking, we roam around Imola for awhile before deciding to head back towards the farm. Its about 2:30 and with the time it takes to bike back and then up the hill to Dozza, we should arrive right around the time that shops start to reopen. Plus, there's the castle to see if we need to waste time.
The bike ride back just the two of us is easier and much warmer. The sun has decided to come out and we can actually peel off some of our many layers. Sally insists that I go first since I'm the one in better shape - this gives me the entire road (when a car isn't coming) to zig zag along, running my hands through the high grass that coats the sides of the road. There are vineyards on each side of us in patches and I can't help but take a cliché, and totally necessary, shot of the scenery (see Facebook). Then we get to the road leading up to Dozza. Now Dozza has beautiful views of much of the countryside because it is up on a hill. One has to climb said hill to get the views though and on a bike with no gears and limited functionality in general, walking the bikes up becomes the obvious option. This hike makes the stairs in Amalfi seem Ike a cake walk. After about 25 minutes of huffing and puffing, we reach the edge of town and can relax somewhat before continuing on into the center of town. It's almost 4 at the is point and while shops may be opening in the next 30 minutes or so, we decide to check out the castle to get some culture.
The Dozza castle is amazing. Well preserved and off the beaten track, Sally and I have the whole thing to ourselves for a good 30 minutes before we see anyone else. Underneath the castle is one of Italy's most famous enotecas (wine shop). There are special tastings that go on throughout the year starting at about 45 euro a person. These are obviously for the reserved wines because everything on the shelves is under ten euro. This is the most frustrating thing for me because I have access to all of this wonderful, local and cheap wine and I can't take it with me! I settle on four bottles and call it a day.
It's almost five and wine o'clock has come around again. We settle into one of the trattorias and share a bottle while we wait out the rainy afternoon that seems to descended upon us. With no sign of the precipitation letting up, we decided to hunker down for dinner there as well. We have the most amazing salame plate and then two specials of the house, both made with tagollini pasta. After tasting both dishes, we decide Sally has definitely won - her truffle sauce is so delicate and tasteful that my traditional Ragu can't compete. I hate it when the other person has the better dish! We wrap up dinner with some limencello (shocker) and to our delight, the rain has subsided. Our bikes had been under cover the whole time, so we hop aboard our mechanical steeds and set off back down the hill. At this point, it is about 8:30 pm and night has fallen with no moonlight or other means of light. This makes us completely reliant on my little bike light. Down the hill we go from Dozza but we have to stop repeatedly because the grade is too steep and the gravel too slick to ride down. We get the to the last section of the hill and coast down, my little bike light giving us a short warning as to the ground ahead. I have to laugh out loud at how comical the situation is, two virtual strangers on really old bikes with bad brakes have a bottle or two of wine together and then go down a steep hill with very little light on a slick gravel road - brilliant! Somehow we make it down the hill in one piece and a short two minutes on the road has us back in the driveway of farm. The dogs greet us at the gate and we head inside to warm up by the stove that has finally been lit in the kitchen and to swap stories of the day with the rest of the house.
There are five bikes to choose from. The newest, a Gamma, looks like a standard bike with three gears. With it's fairly new blue paint, the brand name in shiney silver and the considerably reduced amount of rust compared to the rest, this is obviously the newest and best bike to have. Sally has comendeered said bike since it has the best seat, which will suit her bum quite well, she says. Leaving the two bikes with the worst seats to the youngings to deal with - they are only 22 and skinny as rails - they'll fare just fine. This leaves me with a light blue or light green - I can't tell - bike that looks like it was made in the 70s. By the horizontal bar, I can tell it's a men's bike, but the height fits me just fine. If only I had a basket, I could feel like I was completely basking "under the Tuscan sun". With our misfit collection of bikes and just as much a misfit collection of women, we set off for Imola.
It is chilly. The one store we pass signals to us that is 10 C or ... f. I have my Eagles knit cap on, my rain jacket and two different colored socks used as gloves. All bundled up, we trek the easy 40 minute bike ride into Imola, stopping to take picturesque photos and admire where we are.
Imola is a fairly small town and not very touristy, thankfully. We arrive on a Saturday were the market is going on, one very similar to Rogliano. I end up making my first clothes purchase in Italy and then Sally and I decide it's wine o'clock. We have all locked up our bikes, but the youngsters are no where to be found. They must have gotten distracted at one of the market sellers, so we set off in search of wine.
We settle into a cafe and have a few glasses with complementary crostinis. We chat about what life is like for each of us back home, what we miss, what we hope to do in the future, and what we've experienced so far on our trips. Sally hopes to someday buy a large plot of land in New Zealand and renovate it to become a home stay. She has the land all picked out, she's just trying to convince her husband to take the plunge and move from Perth back to her native country. After about an hour or so of people watching and talking, we roam around Imola for awhile before deciding to head back towards the farm. Its about 2:30 and with the time it takes to bike back and then up the hill to Dozza, we should arrive right around the time that shops start to reopen. Plus, there's the castle to see if we need to waste time.
The bike ride back just the two of us is easier and much warmer. The sun has decided to come out and we can actually peel off some of our many layers. Sally insists that I go first since I'm the one in better shape - this gives me the entire road (when a car isn't coming) to zig zag along, running my hands through the high grass that coats the sides of the road. There are vineyards on each side of us in patches and I can't help but take a cliché, and totally necessary, shot of the scenery (see Facebook). Then we get to the road leading up to Dozza. Now Dozza has beautiful views of much of the countryside because it is up on a hill. One has to climb said hill to get the views though and on a bike with no gears and limited functionality in general, walking the bikes up becomes the obvious option. This hike makes the stairs in Amalfi seem Ike a cake walk. After about 25 minutes of huffing and puffing, we reach the edge of town and can relax somewhat before continuing on into the center of town. It's almost 4 at the is point and while shops may be opening in the next 30 minutes or so, we decide to check out the castle to get some culture.
The Dozza castle is amazing. Well preserved and off the beaten track, Sally and I have the whole thing to ourselves for a good 30 minutes before we see anyone else. Underneath the castle is one of Italy's most famous enotecas (wine shop). There are special tastings that go on throughout the year starting at about 45 euro a person. These are obviously for the reserved wines because everything on the shelves is under ten euro. This is the most frustrating thing for me because I have access to all of this wonderful, local and cheap wine and I can't take it with me! I settle on four bottles and call it a day.
It's almost five and wine o'clock has come around again. We settle into one of the trattorias and share a bottle while we wait out the rainy afternoon that seems to descended upon us. With no sign of the precipitation letting up, we decided to hunker down for dinner there as well. We have the most amazing salame plate and then two specials of the house, both made with tagollini pasta. After tasting both dishes, we decide Sally has definitely won - her truffle sauce is so delicate and tasteful that my traditional Ragu can't compete. I hate it when the other person has the better dish! We wrap up dinner with some limencello (shocker) and to our delight, the rain has subsided. Our bikes had been under cover the whole time, so we hop aboard our mechanical steeds and set off back down the hill. At this point, it is about 8:30 pm and night has fallen with no moonlight or other means of light. This makes us completely reliant on my little bike light. Down the hill we go from Dozza but we have to stop repeatedly because the grade is too steep and the gravel too slick to ride down. We get the to the last section of the hill and coast down, my little bike light giving us a short warning as to the ground ahead. I have to laugh out loud at how comical the situation is, two virtual strangers on really old bikes with bad brakes have a bottle or two of wine together and then go down a steep hill with very little light on a slick gravel road - brilliant! Somehow we make it down the hill in one piece and a short two minutes on the road has us back in the driveway of farm. The dogs greet us at the gate and we head inside to warm up by the stove that has finally been lit in the kitchen and to swap stories of the day with the rest of the house.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Half N Half
Today, as the counter to the right of this post in reminding me, is the half way point of my time here in Italy. 35 of 70 days have passed.
It makes me sad to think about coming back to the real world (and no one take that as an insult, I still miss all of you :) ). Maybe after another 35 days I'll be sick of all of this, but being over here seems to bring out a better version of myself, if that makes any sense. I feel healthier, I feel stronger and I feel like every day holds something new and exciting (even if not enjoyable, like those damn goats). I don't know how to take this feeling with me. If I could figure that out, my life would be made. Going need to chew on that for awhile.
It makes me sad to think about coming back to the real world (and no one take that as an insult, I still miss all of you :) ). Maybe after another 35 days I'll be sick of all of this, but being over here seems to bring out a better version of myself, if that makes any sense. I feel healthier, I feel stronger and I feel like every day holds something new and exciting (even if not enjoyable, like those damn goats). I don't know how to take this feeling with me. If I could figure that out, my life would be made. Going need to chew on that for awhile.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
A Day in the Life - Dozza
I'm not sure which irritates me more, feeding the pigs or rounding up the goats after they graze. It's a toss up. There are only two pigs, but the smell... Wow, the smell. And the goats - five of the seven are angels and go back in the pen after grazing with relatively no problem. But then there's those last two... They remind me of those kids in elementary school that used to steal your lunch or favorite toy and as soon as you got close to them, they'd run away laughing, taunting you. Same thing here. Let's just say there is a lot of baiting with bread or grabbing of the horns to get them back where they belong. Other than those two chores, staying at Victoria and Davide's (pronounced Dav-e-day) has grown on me since the first day I arrived.
The experience is completely different from anything like Maria and Keith's. There are no huge family dinners, much less personal interaction and the work is much more physical. The most fun comes from talking to the guests that stay here, an Aussie and two Canadians, plus two other helpers from the US. Sally, the Aussie, and I get along quite well and it's nice to have someone to talk to, but she's only here a few days. The Canadians are almost out of college and are traveling to wrap up some course work. Very bubbly about life but not the sharpest tools in the shed. There is a long term helper from Germany as well, Marco, who specializes in building. He doesn't really talk much but is fluent in English - he replies to most questions and requests with his most utilized phrase in a thick German accent, "No problem." Lastly, the helpers from San Francisco are a couple in their mid 20s who decided to quit their jobs and travel for almost a year together. It was either that or use the money to get married - good choice in my mind.
As for the farm, the family has decided to undertake quite a large project by adding two rooms, a living room, and a dining room. Because of that, the entire property is one gigantic construction site. Additionally, Davide doesn't really throw things away for fear that he may one day need that fifth bathtub or that giant wrought iron driveway gate. Yes, you can find it all here folks - need four rusty radiators? How about twelve somewhat functional wooden doors? Can I interest you in a pair of glass doors etched with some random pub's name? I know I can sell you on two moldy mattresses with no box springs! Just come on down! We've got what YOU need!! You get the picture. Somehow this all fits into Davide's grand scheme, but we have yet to figure out how.
Our days starts at 7:30am to feed the animals - the pigs, the goats, the puppies and the kitten. The two pigs, which are massive, are housed in a very small shed and get fed a mixture of yellow powder, brown powder and random bits of bread. Add contents to a bucket of water, stir, and throw into trow inside shed. For fiber, yank an armful of tall grass and throw over into pig pen. Then it's off to the goats who are low maintenance in the morning, just clip some tress or vines and heave into pen. There are three puppies, about eight weeks old and a kitten, Spot, who recently lost his leg that all need to be fed their specific nourishment as well. After this standard morning routine, which the American couple and I split up every day, we find Davide who gives us the AM chores. Usually gardening, digging a trench, sorting firewood or some other random task. We then sit down for breakfast which has been the same every morning - granola with chocolate bits mixed in with yogurt. We make a large pot of coffee - more of what Americans would call espresso - and toast some bread to be the unappreciated vehicle for the coveted Nutella spread.
After completing the morning assignment, we usually have a small break before lunch. Then it's off to afternoon chores, which are usually just as random as the morning ones, but are more physical - moving heavy objects, setting up fencing, helping to build a shed, etc. 5:45 brings my least favorite time of day - the second feeding of the animals. Rinse, repeat from above, except the goats get to graze until they are full. This can take anywhere from 35 minutes to an hour and a half and on cold, drizzly days, it's not a lot of fun. And there's the aforementioned frustration with two said goats. Ugh, stupid goats.
To get dinner on the table faster, we asset Victoria with whatever we can, hoping to get to eat before 8:30. Oh, and after every meal I have mentioned we have dishwasher duty. Normally, no one would think much of it, but this isn't a normal scenario. Well, I guess it is a normal scenario if say, you're in the 1930's and out in the middle of nowhere USA. There is no working dishwasher and until the stove is lit in the winter, there is no hot water to any of the sinks (the showers, yes, thankfully). So, for every set of dishes, water needs to be boiled in a tea kettle and then everything needs to be washed, dried and put away. When you have nine adults eating, plus two kids and all the pots and pans that created the meal, you looking at an hour easy of clean up.
This is a standard day.
But come Saturday, I have the day off and the three girls (the Canadians and Sally) and I are heading to Imola by bike. This day would end up being the highlight of my time in Dozza.
The experience is completely different from anything like Maria and Keith's. There are no huge family dinners, much less personal interaction and the work is much more physical. The most fun comes from talking to the guests that stay here, an Aussie and two Canadians, plus two other helpers from the US. Sally, the Aussie, and I get along quite well and it's nice to have someone to talk to, but she's only here a few days. The Canadians are almost out of college and are traveling to wrap up some course work. Very bubbly about life but not the sharpest tools in the shed. There is a long term helper from Germany as well, Marco, who specializes in building. He doesn't really talk much but is fluent in English - he replies to most questions and requests with his most utilized phrase in a thick German accent, "No problem." Lastly, the helpers from San Francisco are a couple in their mid 20s who decided to quit their jobs and travel for almost a year together. It was either that or use the money to get married - good choice in my mind.
As for the farm, the family has decided to undertake quite a large project by adding two rooms, a living room, and a dining room. Because of that, the entire property is one gigantic construction site. Additionally, Davide doesn't really throw things away for fear that he may one day need that fifth bathtub or that giant wrought iron driveway gate. Yes, you can find it all here folks - need four rusty radiators? How about twelve somewhat functional wooden doors? Can I interest you in a pair of glass doors etched with some random pub's name? I know I can sell you on two moldy mattresses with no box springs! Just come on down! We've got what YOU need!! You get the picture. Somehow this all fits into Davide's grand scheme, but we have yet to figure out how.
Our days starts at 7:30am to feed the animals - the pigs, the goats, the puppies and the kitten. The two pigs, which are massive, are housed in a very small shed and get fed a mixture of yellow powder, brown powder and random bits of bread. Add contents to a bucket of water, stir, and throw into trow inside shed. For fiber, yank an armful of tall grass and throw over into pig pen. Then it's off to the goats who are low maintenance in the morning, just clip some tress or vines and heave into pen. There are three puppies, about eight weeks old and a kitten, Spot, who recently lost his leg that all need to be fed their specific nourishment as well. After this standard morning routine, which the American couple and I split up every day, we find Davide who gives us the AM chores. Usually gardening, digging a trench, sorting firewood or some other random task. We then sit down for breakfast which has been the same every morning - granola with chocolate bits mixed in with yogurt. We make a large pot of coffee - more of what Americans would call espresso - and toast some bread to be the unappreciated vehicle for the coveted Nutella spread.
After completing the morning assignment, we usually have a small break before lunch. Then it's off to afternoon chores, which are usually just as random as the morning ones, but are more physical - moving heavy objects, setting up fencing, helping to build a shed, etc. 5:45 brings my least favorite time of day - the second feeding of the animals. Rinse, repeat from above, except the goats get to graze until they are full. This can take anywhere from 35 minutes to an hour and a half and on cold, drizzly days, it's not a lot of fun. And there's the aforementioned frustration with two said goats. Ugh, stupid goats.
To get dinner on the table faster, we asset Victoria with whatever we can, hoping to get to eat before 8:30. Oh, and after every meal I have mentioned we have dishwasher duty. Normally, no one would think much of it, but this isn't a normal scenario. Well, I guess it is a normal scenario if say, you're in the 1930's and out in the middle of nowhere USA. There is no working dishwasher and until the stove is lit in the winter, there is no hot water to any of the sinks (the showers, yes, thankfully). So, for every set of dishes, water needs to be boiled in a tea kettle and then everything needs to be washed, dried and put away. When you have nine adults eating, plus two kids and all the pots and pans that created the meal, you looking at an hour easy of clean up.
This is a standard day.
But come Saturday, I have the day off and the three girls (the Canadians and Sally) and I are heading to Imola by bike. This day would end up being the highlight of my time in Dozza.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Physicality (and Metaphysicality) of It All
To say my diet has changed over here would be an understatement. For those of you that have followed my meandering food habits over the years, you know that I've been vegetarian, pseudo vegetarian, closet chicken eater (but still vegetarian), gluten free and most recently, a normal person who eats anything. With that, I have noticed a huge energy drain since I've been over here. At first I thought it was simply the gluten - it we an easy target and I know how much more energy I had when I stopped eating it for six months. At Keith and Maria's, I was eating two fairly large meals a day, plus a light breakfast. The two meals she made always had a gluten portion to it but we also always had wine. In addition, the altitude was considerably higher than I'm used to. They commented on how much more they slept when they moved here compared to the UK - I had the same thing happen to me. Despite sleeping a good nine, even ten hours a night, I was still lethargic a good portion of the day. Then there's the alcohol. Keith is definitely a drinker (but not abusively) so I think he enjoyed having someone around that appreciated wine and food. To that end, we went through a good amount of wine while I was there and we often had gin or vodka tonics before dinner as well with our appetizers. The most shocking of all of this is that I haven't gained any weight, from what I can tell. I think it's probably shifted around a bit, but being the work was so light at Keith and Maria's, I assumed that the eating and drinking would far outweigh the calories burned. Apparently not. I've actually lost some weight, but I'm pretty sure it's muscle from not lifting any weights. But apparently the gluten and the alcohol hasn't caused me to become my own version of the stay-puff marshmallow woman. Currently, at the host outside of Bologna, I am drinking considerably less. Victoria and Davide aren't big drinkers despite getting their wine for free from a neighbor (in exchange for the small grape harvest they have). The meals are very pasta heavy, with little deviation from that other than the shape of the noodles. Dinner is also much later in typical Italian style, around 8:30 or so. After doing dishes and cleaning up, it is at least 10:30 before I get to bed and I have to be up at 7am. So I'm getting less sleep, working on much more physical tasks, eating more gluten, but drinking less and my energy is surprisingly high. Initial conclusion? The devil Is in the wine. Which is my Least favorite option of all the others. Take the pasta, I'll work ten times harder and sleep only four hours, but please, leave me my wine. At first glance, this appears to be the issue and I'm not happy about it. So, I'm watching my wine intake closely and seeing how my energy level is affected.
And now to the metaphysical. How are the voices inside my head treating me these days? Well, I can say that they appeared to have let up a bit. The constant inner monologue nagging about where I am in life and the constant internal pressure to be doing more or doing better has eased. I don't feel as bad about myself anymore and my self esteem has taken a surprising jump up. Yes, it is nice to know that I can travel alone and not get (too) lost or go insane in the process. But I think it's also been the way I've gotten along with everyone for the most part. It's like that Saturday Night Live skit: 'I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and gosh darn it, people like me.' That goes a long way. I'm also getting that free space in my brain to open up a bit and let some other more productive things move in. I can focus a bit more on now and today rather than worrying so much about tomorrow. I'm still not where I want to be with my ability to focus - all those years of multi-tasking makes it really hard to shut down and tell that part of you to take a vacation. But I'm getting there and I'm figuring out the tools I need to be able to step back and take a timeout. Hopefully they will stay with me when I return to the States.
Ah yes, the return home. Not that I've given it much though at all, but I can tell you it will involve more farmers markets, less margaritas, more yoga and balanced time between friends and doing nothing. As I've hinted at before, I have a real problem saying 'no' to social activities and I'm going to have to find a way. Downtime is something I fear greatly and the consequence is ignoring things going on in my own life that need attention and I have to take three month sabbatical half way across the world to right myself.
Then there's work. I have two jobs waiting for me when I get back, my old one and a new opportunity that will most certainly be higher stress, but will give me the opportunity to write and edit. It's technical writing, but it would be a change of pace for a bit until I can figure out what I want to do with my time long term. Writing has become a huge outlet for me and when I experience something new here, I think about it almost in terms of how I would write about it in the blog. It gives me a more concrete connection to the scenery or the tastes when I start to think about how I would try to convey it to someone half way across the world. I like it. Whether I can actually take that 'like' and turn it into something meaningful, I don't know. But I do know it's been a long time since I've said I like doing something. I am blessed enough to be able to switch careers and take a pay cut if I want to, but whenever someone asks me what I would do instead, I have no answer. "I don't really like anything. Or am excited about doing anything in particular." Now I at least like something and for me that's huge.
So notes to self: Do more yoga. Drink less. Write whenever you can. Meditate. Eat in season. Stop rushing around all the freaking time. Smile more. Worry less, for worrying is like trying to solve an algebra problem by chewing bubble gum (I stole that analogy, but I love it). Focus on now and today. Take 15 minutes to enjoy the last bits of sunshine each day. Breathe.
Ok, enough of all of this talk. Back to story telling.
And now to the metaphysical. How are the voices inside my head treating me these days? Well, I can say that they appeared to have let up a bit. The constant inner monologue nagging about where I am in life and the constant internal pressure to be doing more or doing better has eased. I don't feel as bad about myself anymore and my self esteem has taken a surprising jump up. Yes, it is nice to know that I can travel alone and not get (too) lost or go insane in the process. But I think it's also been the way I've gotten along with everyone for the most part. It's like that Saturday Night Live skit: 'I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and gosh darn it, people like me.' That goes a long way. I'm also getting that free space in my brain to open up a bit and let some other more productive things move in. I can focus a bit more on now and today rather than worrying so much about tomorrow. I'm still not where I want to be with my ability to focus - all those years of multi-tasking makes it really hard to shut down and tell that part of you to take a vacation. But I'm getting there and I'm figuring out the tools I need to be able to step back and take a timeout. Hopefully they will stay with me when I return to the States.
Ah yes, the return home. Not that I've given it much though at all, but I can tell you it will involve more farmers markets, less margaritas, more yoga and balanced time between friends and doing nothing. As I've hinted at before, I have a real problem saying 'no' to social activities and I'm going to have to find a way. Downtime is something I fear greatly and the consequence is ignoring things going on in my own life that need attention and I have to take three month sabbatical half way across the world to right myself.
Then there's work. I have two jobs waiting for me when I get back, my old one and a new opportunity that will most certainly be higher stress, but will give me the opportunity to write and edit. It's technical writing, but it would be a change of pace for a bit until I can figure out what I want to do with my time long term. Writing has become a huge outlet for me and when I experience something new here, I think about it almost in terms of how I would write about it in the blog. It gives me a more concrete connection to the scenery or the tastes when I start to think about how I would try to convey it to someone half way across the world. I like it. Whether I can actually take that 'like' and turn it into something meaningful, I don't know. But I do know it's been a long time since I've said I like doing something. I am blessed enough to be able to switch careers and take a pay cut if I want to, but whenever someone asks me what I would do instead, I have no answer. "I don't really like anything. Or am excited about doing anything in particular." Now I at least like something and for me that's huge.
So notes to self: Do more yoga. Drink less. Write whenever you can. Meditate. Eat in season. Stop rushing around all the freaking time. Smile more. Worry less, for worrying is like trying to solve an algebra problem by chewing bubble gum (I stole that analogy, but I love it). Focus on now and today. Take 15 minutes to enjoy the last bits of sunshine each day. Breathe.
Ok, enough of all of this talk. Back to story telling.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The S Word
Solo. My favorite word is back again.
Sitting at a table, alone, outside on the patio of a little restaurant about five blocks from my hotel, I recap the things I've seen so far in Bologna. As I mentioned, and scolded myself already for, I didn't do any planning coming into the city. A quick google search after getting into my hotel and I find that Bologna has lots of cool things to see, like the Fountain of Neptune, Santo Stefano church and the church of Saint Domenico, which is the fifth largest in Italy and has a capacity of 28,000. I found all three today, as well as the Saturday market and at least seven different McDonald's along the way. Apparently in Bologna, you can "have it your way" every six blocks or so on the main drag.
The one attraction that has eluded me is the Two Towers. Built in medieval times back in the 1300's, these towers continue to defy gravity with their Pisa-like lean. Finding them is my main priority tomorrow - that and making sure I catch my train to Imola to meet my next host at 6pm.
Right now though, it's dinner time.
First it's bruchette. Not bruschetta, bruschette. Which means plural bruschetta. Artichoke pate, porcini mushroom and the regular tomato kind. Tasty, but the artichoke one proves to be the best. As I wait for my next course, risotto, I sip my wine and take in the surrounding scene. This piazza in particular, like many others, is cut off from car traffic so there are only the occasional scooters or pedestrians going by. To the right is a four story brick building with the top two stories having two rows of five windows. The windows don't have curtains but moveable red metal blinds that either can be shifted from the top, the bottom, or from both directions at the same time. The result is the glass of the windows peeks through in various ways and I can't help but notice that each pair of windows almost forms a set of eyes. To pass the time, I make up expressions I think they may have. The leftmost pair is drunk, for sure. The bottom right is really mad about something while the one above is as happy as can be, smiling almost. One pair appears to be - gasp - stoned and the final pair is most definitely asleep. Yes I know, this all sounds crazy, but after eating enough lunches and dinners alone (and being an only child), you figure out ways to entertain yourself. One can only do so much soul searching in one sitting.
But no worries, you are all saved from having to read more about the random ramblings of my head because the risotto has arrived. Asparagus and prosciutto, yum. Despite not being able to finish it all, I find room for dessert and realize I have yet to try one of Italy's best contributions, tiramasu. It arrives and it's probably not the best I've ever had, but it definitely will not be my last. And of course, a meal wouldn't be a meal without limencelo. I remember when a coworker of mine back in DC went over to Italy and brought me some back as a gift. I could barely drink the stuff. Now? I judge restaurants largely by their quality of said drink. I'm not only becoming a wine snob but a limencello one as well. Go figure. This place gets a B-, just a tad too thick, if you ask me.
At this point it is almost 9:15 and the temperature has dropped below Kari-approved levels long ago. I pay the bill, stuff my hands in my pockets and take a leisurely way back to the hotel. It's not just every night you can take a leisurely walk in Italy, you know.
Sitting at a table, alone, outside on the patio of a little restaurant about five blocks from my hotel, I recap the things I've seen so far in Bologna. As I mentioned, and scolded myself already for, I didn't do any planning coming into the city. A quick google search after getting into my hotel and I find that Bologna has lots of cool things to see, like the Fountain of Neptune, Santo Stefano church and the church of Saint Domenico, which is the fifth largest in Italy and has a capacity of 28,000. I found all three today, as well as the Saturday market and at least seven different McDonald's along the way. Apparently in Bologna, you can "have it your way" every six blocks or so on the main drag.
The one attraction that has eluded me is the Two Towers. Built in medieval times back in the 1300's, these towers continue to defy gravity with their Pisa-like lean. Finding them is my main priority tomorrow - that and making sure I catch my train to Imola to meet my next host at 6pm.
Right now though, it's dinner time.
First it's bruchette. Not bruschetta, bruschette. Which means plural bruschetta. Artichoke pate, porcini mushroom and the regular tomato kind. Tasty, but the artichoke one proves to be the best. As I wait for my next course, risotto, I sip my wine and take in the surrounding scene. This piazza in particular, like many others, is cut off from car traffic so there are only the occasional scooters or pedestrians going by. To the right is a four story brick building with the top two stories having two rows of five windows. The windows don't have curtains but moveable red metal blinds that either can be shifted from the top, the bottom, or from both directions at the same time. The result is the glass of the windows peeks through in various ways and I can't help but notice that each pair of windows almost forms a set of eyes. To pass the time, I make up expressions I think they may have. The leftmost pair is drunk, for sure. The bottom right is really mad about something while the one above is as happy as can be, smiling almost. One pair appears to be - gasp - stoned and the final pair is most definitely asleep. Yes I know, this all sounds crazy, but after eating enough lunches and dinners alone (and being an only child), you figure out ways to entertain yourself. One can only do so much soul searching in one sitting.
But no worries, you are all saved from having to read more about the random ramblings of my head because the risotto has arrived. Asparagus and prosciutto, yum. Despite not being able to finish it all, I find room for dessert and realize I have yet to try one of Italy's best contributions, tiramasu. It arrives and it's probably not the best I've ever had, but it definitely will not be my last. And of course, a meal wouldn't be a meal without limencelo. I remember when a coworker of mine back in DC went over to Italy and brought me some back as a gift. I could barely drink the stuff. Now? I judge restaurants largely by their quality of said drink. I'm not only becoming a wine snob but a limencello one as well. Go figure. This place gets a B-, just a tad too thick, if you ask me.
At this point it is almost 9:15 and the temperature has dropped below Kari-approved levels long ago. I pay the bill, stuff my hands in my pockets and take a leisurely way back to the hotel. It's not just every night you can take a leisurely walk in Italy, you know.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Bologna - the City, Not the Meat
Bologna is a far cry from Rogliano. Situated north of Florence, it is one of Italy's larger cities and is the birthplace of little things called tortellini pasta and what we consider ragú sauce in the States (tomato sauce with meat). Because a train ride this far north would be ten hours easy, I have decided to fly Alitalia on Saturday morning. This has put me on edge for seveal reasons. One, I'm not a fan of flying. Two, I'm flying an Italian airline in Italy where they speak Italian - and I don't. So I'm concerned I won't understand anything that is going on. Turns out all of my worrying is for nothing, which it usually is. Although the boarding process is more of a free-for-all and you walk out on the tarmac to board, pretty much everything is the same. And instructions/annoucements? Given in both Italian and English so no problems there.
As we come in for our landing in Bologna, I can tell this is more of the Italy I remember from last year. There is a big difference in many ways between southen and northern Italy in so much that some of the radical politicians want to break Italy into two different countries (probably the same types of politicians that think Texas should still secede from the Union). The landscape is mostly rolling hills and patchwork farms with those tall skinny trees you see in paintings lining the driveways. The houses have the terra cotta coloring and looking down on it all you can almost taste the barolo as you sip it from the glass, the pecorino cheese complimenting the tannin finish, all the while sitting in a cushioned chair on the patio, basking in the sun and beauty around you. But, I'm on a plane with 150 other people who may or not be wearing deodorant, so let's move on, shall we?
After landing, it's off to the hotel. I contacted the front desk and they had told me through email that there was a bus to take from the airport to the main train station and then it was a short 300 meters from there. Ok, no problem, just need to find said bus. The information counter in the airport offers much help and points me in the right direction.
Like the bus in Amalfi, it is standing room only for the 30 minute ride through the city. Once at the main station, I relax because now comes the easy part, getting to the hotel. The address is Via Galleria. Hmm, that's odd, the train station is on a completely different name street. Ok, no problem, I'll just google map it on my phone. No service. You worthless piece of! "Ugh, this was supposed to be the easy part! Easy part!" I yell in my head, thinking someone will here me and magically point me to my hotel.
I walk one block in either direction of the station and none of the cross streets are Via Galleria. Fine, fine. I put my ego aside and call the hotel which goes something like this:
Hotel: "Pronto!"
Me: Buongiorno, I am at the main train station and am trying to get to the hotel. How do I get there?
Hotel: Tojrn owjhzd sdojfndjn njsodnf souefh njsdofh sdonf.
Me: Ah, non parlo Italiano. Parle englese?
Hotel: No, aodijf jadoifjad jaiodfjioadf sjdoifh hdif fjdi fdh.
Me: Dov'e la hotel? (Where is the hotel?)
Hotel: Ah! Si! Hotel é wr rr wef vsf sd sdv wdv we gwrzdg srg sdv. Ok?
Me: Yes, great. Grazie.
Hotel: Prego. Ciao!
So now I have a problem.
All I really need is a map. Ok, a map, there's got to be some information booth around here somewhere. Ah yes! "Mappa? No. No mappa. Only treno (train) informazione." Awesome. Last ditch effort, I go to a magazine stand which is selling sealed, of course, maps of the area, eight euro each. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. FINE. Give me the stupid map.
This is where the planning ahead part of me pops up on my shoulder as a little angel in a pink dress with white lace edges and matching strappy but conservative pink shoes saying in a southern accent, "Now see, if y'all had just done your homework, you wouldn't be in this situation. You did this to yourself ya know. That's why I always say, plan first and be thankful later." I swat at the southern belle and grouchfully open this most expensive map.
Expensive and ginourmous. It unfolds to our normal sized map and then doubles from there giving me way more information than I need, but with no useful landmarks to give me any bearings whatsoever. I use my last lifeline in my own personal TV show of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire - and Comfortably Situated in a Hotel!" and pull out my iPhone map once more. *Poof* "You are here." It's about freaking time. Enter in address of said hotel from hell and hit Go. Half a block to the left and two blocks up. Time to destination: 1.4 minutes.
The southern belle pops back up and starts in, "See, we can learn from this. Remember what I always say..." Swat. Swat, swat, swat.
Approximately three minutes later, a little sign comes into view on the right hand side of the street. Albergo Atlantic. Home sweet home - for tonight, at least.
As we come in for our landing in Bologna, I can tell this is more of the Italy I remember from last year. There is a big difference in many ways between southen and northern Italy in so much that some of the radical politicians want to break Italy into two different countries (probably the same types of politicians that think Texas should still secede from the Union). The landscape is mostly rolling hills and patchwork farms with those tall skinny trees you see in paintings lining the driveways. The houses have the terra cotta coloring and looking down on it all you can almost taste the barolo as you sip it from the glass, the pecorino cheese complimenting the tannin finish, all the while sitting in a cushioned chair on the patio, basking in the sun and beauty around you. But, I'm on a plane with 150 other people who may or not be wearing deodorant, so let's move on, shall we?
After landing, it's off to the hotel. I contacted the front desk and they had told me through email that there was a bus to take from the airport to the main train station and then it was a short 300 meters from there. Ok, no problem, just need to find said bus. The information counter in the airport offers much help and points me in the right direction.
Like the bus in Amalfi, it is standing room only for the 30 minute ride through the city. Once at the main station, I relax because now comes the easy part, getting to the hotel. The address is Via Galleria. Hmm, that's odd, the train station is on a completely different name street. Ok, no problem, I'll just google map it on my phone. No service. You worthless piece of! "Ugh, this was supposed to be the easy part! Easy part!" I yell in my head, thinking someone will here me and magically point me to my hotel.
I walk one block in either direction of the station and none of the cross streets are Via Galleria. Fine, fine. I put my ego aside and call the hotel which goes something like this:
Hotel: "Pronto!"
Me: Buongiorno, I am at the main train station and am trying to get to the hotel. How do I get there?
Hotel: Tojrn owjhzd sdojfndjn njsodnf souefh njsdofh sdonf.
Me: Ah, non parlo Italiano. Parle englese?
Hotel: No, aodijf jadoifjad jaiodfjioadf sjdoifh hdif fjdi fdh.
Me: Dov'e la hotel? (Where is the hotel?)
Hotel: Ah! Si! Hotel é wr rr wef vsf sd sdv wdv we gwrzdg srg sdv. Ok?
Me: Yes, great. Grazie.
Hotel: Prego. Ciao!
So now I have a problem.
All I really need is a map. Ok, a map, there's got to be some information booth around here somewhere. Ah yes! "Mappa? No. No mappa. Only treno (train) informazione." Awesome. Last ditch effort, I go to a magazine stand which is selling sealed, of course, maps of the area, eight euro each. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. FINE. Give me the stupid map.
This is where the planning ahead part of me pops up on my shoulder as a little angel in a pink dress with white lace edges and matching strappy but conservative pink shoes saying in a southern accent, "Now see, if y'all had just done your homework, you wouldn't be in this situation. You did this to yourself ya know. That's why I always say, plan first and be thankful later." I swat at the southern belle and grouchfully open this most expensive map.
Expensive and ginourmous. It unfolds to our normal sized map and then doubles from there giving me way more information than I need, but with no useful landmarks to give me any bearings whatsoever. I use my last lifeline in my own personal TV show of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire - and Comfortably Situated in a Hotel!" and pull out my iPhone map once more. *Poof* "You are here." It's about freaking time. Enter in address of said hotel from hell and hit Go. Half a block to the left and two blocks up. Time to destination: 1.4 minutes.
The southern belle pops back up and starts in, "See, we can learn from this. Remember what I always say..." Swat. Swat, swat, swat.
Approximately three minutes later, a little sign comes into view on the right hand side of the street. Albergo Atlantic. Home sweet home - for tonight, at least.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
This Concludes Part One
Sunday was market day. Similar to the farmers market in Austin, all of the local vendors come out selling whatever produce they may have. In addition, there are a large amount of clothing, shoes and textile stands open with various booths of various quality. This is my first trip to Sunday market and it is a welcome change to the more routine lifestyle I have had so far. Rogliano is a beautiful village with so much to offer, and the Sunday. Market brings out the best of it's character.
On Tuesday, there is a rare treat from my perspective. The weather is supposed to be amazing on the coast in Falerna, 27 degrees C or about 88 degrees F. So, off to the beach we go with Maria, Keith and her sister Angela and her husband Michael. After a 40 minute drive thorough canyons and changing hillsides, we finally arrive at the sea. Not the ocean. Not the water. The sea. It is referred to as such the entire rest of the day, which eventually I get used to and start using myself.
The Mediterranean Sea, my first visit, is much different than what I expected. First of all, where we have set up camp we are one of ten people for as far as the eye can see in either direction. Second, the sand isn't a tan-ish color like you see on most US shores, this much more of a grey. Thirdly, there is about a four to five foot drop off after you get in the water barely half way up the shins. This explains the single set of waves that come in with a more forceful nature than you would be used to going to the Atlantic or the Gulf. Also, the bottom is made of stones, so as you are entering or exiting, your footing is relying on these stones staying in one place which, with the current, is not very likely. Getting in was much easier than getting out. But one nice thing is that the salt content is higher making you very buoyant. I had forgotten that fact until I began floating without so much as a kick or two.
After a good twenty or thirty minutes of being a water bug, swimming all around in a quiet sea with no one else in the water other than myself, it was time to get out. Everything is about the timing. Getting past the three or four foot step up was about making sure a wave is coming in to carry you up, not crashing and therefore forcing you down. After about three tries and escaping multiple embarrassing face plants in the sea, I finally get it. Four dips in the Med in total through out the day and I was a happy camper. Also, unlike being on the gulf coast a month ago where i got burnt to a crisp on the front side, I remembered two important things. One, sunscreen. Two, flip over onto your stomach. Thanks to these two things, I sat all day in the hot Italian sun had a very nice tan to show for it. Maria and Keith commented on it as if they were proud to get me away from my desk and out into the real world with the real sun.
With Wednesday comes rain. And a lot of it. There is only one thing to do when it's rainy in this household and that is cook. So, on with the cooking Maria and I go. It's skinning tomatoes to make passata for lasagna sometime later, making eggplant and beef meatballs, pesto, tomato soup, all sorts of things. We spend the morning in the kitchen and then set off in the afternoon to make house calls.
My ability to drive the car is a big help to both Maria and Keith. Recently Maria has injured her back and walking to town, 25 minutes, isn't going to happen. And Keith would much prefer it if someone else could take maria to town so he could stay home. That someone is me. And I love to drive, especially in Italy. So Maria and I set off to give huge bags of tomatoes and jars of tomato soup to friends and family throughout the day. Each bag contains about 20 or so tomatoes and two pints, at least, of homemade tomato soup for each person. She has so much excess that she is giving it away to anyone she knows. We have a café and dolce at one house, then a tour of a backyard garden at another, then a look at a newly installed kitchen in the lest. This last stop with the new kitchen is very excited to have finally gotten gas hooked up to their stove, so they have the thing everyone is doing this time of year, cooking chestnuts. Maybe some of you have had cooked chestnuts, but when Maria said I should try some, I refused because I was already stuffed from the dessert (dolce) we had earlier. Then she told me how to eat them, to crack them in half with my teeth (they are soft and still steaming hot at this point) and then scrape the innards out with my teeth - tasting just like mashed potatoes. Now, I was completely uninterested with everything until she said mashed potatoes. A nut? Like mashed potatoes? Ok, I have to try this. And yes, there it was, a nut, just like mashed potatoes. Add garlic and I could eat these all day (although I have learned that finding perfect chestnuts is not as easy as it sounds, as I've been picking and inspecting the fallen fruit from Keith and Maria's own trees).
Then there is the search for limes. I have volunteered to make a Tex Mex meal for them, fish tacos. This is, of course, before I realize that getting access to cilantro ("What is that?", they asked) and lime (used only for cocktails) is not going to happen. Despite going to five different grocers, Maria and I can not find a single lime in all of Calbria. In the end, when I do make fish tacos with lemon, the difference is hardly noticeable. Although iIwill say, that if you are ever in Italy make your own tortillas, for the love of god. I don't know what they serve here but it's really floury and really thick and they crumble as soon as you touch them. Not recommended.
On Thursday comes one of my favorite nights so far because we are yet again having dinner with all of Maria's family, except this time I know not to be foiled with too much wine or food so I can completely enjoy the night. There are at least four conversations going on in Italian between the people seated around me. Each is talking of something different, but each is talking emphatically with their hand gestures or facial expressions making it a little bit easier to decipher what is being said. As the night goes on, nieces and nephews show up, swelling our number to fifteen. In an organic way, the women end up at one end and the men at the other. The women are talking about a current news story and the men are discussing hunting, wild boar season has just opened. And despite Chico and Maria's brother's best attempts at keeping my wine glass full, I survive unscathed and sober.
For my last day in Rogliano, I spend some of it in the garden weeding, but most of it in the kitchen with Maria, helping her do a bit of fall cleaning. I also volunteered to make a funny cake for Keith. For those of you that don't know what that is, it's a Pennsylvania Dutch breakfast cake that I fell in love with when I was really young. My Mom always makes a point to have one in the house when I come home because she knows how much I enjoy it. Not that either one of us had ever actually made one ourselves. We just know that it's yummy and is called 'funny' because despite there being a layer of chocolate on the bottom of the cake, during cooking the cake, you pour the chocolate over the batter and when it bakes, it seeps down through to the bottom through the cake layer. Again, I've never made one before, but I'm going to start right now. And, to be honest, I did a pretty good job. Maria helped by making the crust my hand, which is actually quite easy (at least she ales it look easy). For dinner, Maria makes chicken parmesan for my last meal and after eating Keith goes off to watch the Italy/Ireland soccer match, a very big deal. Maria and I sit and talk more, as usual, and she plays me some of her nephew's band's music. They are actually huge in Italy and she is incredibly proud of what they have accomplished. She shows me the accompanying style of dance, Tarantella (not a couples dance, thankfully), and there we are, in the kitchen, dancing. She asks me to show her something I have mentioned to her in the past - a little thing called two stepping. Now, I can't two step to save my life, and it shows when I try to explain it to her. Best to just pull up YouTube and go that route. Then, it's back to dancing Tarantella to the band Zona Briganti. Look it up sometime.
In the morning we set off for the airport, I am flying up to Bologna for my next host stay. I take with me recipes for fritters, meringues, tomato soup, meatballs with eggplant and beef and a basic pie crust. I've also gotten a present from the cantina owner - a liter bottle of his homemade wine. Don't get excited though, it doesn't travel well so I'll be drinking it next week, sorry. And thankfully, I take with me new friends. Keith and Maria have been a joy to stay with and they invited me back any time as their guest, not as a helper. Hopefully one day I'll return, but right now, I've got a plane to catch.
On Tuesday, there is a rare treat from my perspective. The weather is supposed to be amazing on the coast in Falerna, 27 degrees C or about 88 degrees F. So, off to the beach we go with Maria, Keith and her sister Angela and her husband Michael. After a 40 minute drive thorough canyons and changing hillsides, we finally arrive at the sea. Not the ocean. Not the water. The sea. It is referred to as such the entire rest of the day, which eventually I get used to and start using myself.
The Mediterranean Sea, my first visit, is much different than what I expected. First of all, where we have set up camp we are one of ten people for as far as the eye can see in either direction. Second, the sand isn't a tan-ish color like you see on most US shores, this much more of a grey. Thirdly, there is about a four to five foot drop off after you get in the water barely half way up the shins. This explains the single set of waves that come in with a more forceful nature than you would be used to going to the Atlantic or the Gulf. Also, the bottom is made of stones, so as you are entering or exiting, your footing is relying on these stones staying in one place which, with the current, is not very likely. Getting in was much easier than getting out. But one nice thing is that the salt content is higher making you very buoyant. I had forgotten that fact until I began floating without so much as a kick or two.
After a good twenty or thirty minutes of being a water bug, swimming all around in a quiet sea with no one else in the water other than myself, it was time to get out. Everything is about the timing. Getting past the three or four foot step up was about making sure a wave is coming in to carry you up, not crashing and therefore forcing you down. After about three tries and escaping multiple embarrassing face plants in the sea, I finally get it. Four dips in the Med in total through out the day and I was a happy camper. Also, unlike being on the gulf coast a month ago where i got burnt to a crisp on the front side, I remembered two important things. One, sunscreen. Two, flip over onto your stomach. Thanks to these two things, I sat all day in the hot Italian sun had a very nice tan to show for it. Maria and Keith commented on it as if they were proud to get me away from my desk and out into the real world with the real sun.
With Wednesday comes rain. And a lot of it. There is only one thing to do when it's rainy in this household and that is cook. So, on with the cooking Maria and I go. It's skinning tomatoes to make passata for lasagna sometime later, making eggplant and beef meatballs, pesto, tomato soup, all sorts of things. We spend the morning in the kitchen and then set off in the afternoon to make house calls.
My ability to drive the car is a big help to both Maria and Keith. Recently Maria has injured her back and walking to town, 25 minutes, isn't going to happen. And Keith would much prefer it if someone else could take maria to town so he could stay home. That someone is me. And I love to drive, especially in Italy. So Maria and I set off to give huge bags of tomatoes and jars of tomato soup to friends and family throughout the day. Each bag contains about 20 or so tomatoes and two pints, at least, of homemade tomato soup for each person. She has so much excess that she is giving it away to anyone she knows. We have a café and dolce at one house, then a tour of a backyard garden at another, then a look at a newly installed kitchen in the lest. This last stop with the new kitchen is very excited to have finally gotten gas hooked up to their stove, so they have the thing everyone is doing this time of year, cooking chestnuts. Maybe some of you have had cooked chestnuts, but when Maria said I should try some, I refused because I was already stuffed from the dessert (dolce) we had earlier. Then she told me how to eat them, to crack them in half with my teeth (they are soft and still steaming hot at this point) and then scrape the innards out with my teeth - tasting just like mashed potatoes. Now, I was completely uninterested with everything until she said mashed potatoes. A nut? Like mashed potatoes? Ok, I have to try this. And yes, there it was, a nut, just like mashed potatoes. Add garlic and I could eat these all day (although I have learned that finding perfect chestnuts is not as easy as it sounds, as I've been picking and inspecting the fallen fruit from Keith and Maria's own trees).
Then there is the search for limes. I have volunteered to make a Tex Mex meal for them, fish tacos. This is, of course, before I realize that getting access to cilantro ("What is that?", they asked) and lime (used only for cocktails) is not going to happen. Despite going to five different grocers, Maria and I can not find a single lime in all of Calbria. In the end, when I do make fish tacos with lemon, the difference is hardly noticeable. Although iIwill say, that if you are ever in Italy make your own tortillas, for the love of god. I don't know what they serve here but it's really floury and really thick and they crumble as soon as you touch them. Not recommended.
On Thursday comes one of my favorite nights so far because we are yet again having dinner with all of Maria's family, except this time I know not to be foiled with too much wine or food so I can completely enjoy the night. There are at least four conversations going on in Italian between the people seated around me. Each is talking of something different, but each is talking emphatically with their hand gestures or facial expressions making it a little bit easier to decipher what is being said. As the night goes on, nieces and nephews show up, swelling our number to fifteen. In an organic way, the women end up at one end and the men at the other. The women are talking about a current news story and the men are discussing hunting, wild boar season has just opened. And despite Chico and Maria's brother's best attempts at keeping my wine glass full, I survive unscathed and sober.
For my last day in Rogliano, I spend some of it in the garden weeding, but most of it in the kitchen with Maria, helping her do a bit of fall cleaning. I also volunteered to make a funny cake for Keith. For those of you that don't know what that is, it's a Pennsylvania Dutch breakfast cake that I fell in love with when I was really young. My Mom always makes a point to have one in the house when I come home because she knows how much I enjoy it. Not that either one of us had ever actually made one ourselves. We just know that it's yummy and is called 'funny' because despite there being a layer of chocolate on the bottom of the cake, during cooking the cake, you pour the chocolate over the batter and when it bakes, it seeps down through to the bottom through the cake layer. Again, I've never made one before, but I'm going to start right now. And, to be honest, I did a pretty good job. Maria helped by making the crust my hand, which is actually quite easy (at least she ales it look easy). For dinner, Maria makes chicken parmesan for my last meal and after eating Keith goes off to watch the Italy/Ireland soccer match, a very big deal. Maria and I sit and talk more, as usual, and she plays me some of her nephew's band's music. They are actually huge in Italy and she is incredibly proud of what they have accomplished. She shows me the accompanying style of dance, Tarantella (not a couples dance, thankfully), and there we are, in the kitchen, dancing. She asks me to show her something I have mentioned to her in the past - a little thing called two stepping. Now, I can't two step to save my life, and it shows when I try to explain it to her. Best to just pull up YouTube and go that route. Then, it's back to dancing Tarantella to the band Zona Briganti. Look it up sometime.
In the morning we set off for the airport, I am flying up to Bologna for my next host stay. I take with me recipes for fritters, meringues, tomato soup, meatballs with eggplant and beef and a basic pie crust. I've also gotten a present from the cantina owner - a liter bottle of his homemade wine. Don't get excited though, it doesn't travel well so I'll be drinking it next week, sorry. And thankfully, I take with me new friends. Keith and Maria have been a joy to stay with and they invited me back any time as their guest, not as a helper. Hopefully one day I'll return, but right now, I've got a plane to catch.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Photos
For those of you not on Facebook, here are the photos I have taken so far, from oldest to newest.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=253673&id=580744304&l=471ff44c58
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=254767&id=580744304&l=143ca7b456
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=255267&id=580744304&l=d24aea5946
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=256768&id=580744304&l=519bbb9f59
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=263646&id=580744304&l=556bb65610
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=253673&id=580744304&l=471ff44c58
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=254767&id=580744304&l=143ca7b456
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=255267&id=580744304&l=d24aea5946
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=256768&id=580744304&l=519bbb9f59
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=263646&id=580744304&l=556bb65610
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A Day in the Life - Rogliano
Maria is always humming. Whether it's in the kitchen or sweeping up the patio, you always know where she is by the soft singing or humming. At 5' 5"' she appears to be your typical Italian woman, but I can assure you, she is not. The second youngest of 11 children, she was sent to live with her sister in England at the age of 11. There, she learned English, went to school and eventually became a very successful small business owner specializing in catering and amazing food.
Along the way, when she was 19, she met Keith, who was 17 and the second eldest of nine. A Brit that dated her roommate briefly, they got married two years later and haven't looked back. They now have two daughters, 32 and 39 and three grandchildren, the eldest of which is 20. After living in the UK for 45 years Maria was ready to be near her Italian family again. After working at Mars choloate factory for about the same amount of time, Keith was given a retirement package they couldn't refuse. They now live here, outside of Rogliano, in the Calabria region of Italy.
Keith loves his gadgets and is hooked into the internet at almost all times. He reminds me a lot of me back in the States. The only thing he loves more than his gadgets (and Maria) is his food. His views are very liberal and he and Maria clash regularly on everything like politics, food, culture and technology, but somehow when they 'argue' they end up more just poking at each other. No one gets actually upset and they just discuss the topic with fierce loyalty to their side. They are the epitomy of opposites. Yet, when you see them together, you can tell how much they care about each other. Which, in my mind is very necessary because this is also one of the most gender stereotypical households I have seen in awhile. Maria does the cooking, cleaning, gardening and laundry. Keith looks after the animals, the general safety and the driving. I would go absolutely crazy in this type of marriage, but it suits them to a T, so therefore it is a happy household to be in.
A typical day starts at 9, which means I am up around 8:15am (2:15am ET) and make my own breakfast from whatever is in the fridge, the garden or the cupboards. I help clean up the grounds, which is by far the cleanest patio and surrounding area I can imagine. Maria enjoys a neat environment and it shows. After sweeping up, it's onto some sort of painting or staining for me. After about an hour or so of working, I'll take a quick break to check out the fig trees for a snack. There is nothing better than figs picked fresh from the tree after a night of rain. The water gets held in the fruit so when you bite into it, the juice is overflowing. Heavenly.
Around noon, I help Maria with lunch, which she prepares for about 30 or so minutes, sets the table and gets everything just so on the table ready for Keith. Again, this wouldn't fly for me, but they make it work. During lunch, which lasts about an hour, we talk about whatever is new in the world or they tell me stories of their lives and visa versa. This is all over an amazing meal that looks more Ike a gourmet dinner than a 'quick' lunch. The three of us split a bottle of wine, which usually means Keith and I split it since Maria isn't much of a drinker and rarely has more the one glass.
After a post lunch siesta, I'll help Maria pick figs from their five trees, gather up walnuts or pick from the garden whatever is ripe - usually tomatoes (so many tomatoes), carrots, cucumbers, spinach, and eggplant. On other days we will start working with the produce already picked - like drying figs or making passata from the ripe tomatoes, to be used later for pizza, tomato soup or ragu.
Around 3pm or so, I'm done with work and catch up on any emails, write a bit and have some time to relax or take the dogs for a walk before helping Maria in the kitchen with dinner. This is as much for me as it is for her since watching her work is an amazing learning experience. She has all these suggestions for "quick" meals, what you can make and freeze ahead of time, and has wonderful recipes she is always willing to share. We spend about an hour getting dinner ready and it is never the same. Some nights may be Italian, but more often than not, they have some sort of British influence. Or Indian. Or Mexican. You never know, but it's always wonderful and it's always multiple courses. We sit down to eat and Keith pours the wine. I have never seen anyone eat as quickly as Keith does. He puts the term "human trash compactor" to shame. The man loves his food - and therefore has married the perfect woman. We chat more about whatever for an hour or so and afterwards, Keith heads out to watch football (soccer) or some other program while Maria and I sit at the table and talk about anything that may be on our minds. The surprising thing about it is, even though we are both speaking English, there is a difference between US English and UK English. Not hugely noticeable, but subtleties and inferences don't come through like they would otherwise so picking your words carefully when talking about a subject you care about is important. We usually talk for about an hour and then clean up.
Clean up is a ritual all in itself. Depending on what cooking pans were used, determines what goes in the dishwasher or not. The range needs to be wiped down every time after using it. All veggie or bread based leftovers go in one container to be fed tomorrow to the sheep or the chickens. Anything protein based like fish, beef, or chicken goes to the dogs and any cheese goes to the cats. The table cloth and place mats get folded back up and put in their rightful place and the plant on the dining table gets moved back to the center, where it belongs. The dishwasher gets loaded and the countertops wiped down. It's a very specific routine that I've gotten down pat. From there, she heads to the sitting room to watch some TV and I head to my room to read. Rinse, repeat, maybe throw in a few lunches in the village and a trip to the beach and all in all, you have yourself a very relaxing three weeks.
Along the way, when she was 19, she met Keith, who was 17 and the second eldest of nine. A Brit that dated her roommate briefly, they got married two years later and haven't looked back. They now have two daughters, 32 and 39 and three grandchildren, the eldest of which is 20. After living in the UK for 45 years Maria was ready to be near her Italian family again. After working at Mars choloate factory for about the same amount of time, Keith was given a retirement package they couldn't refuse. They now live here, outside of Rogliano, in the Calabria region of Italy.
Keith loves his gadgets and is hooked into the internet at almost all times. He reminds me a lot of me back in the States. The only thing he loves more than his gadgets (and Maria) is his food. His views are very liberal and he and Maria clash regularly on everything like politics, food, culture and technology, but somehow when they 'argue' they end up more just poking at each other. No one gets actually upset and they just discuss the topic with fierce loyalty to their side. They are the epitomy of opposites. Yet, when you see them together, you can tell how much they care about each other. Which, in my mind is very necessary because this is also one of the most gender stereotypical households I have seen in awhile. Maria does the cooking, cleaning, gardening and laundry. Keith looks after the animals, the general safety and the driving. I would go absolutely crazy in this type of marriage, but it suits them to a T, so therefore it is a happy household to be in.
A typical day starts at 9, which means I am up around 8:15am (2:15am ET) and make my own breakfast from whatever is in the fridge, the garden or the cupboards. I help clean up the grounds, which is by far the cleanest patio and surrounding area I can imagine. Maria enjoys a neat environment and it shows. After sweeping up, it's onto some sort of painting or staining for me. After about an hour or so of working, I'll take a quick break to check out the fig trees for a snack. There is nothing better than figs picked fresh from the tree after a night of rain. The water gets held in the fruit so when you bite into it, the juice is overflowing. Heavenly.
Around noon, I help Maria with lunch, which she prepares for about 30 or so minutes, sets the table and gets everything just so on the table ready for Keith. Again, this wouldn't fly for me, but they make it work. During lunch, which lasts about an hour, we talk about whatever is new in the world or they tell me stories of their lives and visa versa. This is all over an amazing meal that looks more Ike a gourmet dinner than a 'quick' lunch. The three of us split a bottle of wine, which usually means Keith and I split it since Maria isn't much of a drinker and rarely has more the one glass.
After a post lunch siesta, I'll help Maria pick figs from their five trees, gather up walnuts or pick from the garden whatever is ripe - usually tomatoes (so many tomatoes), carrots, cucumbers, spinach, and eggplant. On other days we will start working with the produce already picked - like drying figs or making passata from the ripe tomatoes, to be used later for pizza, tomato soup or ragu.
Around 3pm or so, I'm done with work and catch up on any emails, write a bit and have some time to relax or take the dogs for a walk before helping Maria in the kitchen with dinner. This is as much for me as it is for her since watching her work is an amazing learning experience. She has all these suggestions for "quick" meals, what you can make and freeze ahead of time, and has wonderful recipes she is always willing to share. We spend about an hour getting dinner ready and it is never the same. Some nights may be Italian, but more often than not, they have some sort of British influence. Or Indian. Or Mexican. You never know, but it's always wonderful and it's always multiple courses. We sit down to eat and Keith pours the wine. I have never seen anyone eat as quickly as Keith does. He puts the term "human trash compactor" to shame. The man loves his food - and therefore has married the perfect woman. We chat more about whatever for an hour or so and afterwards, Keith heads out to watch football (soccer) or some other program while Maria and I sit at the table and talk about anything that may be on our minds. The surprising thing about it is, even though we are both speaking English, there is a difference between US English and UK English. Not hugely noticeable, but subtleties and inferences don't come through like they would otherwise so picking your words carefully when talking about a subject you care about is important. We usually talk for about an hour and then clean up.
Clean up is a ritual all in itself. Depending on what cooking pans were used, determines what goes in the dishwasher or not. The range needs to be wiped down every time after using it. All veggie or bread based leftovers go in one container to be fed tomorrow to the sheep or the chickens. Anything protein based like fish, beef, or chicken goes to the dogs and any cheese goes to the cats. The table cloth and place mats get folded back up and put in their rightful place and the plant on the dining table gets moved back to the center, where it belongs. The dishwasher gets loaded and the countertops wiped down. It's a very specific routine that I've gotten down pat. From there, she heads to the sitting room to watch some TV and I head to my room to read. Rinse, repeat, maybe throw in a few lunches in the village and a trip to the beach and all in all, you have yourself a very relaxing three weeks.
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