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.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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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