Vita da Sogno

If it weren't for . . .

2008-06-26T02:18:00.028+02:00

. . . this Web site , and the fact that the person linked to it never responded to my e-mail, I may not have clicked on this Web site to find out if someone there knew anything about the place I found doing an internet search when I was looking for rentals in Italy one summer upon deciding it was finally time to go--and stay--a while.

Though, I suppose that place would never have existed if Daniele Kihlgren hadn't "set out on his motorcycle to explore the Abruzzi mountains, two hours east of Rome . . . trying to locate a back road from the ruins of a medieval castle to a gorgeous high Alpine plain known as the Campo Imperatore. Instead, he stumbled across a tiny fortified town of narrow alleyways and crumbling stone buildings" and "saw an opportunity to rebuild Santo Stefano and breathe new life into the local economy by transforming many of the abandoned houses into an albergo diffuso, or "diffuse hotel." ( A Village Is Reborn )

And if it weren't for, Luigi, who wrote me back and offered his B & B (apparently Sextantio had not been fully up and running yet), I may never have gone and met Jack and Helen and spent time in Vasto, where I came across Cristina, my tutor, who brought me up to her father's restaurant one Saturday afternoon in Carunchio . . . a town I immediately loved upon setting foot there (and later found out is 40 kilometers from where my great-grandmother and great-grandfather were born) . . . and couldn't stop thinking about, even a year later. . . .

. . . and where, I returned, inexplicably, in January 2008 to begin work on my first documentary.

That's as far as I've gotten.

(P.S. I know Italians have a bit of a reputation for being slow to respond. I guess that finally worked in my favor.)

(P.P.S. Daniele, it's safe to write now.)

(To be continued. . . . )

On Newsstands Near You (My Debut Column)

2008-05-24T17:09:00.011+02:00

Well, pretty much in Italy and wherever they stock foreign press. (Click to enlarge :))

See it online: Click Here

Testaccio's Big Bad Bakery

2008-01-22T16:23:00.001+01:00

This place is intimidating! Try going in there at lunch time. It's four deep at the counter and people are gesturing and the people behind the counter are hustling...

And it's no wonder why . . . when you have ricotta cakes that look like this:

And vegetable pies (I don't actually know the official name) that look like this:

Well, it's just all enough to make you go and forget your Italian and come home with a whole kilo of lingue di gatto (tongues of the cat) when really what you wanted was more like an etto but "mezzo/mezzo/mezzo kilo" really doesn't mean much to a hectic baker. And that's fine.

I had been in there one day taking photos, the guy behind the counter giving me a hard time. He was so mean to me, I nearly didn't go back the next day . . . even though I couldn't get this - pizza bianco con fiore di zucca e acciughe (white pizza with zucchini flowers and anchovies) -

off my mind. So I went back, and I spoke in perfect Italian. He then asked if I'd take his picture. (I guess he wanted to feel like he had some say in the matter) . . . and so I did. And now, of course, we're friends. (Happy ending.)

What's For Lunch?

2008-01-22T16:02:00.001+01:00

I didn’t actually know until after I bought most of the ingredients to prepare it. At the market yesterday morning, I was struck by this strange, springy vegetable that I’d never seen before . . .

I was eager to try it, so I bought some then casually asked the seller if I could eat it, cosi (“like this”). Well, I didn’t receive such a simple answer. And when the answer involved, acciughe (anchovies), I was a little taken aback.

So I went home and put it in the fridge. But before doing so, I tried it. Bitter! It definitely seemed healthy, but I still had no idea what it was . . .

Later that same night, I met a chef at a friend’s organic café. She spoke English, and I described the green curly mystery vegetable. “Ah!” she said, “puntarella” (which literally means, “pointy thing”). I’d never heard of it, but when she said, “cicoria,” I understood. While chicory is a winter vegetable and available in other parts of Italy, using it this way is particularly Roman. It starts off looking like this (similar to chicory; it's in the same family):

They take the whitish heart of this and slice it in thin strips, then throw it into lemon water, which is what makes it curl. Then, you eat it in a salad with a little olive oil, salt, and . . . anchovies, as the seller at the market had mentioned . . . chopped finely (as you would use to make Caesar dressing).

The next morning, I went back to the market and bought a jar of acciughe. And I tried it.

Later, my Roman flatmate came home and saw the leftover (undressed) punterella on the table, and we started talking about it. He offered to make the dressing for me, and first chopped the anchovies with a knife:

Then poured in some olive oil and vinegar (he used aceto mele--apple cider vinegar--but other white vinegars are fine, too):

And then . . . he whisked it. Ah! Good idea!

He added a sliced clove of garlic for flavor (to be removed once you pour the dressing on the punterella) and here you have it:

The Humble Cavalo Nero

2008-01-21T15:24:00.000+01:00

I'm really into the winter greens right now. I go daily to the market just to stare at what's out there and talk to people about how to prepare things.

My father requested that I take a photo of cavalo nero, which he's been looking for in the States. I did find out that it comes from Tuscany and gets its fame from ribolita; it's actually considered more of a kale, but tastes like savoy cabbage.

Any good recipes out there? Feel free to let me know!

Back in Rome . . .

2008-01-19T13:56:00.000+01:00

Where the clothes are hung out to dry mid-January . . .

Morning in Testaccio Market

2008-01-17T13:37:00.000+01:00

Rome Forum

2007-08-05T18:43:00.000+02:00

Notes from Nice: Two

2007-07-14T15:05:00.000+02:00

The shipwrecked Norwegian sailor sits alone. My train flies by without me, so I walk back down to the harbor to an Italian-owned café—the one nearest the station—and order a glass of white wine to wait for the next train back to Nice.

After several moments, the shipwrecked Norwegian sailor calls to me.

“Where are you from?” he says in a hearty Norwegian accent.

“America,” I yell back.

His jewel-blue eyes match the ocean. They light up. “Well, c’mon over here,” he calls, and pats the table. A soggy bottle of wine rests in front of him inside an ice bucket.

I place my train schedule in clear view. He is eager to tell me his stories from the sea. He also adds that he spent four years studying marketing in Seattle, that people from Seattle don’t travel to Europe, it would seem.

“It’s a bit far,” I add.

“No,” he insists. “You’re the first American I’ve met who travels.”

He tells me about Gibraltar, where the ship got wrecked, and he points to it. It bobs gently in the harbor. “There,” he says, a bit beyond, “is where we were heading to.”

His nose is a terrible shade of red and has begun to blister and peel from sunburn. I imagine it’s difficult for sailors, even if they wear sunblock, to avoid this.

I turn to look in the direction he is pointing.

“Pisa,” he says, regretfully. For a moment, he is silent, looking out at sea. Then suddenly he stomps his feet, hard, beneath him. “Ah, asphalt!” He smiles. “Weeks since I’ve set foot on asphalt.”

The waiter seems pleased that his only two customers have come together to chat, and he pours me a glass of wine from the table. The shipwrecked Norwegian sailor asks for extra ice, then drops a cube in my glass. “Cheers,” he says, and clinks his glass to mine.

I ask what he does for a living, besides sailing around the world. I’ve never met a Norwegian sailor, not to mention one who’s been shipwrecked.

“Oh,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. He doesn’t seem to want to tell me. I can’t imagine what it could be. I begin to think something seafaring or nautical, physics, maybe.

“Pest control,” he says, finally.

“I told them I was unhappy,” he confesses. “I mean, I can’t go to a job every day that makes me so unhappy.” He looks at me. I nod. “So I took some time off.” He stops. “That’s when I decided to sail.” And at the mention of sailing, he smiles broadly, lifts his glass again. “Cheers!”

The waiter comes by. “Another bottle?”

The shipwrecked Norwegian sailor eyes me suggestively. I look down at the train schedule and at my glass, which is filled with watery wine and a sliver of ice cube. “I’ve got to get going,” I say. But the waiter looks up at the platform, high in the hills overlooking the Mediterranean. There are few people in this village at the moment, and I’m wondering . . . I see a man in swim trunks, his arm slung through a float, with a curly-headed blonde child, walking back toward town.

“The trains,” the waiter begins, “are never on time here.” He explains how he used to work in Monaco and had bought a train pass to commute. “I ended up riding my moped every day.”

I smile.

The shipwrecked Norwegian sailor, eager to continue telling me his tales from the sea, leans in. “Look,” he says discretely. The waiter steps back and pretends to look off for a moment. “I’ve got an apartment. It’s yours for the night.” He lifts his chin in the directions of the shipwrecked boat. “I’m a nice guy,” he adds.

I politely decline.

“Well, if the train doesn’t come,” he says, shrugging, hopeful.

I say good night . . .

At the platform, high above the Mediterranean and the café where I left my glass and a euro for the waiter, I see a light coming from far off, beneath the ledge of the Alps, and I look down and see him, looking out in the direction of where he won’t be sailing. He hasn’t moved and his boat bobs gently atop the sea.

St.-Jean Cap Ferrat and Beaulieu-sur-Mer

2007-07-07T22:04:00.001+02:00

Notes from Nice: One

2007-07-06T22:18:00.000+02:00

We were sitting outside at tables closely situated in the seedier part of Nice. The restaurant was in everyone’s guidebook, so most of us were English-speaking. It served French-style cafeteria food—creamed spinach and buttery haricot vert. The meat was overcooked and the wine basic. We began talking . . . I watched the woman in her flowered dress, a bit sour and stodgy. The man, somewhat nervous and apologetic . . . a little doting. He wanted a menu in English, but she insisted he not ask for one. His French, was actually better than hers. He talked with me enthusiastically for most of the evening. And she kept saying, in my general direction, “Well, when you’re young . . .” I wonder if she knew just how old I am. But perhaps she was nearing fifty, maybe older. Her kids were in college and apparently she’d made out well on her divorce. That day, in fact, he’d helped get her back eighteen grand her ex-husband had lying in an account in France. She paid for dinner. He was an ex-lawyer, but teaching now in a university in the small New Hampshire town where they both lived.

“It’s elitist,” they admitted about the town. “Everyone knows everyone’s business.” Then they took it back. Then they said it again, “No. It’s elitist.” But they both agreed it was really beautiful—tucked away in a valley beneath the White Mountains.

Periodically, he’d stop and say, “We’re terrible. We’re like an old married couple.” When I asked how long they had been together, he told me nine months. “Marilyn is the best-looking woman in that town,” he told me. Then he turned to her, “You’re the best-looking. If it weren’t for you . . .”

Her divorce had gone through a year or so before.

“Some people might think I’m gold-digging,” he said, somewhat ruefully, then smiled. She looked at him then shook her head, as if he were not someone to be taken seriously. “Oh, c’mon,” she’d say, half-playfully, half-impatiently and flip her hair back.

When I asked what she did, she said she was a student at the university. For now. She’d lived a year in Nice studying French, “Stay here,” she told me, as if she were sharing the best-kept secret. “Don’t go to Marseille. It’s industrial, drug-ridden.” I looked around us. Nice wasn’t exactly Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. “Yeah, but here . . .” she began, then looked down at my backpack. “You can’t carry that backpack around, y’know. You look like a total tourist.” She looked down at my feet and before she could see them, she said, “And sneakers.” Then she said, “Well, those are okay. No baseball hats, though. They’ll slash you.”

“Slash me?”

He broke in. “Well, not you, but the straps of your backpack. They’ll just take the whole thing.”

“Yeah,” she said, not realizing, apparently, she’d been referring to Nice. “Why go to Marseille? Just stay here.”

I explained that I’d been up and down the Cote d'Azure, and that I wanted to see Provence. He told me about a hiking area in the mountains. “Don’t tell her to go there,” she said. “That’s not what she wants. She’s young. That’s for old people.”

He looked at her, then looked at me and shook his head.

“You need a Michelin guide,” she said. She said it as though she were urging me to get a gun.

Later, they argued that my vegetables looked better. They’d ordered potatoes. “She got a steak, not this oily fish," she said to him, eying my plate, then his. "That was smart.”

When it was time for dessert, I ordered what I had the night before and looked forward to having again—creme de caramel.

“Oh,” she piped up right away. “That’s so boring.”

It’s what I really wanted.

“You need to try this,” she said, pointing to his meringue dessert, called "floating islands." “Then, if you’re ever in the States and you come across it, you can say you recognize it, that you had it in France.”

“Thanks," I said, but I’m okay. It looks interesting, though.”

“Oh, well, I’ll just have them change it for you.”

“No,” I said. “Really, it’s no problem.” I didn’t want to seem too attached to the creme de caramel, yet . . . Before I knew it, the waiter stopped over and she had my dessert changed, in French nearly as bad as my own, to the floating islands.

“So,” he said, finally. Changing the direction of the conversation, away from dessert. “When was the last time you were really happy? Where were you?”

I looked at him. Then looked away. I smiled. I wasn’t sure what—or who—the question was about, exactly, but before I could answer, he said, “Hey, are you writing about all this?”

Nice

2007-07-02T22:36:00.000+02:00

While I'd planned to continue on from Nice to Arles, Avignon, and Toulon . . . where I would fly to Amsterdam, then take the train to Brussels, visit Ghent, Bruges, and eventually end up in Rome, the plan has changed.

There no longer is a plan.

I'm taken, for the moment, with Nice, the train, the beaches on the way to the Italian border, with the Algerian family who I'm staying with on the "wrong" side of the train tracks, with the appearance of bustling streets that can look, at first glance, seedy and unsafe, but that are actually delightful, friendly, and unhurried.

I don't know that I'll stay here. . . for too long, but for the next week . . .

Cologne

2007-06-30T22:30:00.000+02:00

I noticed, tonight, that it's still light out close to ten. The lively, if a bit drunken, streets of Cologne, along the Rhine, are a welcome contrast to Prague's dismal squares.

Apparently, someone else noticed this too . . . Israeli food and travel writer, Daniel Rogov, wrote, "What is extremely surprising is that unlike nearly all other German cities, Koln has an atmosphere that is best described as "light." Go to Berlin, Frankfurt, or Stuttgart and return to Koln and you will understand what I mean. Returning to Koln is like passing through a decompression chamber and coming into a lighter, easier atmosphere. Lightness means people who fence with epees that have rubber tips instead of with sabers. It means sauces without flour, men and women who are not afraid to dress elegantly, politeness without obsequiousness. It also means an absence of the heaviness and tone of insistence that dominates so many German conversations. Lightness, in this case also means "French" and after even a short visit one might justifiably think that Koln is German only by accident. In fact, Koln is so French that at least 25% of the residents speak French as fluently as they do German, and it is one of only two cities in Germany that also have a French name and more than half of all Germans refer to the city as Cologne. Even more, Koln is the only city in Germany where wine and not beer is the beverage of choice."

While Cologne's Gothic cathedral was hit by aerial bombs 14 times in the war, it didn't collapse.

You can see better photos of the cathedral here . . .

The family-run place where I'm staying along the Rhine. It's one of the few buildings to survive WWII. Inside, the period ambiance makes the rooms homey--albeit with unorthodox electrical wiring, an empty restaurant downstairs staffed by the Frömmler family who sit in various corners of the restaurant, drinking. But they're friendly enough, though when I asked if I could have a fan (I had to translate that one) so I could keep my window closed to buffer the noisy drinking boys outside, I was told this "is a city, after all" and given the option to move to a room facing the kitchen. I get the impression I may be the only guest here. But it's a quaint place that makes me feel like taking a few days rest.

A Koln street.

A bustling biergarten where the waiter carries kolschkranz (a circular tray) of 0.2-liter glasses of the pilsner-like kolsch beer (light and less bitter than pilsner). The kobes waiters, wearing blue shirts, patrol the biergarten, replacing your empty glass with a fresh kolsch and ticking it off on a beer mat next to your glass.

Prague

2007-06-28T19:45:00.000+02:00

Sonia says one night in Barcelona that the light is different from Lisbon, where it’s softer. She makes a face as if to say she prefers the light in her home country. Georg agrees. The light in Barcelona is somehow hard. I argue that Barcelona is a big city—they can’t be compared. But Georg lives in Berlin. And neither can describe to me why it feels so different.

I don’t notice.

But when I arrive in the Czech Republic on a Wednesday afternoon, late June, I’m struck first by the light—or lack of it. Cirrus clouds veil the sky, and the ten-mile bus ride from the airport doesn’t offer any contrast.

Prague’s light feels subdued, even withholding, and in the course of my stay here—during the intermittent periods of rain and alien sun—I feel a palpable tension because of it. Something feels strained.

Of course the language doesn’t serve to console me . . . with it’s unfamiliar dipthongs and affricates.

My Chinese travel companion compares our first half hour at the airport to experiences she’s had in Shanghai. “Things here,” she says, “are not designed with the customer in mind. It’s convenient for them, not us.” As she says this, three money changers turn us down when we ask for change. Later, three busses—despite our standing at the stop with our luggage—speed by without halt.

After several days of learning the streets, seeing the sites, becoming more acquainted, I’m still watching the sky--it's relentless and appears as the perfect backdrop to the city's ominous and jutting spires, its medieval aura, and inhabitants' sulking stares...

Barcelona

2007-06-23T19:04:00.000+02:00

Sevilla

2007-06-21T17:06:00.001+02:00

Lisbon

2007-06-21T12:08:00.000+02:00

Drink Vinho Verde
Eat pasteis de belem (hot with an espresso) at pasteis de belem
Watch Fado in Alfama
Drink port
Try the Bacalao

And . . .

Visit the Marionette Museum, Museu Nacional do Azulejo (tile museum), and Museo do Fado
Take a trip to Sintra

Assisi's 1997 Earthquake

2007-05-17T17:29:00.000+02:00

I received this e-mail today from someone in the Documentaries Unit at BBC.

"I am writing from BBC Radio 4 in London in regard to a documentary I am working on provisionally titled Piece by Piece. The idea is to examine the aftermath of the 1997 earthquake, to look at what happened to the people affected as well as the artwork. I notice you live in Assisi, which is why I am contacting you.

I am not sure how long you have been in Assisi but I am trying to locate English speakers in the area who might remember that tragic day in 1997 or be able to shed some light on how the communities has tried to come to turn terms with what happened."

I've already put a few Assisi residents in touch; if you have anything you can offer on this, let me know.

Grazie!

Rome's Starlings

2007-05-01T04:26:00.000+02:00

The pictures should advance on their own, but if there is a glitch, click on the numbers at the bottom . . . Starlings Click Here

Cast Your Votes!

2007-04-05T21:54:00.000+02:00

Conde Nast is hosting a travel contest. The prize is a dream trip. I've already submitted mine. (It involves Africa.) Now I just need to finish getting my photos posted, captions written, and some stars and comments from you.

The point of the entry is to capture a travel moment. They claim they're not looking for fine art/professional photography--just a photo and 150-word (or less) caption that describes a moment while traveling.

Votes count, but ultimately the decision will be up to the Conde Nast judges. The contest ends April 23 (and you can vote until that date).

To view my gallery and vote or comment, simply click here. It may ask you to register. Then, on the left side of the screen you'll see a "Search Gallery" box. Type in "vitasogno" and you can see my gallery. To vote, just click on any photo you like, and either leave a comment or mouse over the yellow stars on the right of the photo. (Be sure to remember to hit "submit.")

There's some amazing photography up there from people's travels around the world. Check it out.

Of course, though, I've got Italy on my side.

Carunchio Part 4: Forgotten Tastes

2007-03-05T20:56:00.001+01:00

The palace in Carunchio had long been abandoned when Cristina’s father, Gerardo, came across it. (And you better believe there’s more to the story than that!) Upon his retirement, he visited the small village and walked up to the top of the hill, mystified by the magnificent structure. He rang the bell. A woman answered. Everyone in Carunchio, by this point, had wanted to sell their houses, leave to be closer to their children and grandchildren, but here he was, buying an abandoned palace in a dying hilltown. Gerardo tells me, everyone in town thought, Who is this madman? With the palace, he bought an old vineyard that needed restoring; now, along with a restaurant and guest suites, culinary tours and a demonstration kitchen, he has a flourishing vineyard with 7,000 plants.

I met Gerardo the day Cristina first took me to visit Carunchio. We’d arrived there in the early afternoon, and I needed to get back that night, but the one bus that returned to Vasto had already departed—at noon. And only one bus left each day. So I was fortunate to get a ride back with Gerardo, to hear his stories. Cristina had grown up spending time in Malta, Mozambique, Yemen, and Greece; Gerardo was an Italian ambassador, which is why they both spoke great English.

As Gerardo and I head out of town in his SUV that day, we stop at a turnabout. “There he is,” Gerardo says, pointing his chin in the direction of a man pushing a wheelbarrow. “Who?” I ask, realizing it did seem a bit odd, a busy road, a man pushing a wheelbarrow, but perhaps just leaving the city limits of Carunchio, the site wasn’t so unusual.

“Primitive man.”

Gerardo tells me he “refuses everything.” That primitive man needs to do everything “all his own way.” He lives without electricity, without bread even; he hasn’t let a single euro (or lire) pass through his fingers in countless years. Though Gerardo tells me he is a rich man. The government deposits his pension into a bank account. He has over 200,000 euros in it, but he doesn't even know it, doesn't care. “One pair of trousers will last him three or four years,” Gerardo explains. His son had tried on numerous occasions to provide him with electricity, but primitive man refused, not wanting to deal with money, not wanting to have to pay anybody for anything. The son offered to pay. Still, primitive man refused.

“His wife left him long ago,” Gerardo says. “He lives like a cinghiale (a wild boar).”

“Do you know the story of Spoon River?” Gerardo asks. He likens it to Carunchio. “The children leave and don’t come back,” he says. But things—traditions—in Carunchio are changing. “Now they have TVs, so they know they can buy bread in the store. They don’t have to grow the wheat, buy the flour.”

As we drive, Gerardo speaks animatedly. Sometimes both hands off the wheel, swerving a bit. A couple in the car next to us honk. “Hey!” he says to them through his window, “I’m talking!”

The Carunchese, Gerardo explains, like to keep their own pigs. They know what they've been fed and they provide them with much sustenance. They’re allowed four pigs per family. In January, during the town-wide slaughter, the pigs are killed with knives (not guns, as most in Carunchio don’t own one). You can hear the screams of pigs throughout the hills.

Ventricina, typical of Molise, is stored in the “sac” of the pig (its stomach or bladder is used as casing). Red peppers (many of which hang to dry in the sheds of the Carunchese) are cleaned, then ground to a fine powder. (Spanish first used these and brought them back to Europe; before that, Indians in Peru and Guatemala used the peppers medicinally.) The powder is added to the sausage.

According to one source, (Cucina Italiana: Salamis and Sausages) the process of making ventricina is quite an exhaustive ritual:

“It is said that in southern Abruzzi, at the moment of the butchering of the pig, it was necessary to have ready a sturdy chair and a glass of wine at the ready. In fact, the head of the family--it is often his responsibility--after having dealt the mortal knife-wound to the pig, may feel quite faint. He collapses onto the chair and gulps down a good dose of Montepulciano wine to help restore himself up again. This happens because the pig lives in the family’s house almost for a whole year, eating their leftovers and, in the end, it almost becomes part of the family.”

Later, Gerardo talks with pride and clear passion about his first wine, which he has given me a bottle of. He calls it Caberlot (a cab-merlot blend) and tells me about how his grandmother used (mosto) a syrup taken from the squashed grapes to be made into wine. The first use for the killed grapes was a kind of marmalade rolled into a pastry, and the second, a syrup created after boiling the grape remains and letting the liquid evaporate. To see if it’s ready to jar, it’s lifted with a spoon and drizzled to check its consistency. “It was used for everything,” Gerardo tells me. “As an ‘energizer,’ when you had a sore throat, or for pasta sauce.” The mention of this pasta sauce sends Gerardo into a nostalgic gaze.

“When I was a child,” he starts . . . “I grew up like this, eating only one dish.” He tells me about the pasta sauce his grandmother made from the mosto. He says he doesn't think he could replicate it, but he still remembers the smell. “Like Chanel no. 5,” he says. He laughs a bit, still with that look in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “Those are forgotten tastes.”

Pipo

2007-01-25T22:19:00.000+01:00

After an afternoon wandering Carunchio that day, I ate lunch at Cristina’s restaurant—pappardelle in wild boar sauce along with a glass of wine . . . . little did I know I’d have a close encounter with an animal by the name of “Pipo” soon after my meal.

The chef insisted Cristina take me down for a visit. Pipo lived in a caged-in area on what appeared to be a combination animal farm/agriturismo off into the hills outside of Carunchio.

In Italy

2007-01-23T03:02:00.000+01:00

Thanks to a reader who brought this photo by Ruth Orkin to my attention. Information about the photograph follows. It's entitled "American Girl in Italy." (Click on the photo to enlarge.)

On August 22, 1951, on the Piazza della Repubblica in Florence, Ruth Orkin snapped this image a photograph that made her career. At the time Orkin was a 29 year-old aspiring photojournalist traveling alone in Italy. The main subject, the girl walking in the street while not less than 15 men look at her, was an American art student that Ruth Orkin met at her hotel in Florence. Jinx Allen, the art student who became her model for a photo essay based on their joint experience as women traveling alone in Europe. By chance that day the two walked through the now famous gauntlet of gawking men. Orking turned and photographed Allen behind her. Orkin asked Allen to walk through again, and with that she captured the legendary image. It took only two exposures.

American Girl and the entire photo essay were first published in Cosmopolitan in 1952 with an article titled ‘When you travel alone … tips on money, men, and morals.’ To this day American Girl remains an icon of street photography.

Carunchio: Churches, Cemetery

2007-01-16T17:18:00.000+01:00

On my first trip to the town, while I waited for my friend and Italian tutor, Cristina, to finish up at her restaurant, I walked around. It was during that first walk that I discovered Carunchio--its startling and beautiful primitivity, its curious people, one of whom (black apron, no teeth) came out to ask, in patient Italian, if I were English, and if I were planning to move there. Since a few English women had bought property in the area, and mostly the English came to visit--if anyone came to visit at all--those were the only tourists this woman knew. Later, at the cafe in town, I was warned "there are no jobs here." But I let the owner know--the Milanese transplant--I was just touring . . .

Toward the edge of town, lies the area's only cemetery, a mausoleum, which sat low on a hillside behind a stone chapel.

At the end of my walk through it, I'd come out the other side, overlooking the valley, and suddenly began to cry. I hadn't known why I was crying, weeping actually, though it felt more mournful than anything. What was it about this place? It's preserved simplicity? Its history dating back to 1000 AD? Because it felt endangered?

Several months later, upon visiting the town where I traced my family back to, I learned that Carunchio--although it's in a different region--is about 40k away. It was the closest I'd been to finding my roots . . . without even knowing it.

During my second trip, I was fortunate to find the Church on the Summit--the 17th-century church of San Giovanni Battista--open. (It's only open about 3 hours a week.) Cristina had gotten married here. The church houses one of the most famous baroque pipe organs in Italy, dating back to the late 1600s

Later, Cristina took me down to Madonna di Canneto (the sanctuary of the Madonna of the cane field).

Carunchio Part 3: The People

2007-01-06T02:00:00.001+01:00

A bit outside town, on my second trip back to Carunchio to visit Madonna di Canneto, locals sold cured meats and cheese, fresh fruits and vegetables . . .

And cooked up lunch at the foot of the mountain. . .

Stainless steel wine vats are dragged down a side street in preparation for wine harvest.

The owner (behind the counter) of the only cafe in town, located in the main piazza, moved to Carunchio from Milan.

A woman washing tomatoes from her garden.

A Carunchese man wonders why I want to take photos of his fresh-picked mushrooms.

Carunchio Part 2: The Town

2006-12-30T23:56:00.000+01:00

Rooftops down the side of the mountain.

Graffiti.

Harvest from a late-summer garden.

The main piazza.

Inside someone's garage.

Carunchio Part 1: The Palace

2006-12-28T20:46:00.000+01:00

One day, Cristina, my tutor in Vasto, asked if I wanted to go with her up to her father’s restaurant in Carunchio, a neighboring hilltown, where she commuted nearly every weekend to help out. I agreed. The following Saturday, we drove just under and hour from Vasto Marina to Carunchio, stopping on the way at a restaurant wholesale store to pick up ingredients and supplies.

The store was like an Italian Costco.

Cristina wheeled around what looks like a flatbed truck and picks up jars of mayonnaise.

Large, wholesale barrels of olive oil.

After nearly an hour of turning up winding roads, we arrived at the base of the town. I had butterflies in my stomach. Previously, Cristina hadn't told me anything about Carunchio.

(Photo credit: NRocco)

As we pulled in, she remembered she'd forgotten to pick up a loaf of bread. She parked the car, got out, and entered here:

Later, after waiting for a small tractor full of grapes to pass, we drove up a narrow, winding cobblestone road, to the top of the town where we parked outside the palace in front of the house next door. (The front door to the house next door):

There are a few stories about the woman in black, standing here in this photo. Apparently she likes to "guard" the area.

Quick video of Cristina entering through the front door to the palace.

Inside, a kind of atrium that leads to the main dining room and kitchen.

Part of the main dining room.

Upstairs, are six suites for guests . . . and where in-house cooking lessons will eventually be held in a demonstration kitchen.

In the basement/wine cellar, Cristina's father was in the process of making homemade "caberlot"--his unique blend of cabernet and merlot grapes.

Click on the British flag to see the site in English.
Palazzo Tour D'Eau
Currently, Cristina and her family are open weekends in the winter for lunch and dinner. They provide dining for weddings and other events. In the spring, they will be holding cooking classes and local food tours.

A Christmas Carol

2006-12-24T04:16:00.000+01:00

From Tadpole, daughter of fellow blogger, Petite Anglaise. Click here: Tadpole Sings

Christmas in Italy: La famiglia, l' amore, e il cibo

2006-12-20T15:47:00.000+01:00

While I won't actually be spending Christmas in Italy this year, I'm still eager to learn the customs and traditions during this most celebrated holiday. My Italian-American family in the States has maintained a more Southern Italian tradition of cooking a dozen fish dishes on Christmas Eve (called vigilia) and eating a lentil dish for New Year's, but I've discovered that even some Italians don't go to this extreme. One woman tells me that Christmas Eve is fairly quiet, and that the focus is on getting to midnight mass. Though another says she spends days preparing fish for her family's (and extended family) Christmas Eve meal. I've read that one of the traditional dishes is il capitone, a dish made with fried eel and i cardoni, cardoons and eggs. . . but I'm sure there are zillions of variations on this.

What's most important to Italians is Christmas pranzo, lunch, which can be a huge and lengthy feast and may include il cotechino (sausage made from pig's intestine) and lo zampone (pig's foot filled with spiced minced meat). The essence of the day is la famiglia, l' amore, e il cibo: family, love, and food.

(Below: pre-packaged cotechino and zampone. I'm curious about the shelf life on this stuff.)

While children traditionally believed in La Befana, a kind of "good witch," who brought them presents, children nowadays watch more TV, and therefore discovered Santa Claus, who has become a popular Christmas figure in Italy, as has Father Christmas, or Babbo Natale.

A piccolo Santa says formaggio.

Everywhere you look are giant boxes of il panettone (cake filled with candied fruit and raisins), il pandoro (similar to il panettone, but plain "golden" bread), and il panforte (gingerbread with hazelnuts, honey, and almonds). Peasants believed consuming nuts brings fertility to the earth and people for the new year to come.

Many Italian towns and cities will create live nativity scenes with actors, animals, and a "live baby Jesus." Here, in Assisi, the manger awaits the live baby and animals, but the not-so-live actors (wisemen and shepherds) are already in place in front of the basilica.

"Peacey" the Dove of Peace

2006-12-19T03:43:00.000+01:00

is a local exhibition comprised of 5,000 doves suspended over the streets of Assisi, leading to the basilica. The exhibition, created by Italian artist Ugo Nespolo, will remain through the holidays, with all 5,000 doves lighting up starting at dusk.

The Season of the Cardoon

2006-12-09T17:38:00.000+01:00

While tartufo nero (black truffle) and porcini are all the rage this time of year in Umbria (on pasta, especially strangozzi in Assisi, in torta al testa, on crostini), and their bitter earthy smell is wafting out every restaurant door, that odd, celery-like giant, the cardoon (cardone in Italian) is coming into season.

Friends of mine spoke about it at a bonfire the other night, telling me the typical way to make it in Umbria, is like eggplant Parmesan.

A relative of an artichoke and sunflower, but often with stalks of 18 inches or more and resembling nothing of an artichoke, the cardoon has an bitter, slightly spicy, celery-like flavor (and has been referred to as an "anemic rhubarb"). It's used in soups, stews, sauteed, raw dipped in olive oil (though, due to their intense bitterness, this requires some acquiring), pickled, and gently battered and made with Parmesan.

While it's a delicacy here in Italy, and difficult to find in years past in the States, gourmet markets like Whole Foods and Wegmans have made this vegetable available.

Strange Fruit

2006-12-09T16:08:00.000+01:00

If you can tell me what it is, I have plenty here to send you . . .

I was at La Grand Fattoria (see post 11-25) this morning, standing inside because of the rain, and while Novella was finishing with another customer (holding up her large metal scale and pricing by the kilo), I stood and waited. She kept letting me know she'd be with me, "subito!" I let her know I was just happy to be out of the rain.

Suddenly, Novella picked up a handful of these small, round, brown objects (I had no idea they were actually fruit) about the size of a shallot. She handed some to me and some to her friend, then bit into one with relish. "Mmm . . ." she said, "buon!"

Unlike most food in Italy, this here did not look like something I wanted to sink my teeth into.

I watched as Novella took another one and bit into it, sucking the juice from it, then tossing the remains in a bucket beneath us, where there were many many more of these remains. This was my demonstration, my cue, and she and her friend looked at me in anticipation.

"È la frutta nazionale dell'Italia," (It's the national fruit of Italy.) said Novella's friend, Luigi, as if sensing my hesitation.

While, I doubt it's actually Italy's national fruit, and I'd be *really* disappointed if it were, how could I refuse?

I took the plunge.

I bit through the dry, paper-like skin, into what tasted like a rotten apple. I smiled politely as Luigi and Novella looked on with pride. I stuck the rest in my pocket and, when Novella turned to select my arugula, I dropped the awful little thing in the bucket below.

One of Novella's trademarks is to weigh your purchase, and then throw in a little something extra--a few carrots, a cucumber, some leaves of tender lettuce. Wouldn't you bet, she threw in a sackful of these strange fruits?

La Trattoria Pallota and the "Junk Shop"

2006-12-07T23:07:00.000+01:00

Lately, I've been frequenting La Trattoria Pallota. I discovered it after returning late one Sunday from Florence. The guide book, which I used to see what else was around Assisi, other than the usual places, said they specialized in vegeterian fare. I'm still not clear how this is a "specialty" of theirs, but the atmosphere made up for what the vegeterian specialties lacked--its warm, earthy interior, decorated like someone's home, seemed to invite curling up beneath the dessert cupboard for a nap. The wait staff, a family of smiling, maternal women, fit the bill. La Trattoria Pallota affectionately became known as "the womb."

Eventually, I discovered that the best dish is actually a bistecca griglia (grilled steak), and skipped the vegeterian "specialties." But, no matter how you swing it, this is a pricier place. Their desserts (for a typically "non-dessert" person) are divine (warm pistachio cake drizzled in cream and berries, "english soup," - a bit like tiramisu - and flan, to name a few) . . .

With the exception of Concetta's in Campobasso, and a few places in New York and San Francisco, this is by far, my favorite, ranking high in
melt-away-my-woes ambiance, and comfort cuisine.

One night, I finally remembered to bring my camera. While I spoke to the waitress, in broken Italian, about the decor, she showed me around. I asked if the furniture had belonged to someone in her family. "No," she said, smiling. "We bought it at"--she paused. She looked the word up in her Italian-English dictionary and then showed me the listing. Ah, she said, "Junk shop."

After a slightly stunned silence, I asked, "Molto caro?"

"Nah," she said, indicating with her hand that it wasn't caro (expensive) at all.

(Clicking on the title of the post, above, will also bring you to La Pallota's Web site.)

My favorite--the oak larder.

Front entrance.

Entrance from inside.

Where the desserts are kept.

One side of the restaurant's interior, with the larder all the way in the back and off to the right, and the corner cabinet on the left.

Basement leading to the wine cellar.

Heaven and Earth

2006-12-06T19:33:00.000+01:00

I once lived in a fog-filled Northern Maine during the winter. Even my native New Jersey is prone to haziness. But the quality of this Umbrian fog, the way it sits low in the valley, is quite incredible. Assisi, then, feels like a celestial city, high above the clouds, somewhere in the heavens.

:>

Autunno: Rain and Light

2006-12-05T16:58:00.000+01:00

The most delightful aspect of living in Umbria this time of year, with the exception of the leaves turning burnt umber, sienna, gold, ocher, orange, copper, clay, is the smell of truffles, of damp earth and rotting leaves, and the light.

Last night, as I was walking with a friend along a mountain road high above the valley, a striking contrast caught my eye. We were heading north at dusk, so the sun was setting behind us. I stopped to turn around as an astonishing golden light rushed down and spread through the valley below. Low clouds gathered between Mt. Subasio's peaks, and wisps of smoke rose up from olive groves and backyards. It had rained earlier, and patches of steam collected around cedar trees giving the whole valley, the mountains, and the skies above--swathed in this golden-champagne luster--an ethereal aura, a feeling of being amid the heavens.

As if that weren't enough, while we continued, and a light rain began to fall, a soft curve of rainbow stretched up from a mountain peak . . .

Note to Self: Some Favorite Wines

2006-12-02T12:59:00.000+01:00

By no means a connoisseur, I tend to like medium-bodied reds, with dark fruit, especially berry and jam. If you're able to find any of these wines outside of Italy, please write and let me know!

Umbria

Ciliegiolo di Narni 2005 from Cantina dei Colli Amerini. A table wine that's actually complex. It's mellow and has some jammy fruit in it. It was the house wine at a restaurant I ate at in Umbria. I'd probably pay $20 for back in the States, but here it was 4 euro per bottle and even less expensive if I were to go to the Cantina in Amelia myself. Cantina dei Colli Amerini

Montelfalco Sagrantino from Dionigi Cantina (see 8/27 post for info on this producer). Incredible wine to drink on special occasions on its own or as a dessert wine with biscotti. Linked to the Franciscan monks, either as a "sacred" drink or sacramental beverage. It's grapes are matured for months on special mats. It has a figgy, raisiny aftertaste, and isn't too sweet. Dionigi Cantina

Umbria Sangiovese 2003 from Vendemmia, Vignabaldo. Brogal Wines, from Bastia, Umbria, distributing under the name, "Vignabaldo." A producer who seems to be getting a lot of attention, and rightly so. This is an excellent table wine. 3 euros. Round, open, medium-bodied, some dark fruit, dark ruby color. Click here to see label. And check out their beautiful Web site.

Abruzzo

Trebbiano d'Abruzzo D.O.C. from Casa Vinicola Italo Pietrantonj. The one I've been buying is 2 euros at the local grocery store. It's excellent white table wine. Pale yellow, lingering, but delicate, it's made from Trebbiano and Bombino grapes.

Montepulciano d'Abruzzo 2003 from Filomusi Guelfi. Fruity, violety, a bit of berry. I had this with seafood. It's mellow and held up well.
To see the label, click here

Montepulciano d'Abruzzo 2003 from Quercia del Colle Ducale. Plum, prune, vanilla. Good with meat, potatoes, pasta. Amazing wine for the price.
To see the label, click here.

Molise

Terra degli Osci IGT 2005 from di Majo Norante, Campomarino (Molise). A delicious sangiovese that goes with everything. Even better, just sip it alone. Smooth, dark, and fruity. To see the label, click here.

Excellence in Plumbing

2006-11-29T11:27:00.000+01:00

Now that I've said my share on drying clothes here, and have run the risk of sounding like a "spoilt" Americana, I thought I'd try to redeem myself by illustrating our high-tech solution to leaks. Need I say more.

Couples: Italians Most Quarrelsome, Rome at Top of List

2006-11-28T13:53:00.000+01:00

Rome, Nov. 27 - Italian couples are the most quarrelsome in the world and Rome is the capital of couples that live in constant fighting. This emerges from a survey conducted from the singles club Eliana Monti in Rome, Milan, Turin, and Naples. The study shows that one-third of Italian families fight everyday and almost half at least 2 times a week. But in Rome the rate of fighting beats all records: in the Capital only 4 percent of couples are pacifist; or rather they fight no more than one a month. This percentage doubles in Naples, where the survey reveals that 10 percent of couples are "pacifist" and rises even more in Turin (24 percent) and in Milan (32 percent), where couples are much less quarrelsome. But why do they fight? The Eliana Monti survey highlights that the main reasons why couple's fight in Italy are the upbringing of their children (34 percent), having forgotten an anniversary or birthday (25 percent), dirty laundry left all over the house (20 percent), stress from work (15 percent) and the excessive time dedicated to TV (6 percent).

--From AGI online. Reported November 28, 2006

Not a Clothes Dryer in Sight. . .

2006-11-27T21:07:00.000+01:00

I'm not usually like this. I've sung Italy's praises now for months. And for all my gripes, there's also a lot of payoff. And for all my bewilderment, someone's usually around to provide a reasonable answer. But . . . clothes dryers? We have washing machines. So if you want to make the argument that the lack of clothes dryers is to avoid the high cost of electricty, tell me why a normal wash cycle takes two hours.

It's one thing to hang your clothes out when it's sunny, when your clothes actually dry in a reasonable amount of time, and you can enjoy that fresh, sunshine-y smell.

But it's November.

I was coming home the other night, and I spied one of my neighbors--in the rain--at night--hanging out some clothes. In the rain? At night? My other neighbors have had the same set of pajamas, towels, and pants, hanging on rack for five days now.

Is there hope that the sweat pants I washed four days ago, which my mother mailed all the way from the United States, will ever dry?

The strangest part is that, here in Assisi, hanging your clothes out is actually banned (so when the tourists look round and take pictures of every crevice, they don't come home with a bunch of photos of Your Wet Laundry). But that doesn't seem to stop us . . . me included, from hanging out our loads of wash while we pray for sun. Or the invention of clothes dryers that don't take 4,000 watts to run.

And don't think I haven't thought of this. It's not like there are laundromats around. I mean, there are lavanderias where you can have your clothes washed for you (at a small fortune), but who would risk being seen doing that? Who in Italy *pays* someone else to wash their clothes? Perhaps I'll be the first.

(Don't even get me started on this business of ironing sheets!)

Letting it all hang out . . .

La Grand Fattoria

2006-11-25T12:19:00.000+01:00

This is where I shop most mornings. At the end of the video in my last post, I mention going off to buy fruit. While I buy mostly arugula, cucumbers, pumpkin, leek (when I'm making pumpkin risotto) and onions from here, I'll buy fruit on occasion. However, like anywhere, the prices changed drastically from my first bag of apples (5.50 euro, with change back in lire!) to .50 centesimi for a huge bundle of arugula, several cucumbers, and mixed salad greens. Novella, the farmer who brings her day's selections out to Centro each morning, is quite a charmer. (You can hear her from a mile away as I'm approaching with a camera. Note also: her competition on my right.)

Just Dropping By . . . (For Dad and Eleanor)

2006-11-23T16:48:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, I walked over to a neighbor's house to introduce myself (and look around). I took pictures along the way:

When I reached the back of his house, the gate was open, so I walked in. I followed a narrow path and eventually found him, door open, inside a kind of greenhouse-shed, working on making a lampione (lantern). I had my camera on, and here's how it went.

(By the way, I made a mistake about the box cover. I realized later, he said it is *six* hundred years old, not one hundred.) Oh, and sometimes the audio in this piece goes silent.

Benvenuto, Baby Subasio!

2006-11-21T11:38:00.000+01:00

I'm so excited for Jack and Helen who've recently welcomed their new baby, Subasio, to Italy. His brothers, Giacomo and Matteo, are proud and doting.

Where I Live

2006-11-16T23:30:00.000+01:00

The interior is surprisingly contemporary for a medeival flat. We have two addresses, two entrances, and four floors (in a way). The basement contains the wall of an old Roman ruin. The first floor is our kitchen and living/dining area. The third floor is a bedroom, and a few steps up from that is another bedroom, with a small terrace that overlooks the Roman ampitheatre and Rocca minore (the smaller of the forts). We live near one of the port entrances into Assisi Centro across from a cafe.

The front entrance.

The side entrance.

My street.

The view from the bedroom terrace. (Rocca minore, anfiteatro, and the small vineyard.)

One of the port entrances outside my apartment.

The view of Rocca maggiore from outside the port.

The foot of Mt. Subasio, a few yards from my apartment, outside the port.

Sunset with view of the basilica of Saint Francis steeple.

The neighborhood cafe on a misty morning.

Piazza Matteoti near our road.

Our neighborhood.

Campobasso: The Story of My Great-Grandparents

2006-11-14T08:58:00.000+01:00

I arrived in Campobasso train station (via a 2-car diesel train from the port town of Termoli) armed only with the knowledge that my great-grandparents were born in the area, had grown up here, married, and then left for Ellis Island.

We found a hotel, oddly overpriced (for a fairly regular, though nice, Italian city). I called my parents, let them know where I was, and asked them to find out some information. I hoped to find records of my relatives.

Before going off to dinner that night, I phoned my parents again and found out some information. My great-grandfather, Dominico Ambrosio, was born January 21, 1877 in the town of Morrone del Sannio. He died in America, in 1952, at the age of 75. While my great-grandmother, Giovanna Iorio, was also born in Morrone del Sannio and arrived on Ellis Island somewhere around 1911. Although those dates were a bit uncertain--it seemed unlikely that my great grandfather would have left for America at the age of 34--I now had something to go on.

While having dinner at Concetta's (see The Real Reason I Didn't Go To Napoli post, 11/1), Nadeem and I looked at an area map and discovered that Morrone del Sannio was only about 20 kilometers away--though the roads were windy, we figured it wouldn't take more than an hour. He suggested we rent a car and drive there the next day, then return to Concetta's for dinner.

The following morning, we rented a Fiat, and drove up a winding mountain to the town where my great-grandparents were born and grew up before coming to America.

(The hilltown of Morrone del Sannio)

A brief video of entering the town and my impressions upon walking around.

The town, though beautifully located, was dying--most of its residents had passed on, moved out, or taken off for greener pastures. Many of the homes were crumbling, and the four churches in town--as I mention in the video--remained closed for years; no money was available for their upkeep.

One small concrete church, at the center of town, had been built in the last hundred years for the residents to attend.

At some point, Nadeem and I came across the Municipo. We entered, went up the long quiet hallway, and found one woman who was just about to leave for lunch. Here, we discuss with her the possibility of finding my great-grandparents records. Because the names Iorio and Ambrosio are common names in this town, and because we lack the particular "family name" that would distinguish my great-grandparents from what, essentially, is a tribal name, finding their records would prove difficult.

At the end of the video, I mention going to a pizza place that doesn't have pizza. Instead, we are served the only thing they do have. Some sliced meat, cheese, and bread.

After lunch, we tried to enter the church in the piazza--the one that had been built in recent years; however, it was closed. An old man, sitting on a bench at the front of the church let us know that a woman named Antionetta had the key. He took us to her and we entered the church. The inside is shown in a photo at the beginning of this post.

Driving out of town, we found a nearby cemetery where it's likely my great-great grandparents and great aunts and uncles are buried.

Heading back to Campobasso at dusk, I felt at peace. It'd been a long day for us, and a rare journey, and I wondered whether some of the people remaining in the town had known my great-grandparents. . . . I tried to imagine them--Dominico and Giovanna--along with others from their village, packing their things to head to America.

Back on the highway below the mountain with a bit of traffic returning into the city, I noticed a woman along the side of the road, crossing over the bridge, carrying a canvas sack on her head and wearing a black dress and an apron.

Just back . . .

2006-11-13T13:59:00.000+01:00

From Florence and Lucca for the weekend. Lots to post, but been busy, busy, busy. . . Should have something up toward the end of the week.

The street along the wall in Lucca.

Tuscan sunset from the window of the train.

Boboli Gardens

View of Florence skyline from Palazzo Pitti.

The Price of an Espresso

2006-11-07T15:42:00.000+01:00

The new price of an espresso is different from the old price of an espresso. When I was without the key to an apartment, I paid .90 centesimi for a macchiato (an espresso with a bit of foamy milk on top; a good link to see the description of an "official Italian macchiato" is What's Macchiato). If you charged an Italian that price, they'd take your however well-made macchiato and smash it on the floor. But I wasn't born here. So I paid it.

Despite the cafe across the street charging the standard .90 centesimi tourist price, I still frequent it out of convenience--and because I like it. It's out of the way of the tourist routes, and it has a TV with cable, and a bunch of old Italian men sitting around on cold afternoons playing poker. Over the course of the two weeks I've been here, I've watched the price stagger (the owner continued to charge me .90, while one barista started charging .80) then drop to an all-time, well-deserved (I carry my eight-inch antique skeleton key around) low of .70 centesimi.

Today, I'm proud to announce that the cafe owner, after bonding with her by discussing a woman on TV's bad hair, has charged the official local rate. There was no discussion. It's not like she stopped and said to me, "I'm sorry I charged you .90 centesimi" and offered a retroactive reimbursement for mistaking me as a tourist. She just went ahead and charged .20 centisimi less. I don't know that that's really what the locals are paying. I doubt it, but I'm not complaining.

Perhaps I don't have to lug the skeleton key anymore. I've arrived.

Il Giorno dei Morti

2006-11-02T14:54:00.000+01:00

Today is Il Giorno dei Morti in Italy, Day of the Dead, a day when churches and families remember those who've passed with special celebrations, taking flowers and candles to their loved ones' graves where children may find presents "brought" to them by the dead.

It's also a day of great traditional recipes, like fava con le cotiche (fava beans cooked in pork), maccheroni dolci (a sweet pasta made with sugar and cinnamon), ossa di morto (literally, "bones of the dead," a type of cookie), and le fave dei morti, ("beans of the dead" - chewy bean-shaped cookies made from sweet almonds, butter, flour, sugar, cinnamon, and eggs.)

While Halloween around here was pretty uneventful (Italians are catching on to some American traditions from watching TV and movies), we did carve a zucca (which, while sitting outside my door waiting to be carved, garnered the attention of many passersby, including the neighborhood women who asked what I planned to do with my "bella zucca" and suggested I eat it for breakfast, make pumpkin risotto with it, or simply eat it "fresca.")

Halloween night, a few kids did run to our door screaming "dolce!!" ("sweets!!") in a sort of maladapted Italian version of Halloween. And we left our jack-o-lantern out, lit with a candle, and only slightly worried about what the neighbors might think . . .

Indian summer--the 70-degree days we've been having--are quickly fading.

November moon over Rocca Minore (the view from our bedroom terrace).

A roast-chestnut salesman in Assisi centro.

A woman eating lunch near Santa Chiara.

The Real Reason I Didn’t Go To Napoli

2006-11-01T17:01:00.000+01:00

From Vasto, I planned to go through Campobasso, over to Napoli, and down the Amalfi Coast before moving into the apartment we rented in Assisi. At that point, I'd been on the road for two months, and while I was eager to see Napoli and meet my Neapolitan friend and his family, I was pretty worn out. Even Campobasso, only about three-hour train ride from Vasto, felt like a major trip.

However, the real reason I wanted to extend my stay in Campobasso was to have the chance to eat in Da Zia Concetta (also called La Grotta) a second night—if I could, I’d have spent a week eating there, lunch and dinner. Apparently, Concetta has had some serious regulars for nearly as long as she’s been cooking there—almost fifty years.

We found out about it by asking a couple who owned an internet café we frequented. It took three tries down a narrow, hilly street. When we arrived at the door, an eager regular was standing behind us. She hurried inside, removed her scarf, then quickly took her seat.

The restaurant had no written menu; fortunately, we were early (the place filled up for dinner around 8:30-9), so the otherwise hectic waitress was able to slowly list off the dozen-or-so dishes on Concetta's menu, which ranged from soups to primi dishes (polenta, pasta, vegetables) and secondi (various grilled meats).

While we waited for our soup, we were given a half-litre of wine, a bottle of water, and saltless bread to die for. A few young guys at the next table grabbed handfuls of walnuts from the basket at the entrance, cracked them, and popped them in their mouths as they waited for their meals.

The man next to us, who the waitress called Luigi, quietly ate his soup in a dress jacket, occasionally peered over at me while I snapped photos, and left quickly after his second dish to avoid the later dinner crowd.

I ordered pasta e fagioli and Nadeem had lentil soup.

White beans, sliced cherry tomatoes, a bit of parsley, and homemade pasta (maltagliati) in clear broth.

A simple, tasty brown-lentil soup.

Later, when I asked where the bathroom was, I was guided into the kitchen area, where Concetta herself sat at a great, long wooden table, slicing fennel. The room had some antique furniture and felt like a home kitchen.

Concetta's son (also a waiter) in the room outside the kitchen.

Concetta's open oven.

Concetta in her kitchen.

I spoke with her a bit, letting her know that of all the places I'd eaten in Italy, hers was my favorite. She smiled and humbly continued chopping. Then I told her I'd see her the next night. Same time, same place.

And as we entered on the second night, the eager regular hurried in and removed her scarf, just as she had the night before. Luigi was already set up at his table, and the young guys who'd cracked walnuts while they waited for their dinners were being brought a litre of wine. Nothing had changed.

I ordered a plate of pizza di granone--polenta with bitter greens, just like my grandmother--originally from this region--used to make. In fact, I hadn't had it that way in about twenty years. Nadeem had some on the side with grilled bistecca.

A side of it with a bit of pancetta.

Because I didn't know what secondi I wanted, I asked the waitress for a suggestion. She took me to the kitchen, pulled open long metal drawers, and held up various types of meat for me to choose from. I chose one quickly, to be polite--liver.

It came tied in a sprig of rosemary served with a side of grilled buffalo mozzarella and a salad of baby arugula, sliced fennel, half cherry tomatoes, and dressing that I could only describe as heavenly--some subtle mix of delicious olive oil, almost sweet, with the slightest hint of tang that barely coated the layers of greens.

As an appetizer, I ate paper-thin slices of eggplant, ever-so-slightly breaded, filled with warm buffalo mozzarella, along with a side of sauteed broccoli rabe.

Nadeem some papparedelle with tomato sauce, and light, tender polpette, essentially Italian for meatball.

Afterward, we were given a small bowl of fruit (some cachi fruit, my new favorite) from the wall at the entrance. I let Concetta know I'd be back.

Traveling Again

2006-10-18T08:45:00.000+02:00

I'll be on the road until the end of October . . . Campobasso (where my grandmother, Rose's parents were from), Napoli, Capri, and the Amalfi Coast . . .

Will have lots to post about when I return, including a video of Pipo, the wild boar, and the town of Carunchio.

Until then . . .

Where is Everyone?

2006-10-17T10:23:00.000+02:00

I've been here exactly two months, and I'm still impressed by the passion with which Italians "do lunch."

Yesterday, I was in Vasto Centro, shopping, running errands (looking for the needle-in-a-haystack tailor shop) when I noticed it--the once-solicitous shopowners and salespeople suddenly shoving folders in desk drawers, fidgeting with their keys, looking a bit impatient. And, before I knew it, I was dashing in--last-minute--here and there, ducking beneath window gates as lights darkened, door locks turned, shades were drawn.

And then, the transformation . . . a ghost town.

I'd yet to pick up a notebook and find a blank CD. . . . but for another time. I was hungry. It was early afternoon, and I wanted lunch. I wandered the streets looking for somewhere to get a panini.

Even the lunch places close for lunch.

I managed to track down some mozzarella, a few pieces of salami from a shop, the owner of which stood chatting with a friend (and who hadn't yet closed his door). Without bread, I brought lunch to a bench on the cliff on the edge of Vasto Centro, overlooking the Adriatic, and there I ate, in total silence, not a soul in sight.

In the evening, around 5 (considered "after lunch"), I returned to town to finish my errands. Slowly, slowly, the inhabitants appeared again on the streets. Refreshed business owners threw open the gates, greeted their friends; couples strolled arm in arm . . . and the life of the city came pulsing slowly back.

Mornings in Vasto Marina

2006-10-12T20:12:00.000+02:00

The sun rises at six over the Adriatic.

Often, I'll walk to the beach, stopping along the way at Bar Farrari, the cafe where I'm a regular now, where they greet me with a protracted and operatic ciaaaaoo, as if they haven’t seen me in years, though it’s only been less than 24 hours.

The usual staff is in there, sipping from tiny espresso cups, newspapers laid out in front of them. I take with me two cornetti (Italian croissants) and eat them on the way to the beach. . . .

The water is astonishingly blue, clean, still, and surprisingly warm, even for late September.

I swim. I'm the only one, splashing, floating, taking in the view of the surrounding mountain, the top of the hill where lies the old center of Vasto.

I backfloat, thinking how, in just a few hours, New York will be waking up. . . .

But . . . rest assured . . . I'm not without a well-deserved dose of guilt that you all aren't here . . . and I do have to work, often long hours in the late afternoon. . . . and then I can only glimpse at the water from my window.

(Above is the turret where I work. . . the window where I look out from. If you want to see more pictures of the Villa and Vasto Marina, check out the link to Villa Monteferrante, in my "Vasto!" post from October 2, which has lots of good photos.)

The Report from Maria's Market

2006-10-11T10:41:00.000+02:00

I wandered in this morning around 10. I needed some bread and prosciutto for lunch. Apparently, Maria has a new girl working for her who I assume is her daughter . . . With the two of them behind the tiny counter space, things seemed more chaotic than ever.

But I was making progress, having my items rung up by the new girl, getting my choice of bread with relative ease . . . until a man came in--apparently one of Maria's vendors wanting payment for a mozzarella delivery. After him, four women walked in, all of them dressed in black, then a young mother and her son. Things were going to get interesting.

One of the women dressed in black, her gray hair pulled back in a tight knot, an apron around her waist, took a seat at the stool conveniently located in front of the counter (placed there, perhaps, for occasions such as this). The space inside Maria's is so cramped, that the woman's knees touched my legs, as I stood, waiting, waiting, while Maria and the mozzarella man had it out.

"Ah, Maria," he kept saying, exasperated, one hand in the air, one on his head, while Maria waved a receipt and spoke three times more quickly than usual. In the meantime, the new girl behind the counter timidly tried to intervene by uttering, "prosciutto," as if subliminally, during a quick lull in the debate between Maria and her mozzarella vendor. The woman next to me quietly said, "Madonna" while the small child chanted, "Pane latte, Mama. Pane latte." (sweet roll) and banged on the bread case with his tiny fist.

I felt his pain.

At once, with the woman next to me saying Madonna under her breath, the other customers steadily holding armloads of groceries, and the child demanding his bread, the phone rang. We all looked at the phone. Then we looked at Maria. Then we looked at each other, as if to say, "that ain't gonna happen."

But it did. Maria put the whole circus on hold and picked up the phone, and all of us--in a chorus of exasperation--shifted our weight, let out a sigh, and sagged our heads.

"Prosciutto," said the girl behind the counter. Prosciutto per questa ragazza." (Prosciutto. Prosciutto for this girl.)

Vasto's Signature Dish

2006-10-08T19:15:00.000+02:00

Brodetto alla Vastese or lu brodett', as the locals call it, is a light tomato-based broth made with seasonal fish--essentially, a bouillabaisse of squid, cuttlefish, skate, mussels, and so forth. Traditionally, it's served in an earthenware plate and eaten with lots of bread.

Signor Monteferrante makes it on Thursdays. He shops at a nearby pescaria for what's fresh, cleans the fish . . .

makes a neighborhood stray happy . . .

And has the stew ready in time for lunch . . .

Other dishes worth noting from this region are seppie alle griglia con peperoni arrostiti (grilled cuttlefish with roasted peppers), la scapece (pickled skate, marinated in saffron), spiedine di pesce (fish skewers), seppie ripiene al sugo (stuffed cuttlefish in sauce), lo stoccafisso (dried cod prepared with onions, tomatoes, sweet peppers, and lots of fresh olive oil), and schiuma di mare (sea foam served with soft bread, red peppers, oil and parsley) (however it's forbidden to fish for sea foam - making it a rare dish), cipollata (onion soup).

My Local Supermarket

2006-10-04T13:26:00.000+02:00

. . . is owned by a woman named Maria. I can't imagine her with any other name. Her hair is short, curled, dark as squid ink. She wears a house dress, wedge shoes; she's around 60. She calls me bella.

Her market has two aisles--one for pasta and one for cleaning supplies.

There's a small refrigerated shelf with beer and butter, and a counter for salami and fresh bread. If I get there early enough, Maria will list the names of breads for me, pointing while she does--pizzetta, foccacia, ciabatta, casareccio.

Sometimes, Maria's prices change from one day to the next. The receipts she hands me are itemized, but each item says only "pasta." One day, an etto of salami costs 1.20 euro; the next day, the same salami, the same amount, costs double.

Maria prefers to select my fruits and vegetables with a plastic-gloved hand. I tell her what I want and when I want to eat it, and she makes her selections. I have to be careful not to step on the crate of eggs, which sits on the floor amid the wooden boxes of produce.

Often, there are quite a number of customers in Maria's tiny supermarket. They've pre-ordered pizzettas and paninis and they're here to pick them up. Or they come in to buy a beer, a bagful of eggs, a six-pack of pear juice. When this happens, it may take a very long time to get your turn. You have to stand and wait while Maria catches up with her customers. Midway to giving someone change, she may stop what she's doing, lean back along the case that holds the bread, and say, "Stai scherzando" (No kidding) and launch into a conversation, where everyone, then, must hold their groceries and wait.

Maria isn't open on Sundays. She closes daily for siesta between 1 and 4:30. Sometimes I forget this and I stand outside her shop, a metal gate pulled over its front. Sometimes, I see Maria walking along the beach, hiking up her housedress to let the water touch her knees, collecting shells, a pair of sunglasses pushing back her black, black hair. If she sees me, she'll squint, then smile, and say, "Ciao, bella."

Signor Monteferrante's Stuffed Eggplant

2006-10-02T18:45:00.000+02:00

Don't blame me if I didn't get the measurements. There are none. But I've provided a video to help you along.

Ingredients:

3 medium-sized eggplant
1 kilo chopped meat (veal works well)
(1 cup?)grated parmigiano cheese
2 eggs
(1 cup?)breadcrumbs
lots of good olive oil
1 large jar of stewed tomatoes
1 small bunch each, basil and parsley

Chop off the very top of your eggplants. Gently scoop out the innards, and chop innards into cubes. Soak all eggplant (innards and shells) in water for 2-3 hours. Change water once during this period. (Unclear whether salt is added at this point. I assume so. Use your judgement.)

Drain the eggplant. Roll the shells softly with the palm of your hand to soften. Squeeze water from innards and put innards only inside medium-sized frying pan. Break up chopmeat with your hand and spread over top of this, along with a good swirl of olive oil (quite a lot) and a couple tsps. of coarse sea salt.

While this is sauteing on low heat, cut up one small green pepper overtop. To me, this looked like a small picante. It had a bit of punch.

Once the meat is cooked through, turn off heat and let cool. Take this from the stove and put in half the jar of stewed tomatoes, chop into cubes with a kitchen scissor. Mix. Add two eggs. Mix. Then add your bread crumbs. Signor Monteferrante just kept adding until the mixture was still moist but the breadcrumbs soaked up some of the liquid. Finally, add a good amount of parmigiano cheese. He cut off a huge hunk (about a third of a wedge of cheese) and grated it (in an electric grater) overtop. Mix.

Next, take a medium-sized soup pot and add the rest of the stewed tomatoes to the bottom of it. Chop with kitchen scissors. Go out to your garden and grab a handful each of parsley and basil. Chop over tomatoes in soup pot. Add another few swirls (quite a lot) of olive oil. Mash everything down.

Take your eggplant shells and rinse. From your meat mixture, which should be well-mixed, begin spooning to inside the shells. Fill until you can't fill anymore, but do it gently. (Mysteriously, if you're an Italian, you'll have just enough mixture to fit inside the shells.) Place the stuffed eggplant gently over the tomatoes in your soup pot. Finally, take a bowl of water and fill to cover the eggplant. Throw in about 2 tablespoons (it did seem like a lot) of coarse sea salt.

Place pot on stove, fork the salt into the water, cover, and simmer on low heat. "It takes time," said Signor Monteferrante when I asked how long. I'd say about 90 minutes, until all the ingredients are fragrant and infused and the eggplant are softened.

When I explain to Signor Monteferrante that in America, we have what's called the "cooking channel" and people go crazy for these cooking shows. I tell him about some of the Italian chefs, their fame, their lines of products and cookbooks, trying, perhaps, to entice Signor Monteferrante; however, his reply . . . "Today, the man's gotta do everything."

The next day, I was invited to lunch to try some. With a loaf of crusty bread, some white wine, and a view of the ocean . . .

Signor Monteferrante than asked me, "So, what do you think? Can I open a restaurant in New Jersey?"

Here's the video.

Vasto!

2006-10-02T15:13:00.000+02:00

Here I am in Vasto, a beautiful town on the Adriatic, which is in the Abruzzo region. It's not quite Southern Italy, but it's not far from it. Abruzzo borders Molise, where Campobasso is, and where my family on my father's side originated. In a couple of weeks, I'll visit there (for the first time) as well as Napoli, Ischia and Capri (two islands off Napoli), Positano, the Amalfi Coast, and Ravello (where Gore Vidal's villa is currently being sold).

In Vasto, I'm staying at Villa Monteferrante, which is located in Vasto Marina, situated between the beach and sea and the hilltop that houses the old town center. I'm staying in the top floor and working in the turret.

While I'm busy talking with locals, checking out festivals, eating the food, swimming in the ocean, and gathering information for future posts (this is hard work, y'know!), I thought I'd "cheat" on this one and show you some of the photos that Luigi, the ownder of Villa Monteferrante, already has on his site. Though, of course, I'll eventually be putting up my own.

Take a look under "Tour" (both Photos of B&B and Photos of Vasto) and also be sure to click on the live Web cam to see the view.
Villa Monteferrante

Every day or two, I'll be putting up more photos, posts, videos, and an interview with Luigi about his restoration of the villa. Stay tuned.

The Hands That Tell A Story

2006-09-29T14:45:00.000+02:00

One of the best parts of Italian language is the hands. My grandmother, Rose, was the first to expose me to the lowered prayer hands, the ones that point to you, rock up and down, and say "don't be so stupid" or "give me a break." Or even ask, "Am I the only normal one around here?"

She'd point to her head (for "crazy") or hold her head with both hands and bow gently (oh, Madonna). She'd put one finger in front of her mouth and, with her shoulders up to her ears, whisper a bit of innocent gossip. Of course, she wasn't a gossip. She was a storyteller. Like all Italians are storytellers. . . .

In fact, in 1832, Andrea de Jorio, a 19th-century anthropologist, wrote a lexicon of Italian hand gestures, which was later translated into English and called Gesture in Naples and Gesture in Classical Antiquity.

Here, I follow three men while they walk, argue, stop, gesture, and continue on . . . This video clip only tells part of the story. They started long before I turned on my camera; and they continued long after.

Ciao Venezia!

2006-09-27T21:28:00.000+02:00

This marks the end of my Venice posts. I seem to have taken a lot of photographs while I was there; here are a few that struck me, in random order.

Detail at the top of the stone arches (built 1917) that serve as a cover to the Rialto Pescheria (fish market).

An artist on the outskirts of the market.

Someone asked a lot of tourists were in Venice while I was there. Here's the answer (over the Rialto Bridge).

Name this shop (Hint: It's on the way over the Rialto Bridge) and win a prize (e.g., your name immortalized on the comments section of my blog.)

Tourists coming through a small bridge on a gondola.

My Italian-glam shot at Trattoria alla Antica Mola where we had a simple lunch, white wine, and lingered along the edge of this small canal.

The night we were brave enough to walk through Piazza San Marco, an odd, kind of spooky, bride and groom were dancing silently and wistfully off in one corner of the piazza. They'd gathered quite a crowd, but it was hard to tell whether or not they were the real thing.

She sat on this same bench in Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio every afternoon and liked to talk to strangers.

I was struck by the beauty of facades; how the subtle pink hues, rusty oranges, pale ochre, yellow, and gold changed with the time of day, with the weather. On sunny days, the colors appeared washed out. On the last day, before it was about to rain, the hues seemed to intensify.

One night, for the fun of it, we went to look at the one apartment we found on Craiglist. We took Vaporetto #1 down to (Can you help name this stop??) one of the last stops. The feel of the area was totally different--dark, quiet, neighborhood-y, and how I image a corner of Napoli might be: men playing cards at a table outside; stray, mangy dogs defeatedly roaming the streets; woman inside tiny lit-up shops speaking rapidly in shrill, but operatic, Italian. We were looking for a street called San Giuseppe and when we finally stopped to ask a waiter, he said it existed. In fact, it was just around the block; however, the San Giuseppe we wanted wasn't on this part of the island. It was in Vincenza, another part of Venice about 45-minutes South.

Oh well. It was worth getting lost to see this little not oft-traveled part of Venice.

I didn't see a car in Venice, or a bus, or even a bicycle; most everything is transported by boat. Here, construction is being done and the detritus is hauled off into this boat.

My five-second glance off the Rialto Bridge before I got shoved away by tourists.

Me and my travel partner.

A Room with A View

2006-09-25T20:37:00.000+02:00

I had a hard time booking a room in Venice for early September. (Not surprisingly, since it's high season.) "A Room in Venice," where I had wanted to stay was booked for months in advance, but the owner kindly referred me to a Signora Daniela Maraga who owns a small, two-room bed and breakfast located inside a 16th-century palazzo in Santa Croce, not far from the station. The main floor, where we stay, has a small sitting room, dining table, and two wings--one with our room off the front corner of the building.

The interior is simple and holds an air of aristocracy . . . marble floors, thirty-foot ceilings, wood-framed windows and doors . . .

Before we arrive, Daniela phones me coming in on the train to ask if everything is okay. She welcomes us warmly with a personalized, color-coded map of some local restaurants, where to get a gondola ride for .50 centesimi, a nearby typical Venetian palazzo, and other off-the-beaten-path places. She helps give us a taste of a more authentic Venice.

In the mornings, she makes us warm beverages, and serves us fruit, and cake, bread and jam. The rooms are spotless and quiet; they look out onto a pretty street, in a quiet neighborhood that's central to everything we need.

Al Gallion, the name of Daniela's B&B, is going on my list of favorite places.

Where Tourists Fear to Tread

2006-09-24T19:45:00.000+02:00

In Venice, like anywhere I travel, I try to uncover where the natives eat. Food, for me, is the quickest way to get a sense of the culture, the people, the life and history of a region. I'm more relaxed in my Italian when I'm talking about food; it gives me the opportunity to strike up conversation with the locals.

Within the first hour that I arrive in the city, I'm already at a local grocer. I can see by the aisle of international foods that this is a city for tourists, that there is a large ex-pat community. Of course, I already know this, but I like to see it confirmed here on the shelves. The prices are outrageous, and so it seems dashed are my hopes of ever living here.

There are, however, the myriad fruit and vegetable stands throughout the city, which tend to be more reasonable, fresh, and funner to shop at.

Even though I'm generally happy eating simple food--a piece of pecorino and ciabatta, some figs, vegetables--in cities like Venice, I don’t want to waste the few precious meal slots I have on disappointing fare. And that’s easy to do in this city where everyone keeps one eye on the tourist.

Along the Grand Canal, there are dozens of ristorantes stumbling over one another to get a few euros out of you. They play up to their reputation of being the most romantic city in the world. And most tourists I encounter here don’t seem to give a hoot about subtlety. Gondoliers beckon you, one hand over their heart, from amid outside tables lined with tea lights and leatherbound menus. Bangledeshi men holding bouquets of roses, tickle you with them, pleading. Maitre d’s in tuxes talk at you in theatrical Americanized-Italian, “Hello, Signora, amore!” The trattorias advertise “Spaghetti con pomodoro!” and “German Beer!” Tiny wood-paneled cafes call themselves “American Bars,” and serve "ham" sandwiches (certainly, we tourists must at least know what prosciutto is!), and "snacks."

And people go to them.

One thing I’ve noticed is that Italians rarely seem to sit outside. I haven't proven this but where there are places with ample seating inside and out, on gorgeous evenings when watching the life is sometimes even better than pear and gorgonzola, Italians choose the indoors. Two of the three places I liked in Venice only had indoor seating, which told me something.

And one of my favorite meals, on my last night in Venice, while the rain held out, came of whisking around the city, picking up an etto of salami, a few vegetables, pears and figs, and sitting outside a bacaro (wine bar) beneath the gallant stone arches that serve as a cover to the fish market (and which were, surprisingly, built in 1917.)

These wine bars frame the square and are a good place to eat simply and inexpensively--by ordering a cheese plate, bread, and some wine. We sit at one that overlooks the Canal and has a few scattered wooden tables outside which people have dragged under an awning to avoid a sudden downpour.

In the mornings, along the canal, is the famous fish market (Rialto Pescheria) with vendors selling their assortments of vegetables and fruits, and of course all manner of sea creatures. This spot marks the place where these fishmongers have been selling since the Renaissance and where restaurant owners shop at daybreak for the day's freshest catch.

On the second day, I stumble across the market and all else seems to fall away. I can spend hours here, listening to negotiations, watching transactions, comparing prices, staring at the bizarre and oddly prehistoric-looking faces of the fish. . . .

While the market is known for its fish, of course, other vendors sell meats, fruits, and vegetables.

(Salted Spanish anchovies at 44 euros per kg)

Venice: Sepia and Other Gifts from the Sea

2006-09-22T16:39:00.000+02:00

I grew up on squid ink. Well, not really "grew up" on it, but got used to it by the age of five. Where some families got to have hot dogs for a treat, we had squid ink--on our pasta, with polenta, and especially on Christmas eve since my father kept up the Italian tradition of eating a dozen different types of fish. At some point, I guess, you run out of types of fish and start looking for things like cuttlefish--those adorable little Cephalopods--which aren't actually fish at all, rather they come from the mollusk family and are more closely related to snails and, of course, octupus and squid.

Here's what I know about them:

Their ink (sepia) was used by artists. They eject it when they go into attack mode into the mouth of a predator. Now, if you were an Italian, and you had a little polenta on hand, that might just be a *good thing.* Luckily, for humans, the ink is high in vitamins (one incentive for ingesting it) and it can also be used to treat cold sores.

I ask an Italian friend why he eats squid ink. "You just eat all of it," he says, holding his hands out as if he were cradling a cuttlefish; it's a pretty simple philosophy, perhaps a bit of a peasant one, but it works for me.

Here's a visual:

In Venice, our hostess, Sra. Daniela Maraga, suggests we go to a neighborhood place.

For dinner, Nadeem orders pesce mista (mixed, or assorted, fish). What comes is a plate bursting with the oddest-looking sea creatures I've ever seen: some with antennae or one big, googly eye, others with wings, fins, scales, tentacles . . .

Proudly, I watch him eat it. However, when our second dish, sepie con polenta (the squid ink), comes he squints and shrinks back. Bravely, though, he spoons some onto his plate then smiles at me sheepishly. I don't say a word; I don't want to encourage or taunt him, so I just let him try it. Before I know it, he's chewing and nodding and coming back for more.

Later, Nadeem becomes a connoisseur of squid ink . . . . everywhere we go, we sample it. Here, it's very similar but with polenta made from yellow corn meal rather than white.

Later, we order grilled octopus. . .

And really delicious tiny cockles in white wine and ginger broth. . .

Across the Lagoon

2006-09-20T22:58:00.000+02:00

In her recent book, Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert describes Venice as a “stinky, slow, sinking, mysterious, silent, and weird city.” She goes on to write, “Venice seems like a wonderful city in which to die a slow and alcoholic death or to lose a loved one, or to lose the murder weapon with which the loved one was lost in the first place. . . . Venice is beautiful, but like a Bergman movie is beautiful; you can admire it, but you don’t really want to live in it.”

I love Ms. Gilbert’s choice of words; however, I beg to differ.

I, for one, would like to live in this Bergman movie.

When I arrive in Venice across the lagoon on a Eurostar from Florence, I receive a call from my hostess asking if everything is all right, letting me know she's awaiting my arrival. I step out of the train station in the early evening and immediately feel a kinship to this place, as if I am seeing the face of a long-ago dear friend.

Within 24 hours, I find myself at a rental agency . . . just to see what's available.

Perhaps I am a little too drunk on Venice; after all, I have an apartment, now, in Assisi and the prices (and size of the apartments) here are comparable to New York and Paris, two cities I already can’t afford to live in.

So I steel myself against the reality that I won't be a Venetian anytime soon, that, instead, I will visit often. . . .

I have more to say on Venice--where I stayed, what I ate, and a few observations; for now, I'll leave you with these mini-videos: Lost in Venice, a typical Venetian piazza, and the Grand Canal.

The streets are notoriously unmarked, tiny, winding, and inadequately numbered.

Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio: A Typical Venetian Piazza on a Tuesday Afternoon.

A trip, in part, down the Grand Canal at sunset from a Vaporetto (water taxi).

On A Train Back from Venice

2006-09-20T18:06:00.000+02:00

Gone Fishing

2006-09-11T21:40:00.000+02:00

I'm on vacation this week . . . As my dad put it. "Right, because you need a vacation!"

I was in Rome last week, then back in Assisi, settling matters on an apartment here . . . (more on that in future posts). Tomorrow, I'm off to Venice for three days. I return to Assisi on the weekend then head to Vasto for a month. Vasto is a town in the Abruzzo region, which is south of here along the Adriatic.

Stay tuned, though . . . I've got lots to post when I return.

Pizza e uovo

2006-09-04T15:11:00.000+02:00

At a restaurant last night, we saw a pizza come by with an egg on it. So we ordered one. It was called the "cubano" (I'm not sure why) and had a fried egg, pepperoni, and salsicce.

I just had a pork chop (with a few trimmings!).

Biscotti con Cereali

2006-09-03T10:40:00.000+02:00

I had these light, crispy cookies at a Tupperware party the other day. Of course, Marianella made them, so even though they're facile (easy), I'll probably never have them like this again. Oh, and the Tupperware party . . . let's just say I was there for the cookies.

The party . . . (it was quite a scene :)

To Make:
(I'll do my best wtih conversions)

2 1/4 cup farina (plain white flour)
1 cup melted butter
1 cup sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder
4 eggs
1 cup of currants (which seems like quite a lot, so use your judgement; you can also use raisins or nothing at all)
1/2 cup minced almonds

Whisk the eggs and blend in the flour, butter, and sugar. After that is well-blended, toss in the currants and almonds. Roll the dough into teaspoon-sized balls and coat with cornflakes. Place in the oven at 350 degrees for about 7-10 minutes. (Watch the color - you want golden brown.)

(This isn't the best photo, but that's because by the time I got around to taking a picture of the cookies, they were mostly gone.)

The Borlotti Bean

2006-09-03T10:17:00.000+02:00

They're in the late summer/early autumn. The shell is speckled with magenta or mauve. Once shelled, these beans need to be cooked within a day or two (no soaking is required) and they're often jarred for using during the winter months. Sometimes they are made tossed with olive oil, parsley, salt and pepper, or flavored with pork fat.

Some call them "French horticulture beans" and they're known in the states as cranberry beans. But here in Umbria, they're the primary bean used to accompany meat or tuna, in stews or soups, and with vegetables.

Solo Pizza!

2006-09-02T21:23:00.000+02:00

At around 7 on Saturday night, the Yuen's and I walk over to Marianella and Bruno's house next door for a pizza party. Marianella is baking pizza in her outdoor brick oven. When she sees us, she calls from the balcony, "Solo pizza." She says it almost apologetically.

Only pizza, I think. She doesn't know how I can't wait to sink my teeth into it.

She's made six different types:

Cipolla (Onion):

Zucchini and another with gorgonzola:

Also, salsicce, margherita, and one with "pork cheek," sage, and **caciotta. The dough of the pizza tastes more like foccacia; it's made with plain white flour ("nothing special," I am told, but essentially farina "00," which is a fine-sift) and some yeast, olive oil water, and salt. After the pizza, we eat stuffed peppers, zucchini, tomatoes, and eggplant with homemade wine and watermelon for dessert.

**caciotta is a type of common country cheese made with ewe, sheep, or goat's milk; it's soft and mild (and delicious).

The entire night, we sit and eat at dusk beneath Bruno and Marianella's grape vines.

Please note: It's my camera (not your computer) that makes the video a bit blurry. I tried to pan around a lot (hope you don't get dizzy!) to show Marianella's patio. Below the video is a photo of the vine wall along the steps that lead upstairs and into her house.

A Nice Country Rabbit

2006-09-02T16:50:00.000+02:00

Although rabbit dishes are common in Italy, it seems to be particularly popular here in Umbria. It's served many ways, but here a basic marinated and simmered dish is served (often with polenta or pappardelle), although sometimes it's seasoned and roasted.

I liked reading this very odd but matter-of-fact summary of raising and consuming rabbits taken from "The Rabbit Research Program."

Rabbits produce highly nutritious, low-fat, low-cholesterol meat rich in proteins and certain vitamins and minerals. Being herbivores, rabbits do not compete with humans for their food and are easily adaptable to different environments. They are easy to transport and market for food, fur and raw skin for garments and gloves.

Backyard rabbit raising provides additional income to small farmers and upgrades the diet of poor rural and urban households. Investment and labour costs are low and rabbits can be cared for by the most vulnerable family members. "Rabbits fit well in household production and can be looked after by women farmers," says FAO expert René Branckaert.

Rabbit meat consumption is a secular custom in the Mediterranean area. It goes back to 1000 BC when Phoenicians are said to have discovered wild rabbits in North Africa and Spain and the Romans spread them throughout their empire. In France, consumption of rabbit meat became the sole right of the lord of the manor.

Today, rabbit meat is a delicacy in most Mediterranean countries, from the famous French "Lapin à la provençale," to Italy's "Coniglio alla cacciatora". The town of Naples, in the South of Italy, is said to be the world's biggest consumer of rabbit meat at 15 kg/year per inhabitant.

A Perfect Day For Lumaca

2006-08-30T10:35:00.000+02:00

This morning, after it had rained all night, the sun appeared, burning the fog off the hills, causing everything to glisten.

I was walking the trash down to the rifiuti bins. Bruno and Marianella were out, along with their friends. Each of them had what looked like a butter knife and were kneeling--one by the stone wall, one in the garden, someone on the deck.

Boun Giorno!

We said our hellos. Odd, I thought, all of them were dressed in what looked like their Sunday finest, but with buckets and butter knives, squatting in the garden. On my way back, it occured to me that they were collecting Lumache--snails, a wealth of which are found here in Umbria.

Marianella's friend told me, "Non mangiamo oggi, non per sei giorini." It takes six days to prepare the snails. (If the snails are procured commercially, it's recommended the preparation take two weeks; however, if they're found in your own garden, which is presumably free of pesticides, six days is sufficient.) Although, some suggest that, even if you gathered them yourself, the snails be put in a dark basket for twenty days and "fast" to remove the "wild, earthy flavor" they may have when freshly caught.

If you're using the short method, the snails are put in a box with drainage and fed herbs--thyme, sage--for flavor. Over the course of about six days, the snails are washed, and continued to be fed herbs.

On the sixth day, the meat is pulled from the shell, placed in cold salted water, and then boiled. A bouillon is made from white wine, garlic, fennel, sage. The snails are cooked in the bouillon, then placed back in the buttered shells and put in the oven for three-to-four minutes.

Of course, there are many variations to lumache recipes--with polenta, pasta, lumache alla Romana (with tomato sauce), deep fried--but when I have my own garden one day, filled with my own lumache, I think I'll try this one first.

Greta Part III

2006-08-29T13:40:00.000+02:00

Greta is getting internet installed in her apartment. In the morning, the men show up in a little white truck and begin work. By noon, our internet connection is down, and the men are leaning against a ladder, smoking cigarettes.

After putting some pressure on them, the service comes back, and the men continue to work on Greta's internet connection.

Come one o'clock, Italy's time to take it easy, eat lunch, be with family, Greta appears on her stoop and calls to the men. "Cosa fai, torni fino a casa per mangiare? Dai, vieni dentro. Ho fatto del cavolo." (What are you going to do, go all the way back to your house to eat? C'mon. Come inside. I made cabbage.)

Within five minutes, the men disappear into Greta's apartment and, for the next forty minutes, only the clanking of forks and glasses could be heard.

By four o'clock, the men are through. They pack their wires and tools into the back of their truck as Greta stands barefoot on her stoop, calling out her farewells, "Ciao! Ciao! Molto grazie! Spero avete gustato il cavolo! Bouna giornata! Ciao!"

Small Change

2006-08-29T09:15:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, I went to a local grocery store to pick up a few things for chicken-vegetable soup; however, I soon found out they didn't sell fresh meat, and the selection of vegatables was spare. An old man stood behind the counter eating a pear. I did manage to pick up a few things and, in the meantime, more customers appeared. It was about fifteen minutes before the store closed for siesta. I placed my items on the counter, and some other customers lined up behind me. A guy, apparently a friend of the old man, stood by as he rang me up. My total was 6.15. "Hai quindici?"

I didn't have the fifteen.

He looked at me as if I had just told him I murdered his uncle, and then he slowly opened the register, one eye still one me. His friend, standing by, grew tense. The old man took out handfuls of ten centisimi pieces then threw them on the counter, one by one, counting as he did.

Thirty in all.

Finally, his friend intervened. "Ma perchè state facendo la difficoltà?" (But why are you causing trouble?) The old man ignored his friend. Then threw down one last piece--a euro. I still had no idea what I'd done wrong, but I scooped up my change with a huff, scowled a bit, and stormed out.

As I did, my face flushed, swearing to never shop here again, I spied the box of fresh figs resting on the newspaper stand. They must've just been delivered. They were olive green and perfectly ripe. I bit my lip. Slowy, I turned around. "Uh . . ." The old man wouldn't look at me. "Scusi," I said loud enough that he couldn't ignore me. "Quanto costa?" He didn't answer. I picked up the whole box and brought it over to him. He started piling figs on the scale, until I told him "solo mezzo kilo." (Only half kilo.) He stopped. 1.43 euro. I paid him back in ten centisimi pieces.

Dionigi Cantina

2006-08-27T22:10:00.000+02:00

Thursday afternoon, we stop by Leo and Patricia's in Santa Maria degli Angeli, and follow them over to Dionigi Cantina for a wine run. We've packed the car with empty jugs. The cantina is located in Montefalco.

When we arrive, I get the impression that we've woken up the owner. He comes out groggily, his shirt half-buttoned, a big sleepy smile on his face, and brings us downstairs.

The celler houses a tasting room (They've been making wine here since 1896.) . . .

A room for storing the wine in oak barrels . . .

And a room full of stainless-steel tanks where the wine is stored to stop it from absorbing flavors.

The owner has samples for us to try before we buy some.

Leo tries out a few at once.

And Giacomo gets a taste too.

The table wine, Montefalco Rosso, is a blend of sangiovese, merlot, and sagrantino, which is produced partially from dried grapes, has hints of violet and blackberry, and is mellow and a bit spicy.

There's also a sweet version of the sagratino, which sells for about 25 euro per liter; traditionally, it was made by laying the grapes out on straw mats until the dried into raisins. The raisins were used to make the wine, which was served at Easter. But once sweet wines lost their popularity in the seventies and eighties, producers started using the grape to make dry wines, though the sweet sagratino is still around.

Giacomo helps the owner fill our jugs. We pay him ten euro per jug, which works out to about six-and-a-half bottles. The wine is excellent. It's the hottest deal in town.

(Click on the word Wine at the top of this post to link to Dionigi Cantina's Web site.)

Vasco Rossi

2006-08-27T14:16:00.000+02:00

The more I hear this song, the more it grows on me. It'll probably always remind me of August in Assisi. I'm working on translating the lyrics . . . it's a bit repetitious, and not terribly deep, but sweet all the same. Just click to listen.

Vasco Rossi

Voglio trovare un senso a questa sera
Anche se questa sera un senso non ce l'ha

Voglio trovare un senso a questa vita
Anche se questa vita un senso non ce l'ha

Voglio trovare un senso a questa storia
Anche se questa storia un senso non ce l'ha

Voglio trovare un senso a questa voglia
Anche se questa voglia un senso non ce l'ha

Sai che cosa penso
Che se non ha un senso
Domani arriverà...
Domani arriverà lo stesso
Senti che bel vento
Non basta mai il tempo
Domani un altro giorno arriverà...

Voglio trovare un senso a questa situazione
Anche se questa situazione un senso non ce l'ha

Voglio trovare un senso a questa condizione
Anche se questa condizione un senso non ce l'ha

Sai che cosa penso
Che se non ha un senso
Domani arriverà
Domani arriverà lo stesso
Senti che bel vento
Non basta mai il tempo
Domani un altro giorno arriverà...
Domani un altro giorno... ormai è qua!

This Table, These Nuts, Those Figs

2006-08-25T21:12:00.001+02:00

These are some of my favorite things . . . along with Leo and Patricia, a couple Helen and Jack met last year who live in a restored rustico in Santa Maria degli Angeli, below Assisi, I feel like I've found heaven on earth.

This table, in the backyard beneath the walnut tree, with an amazing view of Assisi, belonged to Leo's parents. The whole in its side was where you kept the rolling pin. On the surface of the table, you roll our long sheets of dough to make paparedelle and tagliatelle.

Leo puts out a plate of fresh walnuts from his tree.

Cracking Nuts

Later, he picks figs for us to eat. They're green, ripe, and wonderfully delicious.

What I adore most about Leo and Patricia, aside from their house, their hospitality, and their view . . .

The view from their backyard . . .

. . . is how they interact. They're both lively and engaging and admirably enthusiastic about their lives here. Leo grew up not far from where he now lives with Patricia. And Patricia's originally from England. They raised their kids here in Santa Maria; one now lives in Rome and the other in London. Leo retired from owning a cafe, and both will eventually open their house to travelers as a bed and breakfast. I envy their future guests.

A Kind of Italian Twin Peaks

2006-08-25T11:37:00.000+02:00

On the drive home from Gubbio, the roads twisting and turning, Giacomo begins to feel a little ill so we pull over at a roadside stop.

They advertise prosciutto torta alle testa. Outside, they grow lettuce from a bathtub.

The owner. (Photo taken by Giacomo, age 3.5)

A customer. (Photo courtesy of Giacomo, age 3.5)

Inside, we sit at card tables covered in plastic table clothes surrounded by lawn chairs. On one wall hangs pictures of Christ that appear to be torn out of magazines. We order one torta alle testa (bread and some slices of proscuitto) and a lemon soda, which takes about 15 minutes. Giacomo is feeling a little better.

The owner's husband:

Where To Go Before You Die

2006-08-25T10:05:00.000+02:00

Written in one of these Top Places to go Before You Die books, is the small, Umbrian town of Gubbio, located about 40 kilometers north of Assisi. Its medieval structures seem to be carved out of the hills. Many of its streets remain as they were in the 13th century.

Isabella, mother of Francesco, and a friend of Jack and Helen's is a tour guide. Luckily, we caught her on her day off and she willingly gave us a private tour. First, she took us to a tucked-away trattoria where the locals go.

Here, we ate the special--torta al testo with all kinds of fillings. This place supplies most of the torta al testo sold in Umbria. It's similar to the bread a gyro is served in--thick flatbread that's chewy and served slightly toasted. I had mine with Pecorino cheese and arugula.

Later, Isabella takes us into town where we both walk and take elevators to get up the hill. From what she says, the Umbrians were the first to settle in Italy, even before the Etruscans and Romans--though, of course, the Romans later destroyed them. The Palazzo dei Consoli, where town meetings were held, is now a museum. At the top is a bell tower. Men still train to learn how to play 52 different songs using their foot and kicking the bell.

The most famous festival in Umbria--the Corsa dei Ceri (Race of the Candlesticks)--is held here in Gubbio each year. Apparently, it's quite dangerous for onlookers, as men take turns carrying these 1,000-lbs. "candlesticks" (each with the wax statue of a saint atop) from the bottom of the mountain to the church of Sant'Ubaldo (the patron saint of Gubbio), all the way at the top of the mountain. It takes them a total of 15 minutes and, if you're in their way, look out.

At the top of Basilica di Sant'Ubaldo

Inside (where the "candlesticks" are housed) a mass is being held. At the top of the altar is a glass coffin that holds the mummified remains of Saint Ubaldo.

A bit from mass . . .

The town of Gubbio is nestled in the valley and along the hills of the Apennine Mountains.

The Apennine Mountainside decorated for Christmas.

A Miniature Horse Outside My Window

2006-08-22T00:39:00.001+02:00

This evening, after dinner, I was lying on my bed reading. I heard my name being called from outside my window. "Look, Darla. Look!" Helen, Giacomo, our neighbor . . . they were pointing to a miniature horse in the olive grove across the street. The sun was just falling behind the mountains.

Rome's Termini

2006-08-22T00:39:00.000+02:00

On Friday morning, I take my ninety lbs. of luggage (no joke)--a hiking backpack, and a suitcase--to Termini. I need to get on a train to Assisi. The station is packed. People are camped out on the surfaces of their suitcases, travelers watch the departure and arrival windows while they smoke freely, stamping out their butts on the floor. I don't attempt to stand in line; instead, I use the biglietto veloce (fast ticket) booth. While I buy the correct ticket, I'm later told that I got on the more expensive train. I didn't know I had a choice. The other thing about buying a ticket that's a bit mystifying is the choice between first and second class. The only difference I notice, once I'm on the train, is that the first-class car is about six inches wider and there are less people riding it.

The bathroom at Termini is downstairs, which means I need to haul myself and my ninety extra pounds there. I'm not happy about this, so instead I sit with it and wait. Within forty minutes, I am approached by nearly a dozen beggers. Some are persistent, standing over me with an aching looking on their face, while others pass by with a sort of weak plea that's easy to ignore.

Finally, I muster the strength to head downstairs. Luggage in tow, I'm forced to pay 80 centissimo for use of the bathroom. I have to pass through a turnstyle.

I'm happy to finally board my train and depart.

Greta Part II

2006-08-21T14:33:00.000+02:00

Greta busted her ankle a few weeks ago. She's been wearing a cast. Yesterday morning, she was at the front of the house talking, rapid-fire, with Helen and Jack. Later, after she left, I asked what was going on. Apparently, she had to order a replacement cast (much of the healthcare system here is do-it-yourself) and while they told her it would be delivered in a few days, it's been over two weeks. She's livid.

No wonder I've been hearing this toppling Italian rising up through my window for days now.

The thing is, they tell you yes; they tell you we'll get it done, but no one is held accountable. I haven't spoken with Greta, but as far as I can see, nothing has been resolved. I've heard stories like this before. I wouldn't be surprised if this goes on for several more weeks.

What's even more alarming is that Greta works in a hospital.

Michele Piedimonte: My Long-Lost Brother

2006-08-20T23:57:00.000+02:00

At a sagra the other night, I met Michele Piedimonte. He’s from Campobasso. I had taken the kids to get prizes and when I came back to our table, there was a couple talking with Isabella, who'd invited us to the sagra. I didn’t speak much to the couple—since my confidence level in speaking is still pretty poor. Mostly, Michelle and I just smiled at each other. As he and his girlfriend left, Isabella turned to me and said, Michele is from Campobasso. "Campobasso!" We all looked at Isabella. "Darla's bisnonna is from there." Isabella didn't miss a beat. She spotted Michele walking away at the other side of the room, and called to him. She pointed at me and said, "Campobasso!" Michele immediately came back and sat next to me. We chatted and exchanged information. He's an engineer and hoping to move to Assisi to be near Lorena, his girlfriend. But he was born in Campobasso (a province in the Molise region along the Adriatic) and found work there more easily, so he's been there ever since. I promised to come visit.

Saturday Afternoon in Perugia

2006-08-19T18:08:00.000+02:00

Inside the church of San Matteo in the main piazza of Perugia--Piazza San Francesco.

Today, Jack took me up to Perugia, about 15 kilometers from Assisi. There are some really beautiful views from the town centro.(Photo courtesy of Giacomo Yuen, age 3.5)

Centro is so high up on the hilltop that you need to take a series of about five long escalators and four sets of stairs to get there. It's a university town and many students travel to Perugia for language lessons. The main piazza, Piazza IV Novembre, is filled with students, tourists, pigeons, and pizza places. Giacomo took the following photos of the piazza.

Perugia was on my list of possible places to live. It's Umbria's capital and largest city, but after returning to Assisi, I realized Perugia felt empty to me. The life there is transient--tourists, students, temporary workers. Here, in Assisi, people are settled. Despite the tourists and religious pilgrims, there's real, everyday life in Assisi which, for now, will keep me here.

Marianella's Fiori di Zucca (Video!)

2006-08-19T17:57:00.000+02:00

This morning, Helen and I had plans to have a cooking lesson with Marianella. I want to videotape her making Fiore di Zucca (zucchini flowers). But before we could get to her house this morning, she came to the door with a plateful of hot, fresh ones. Some were filled with a tiny anchovy; others were filled with a bit of soft Pecorino cheese--all delicate as lace. We ate them for breakfast. I haven't had these since I was a kid.

Marianella's Fiore di Zucca

Giacomo and Chiara: A Love Story

2006-08-18T16:58:00.000+02:00

Theirs is a typical love story.

We are about to leave for a sagra with Giacomo's parents, and I find out that a girl will attend who Giacomo is crazy about. They've known each other since kindergarten. Both sets of parents accompany them and when we get to our table, Giacomo's mother slides in first, then Giacomo and then, through the insistence of her mother, Chiara, her mother, her father, Giacomo's father, Giacomo's grandfather, and the rest of us.

No pressure, guys.

They are awkward at first, feeling all eyes on them. They look away from each other.

Later, they talk more animatedly. Most likely, as their parents have done, they will stay together, marry, grow old . . . Giacomo's parents have known each other since kindergarten, same for his grandparents.

La Tempesta

2006-08-18T14:01:00.000+02:00

Last night, after falling asleep to the music coming up over the hills from a distant sagra, I was awoken suddenly by light flashing. It lit up the entire room. Following this came thunder that sounded as if it had gathered all its strength at the very top of the mountain and then came rumbling down through the trees and winding streets. Storms I've heard, in cities where I've lived, create a sense of thunder coming from one location but here, in the Umbrian countryside, this was less of a crashing and more of a swirling rumble. Rain pelted through my open window and one shudder banged around. I was too tired to do anything about it. I lay there, seemingly for hours, just listening. I must have fallen back to sleep. When I woke up again, before daybreak, Helen and Jack were at the front of the house, literally battening down the hatches. The rain had stopped and gusts of wind, up to 60 miles per hour, tore through the open windows of the house. In my half-awake state, I imagined farm animals, gardens, small rusticos, swirling around the countryside, uprooted by these wild winds. The loose shudder outside banged against the stone facade, until I finally opened the window to secure it. As I did, a gust came through, taking with it all the papers along my nightstand, causing the back of my nightgown to billow, my hair to whip around my face. I finally secured all the shudders and my room was dark and quiet again. Later that morning, I awoke and opened the shudders. The sun was out, the sky clear--no sign of any tempest.

Something about these hills. This was no ordinary storm.

Rome: Lost and Found

2006-08-17T22:31:00.001+02:00

I've been told that Rome, like any major city, is "big, dirty, alienating." I've heard that it's fast, that the people are unfriendly, but I don't find any of this here. The people are perhaps a bit impatient with my poor Italian, but what I love most is the life, which I spend most of my time watching when I'm not spending hours being lost.

If anything, I find Rome a bit frustrating. I immediately want to jump in, walk around like I know where I'm going; instead, however, I seem to do the opposite. I lose my way about every ten minutes. My sense of direction here is awful. If I need to go north, I go south; if I need to head west, I go east. I feel possessed by this. No matter what I do, I can't seem to get around the feeling of being upside-down.

Getting lost does prove to be somewhat useful. After one wrong turn, I encounter a lively food market--mostly fruit and vegetable stands, but meats and cheeses too. And I manage to take canteloupe, mixed greens, and three giant peaches for under five euro.

In the afternoon of my second day, I decide to take a cab to a restaurant I read about in the New York Times. The article says it's in the Testaccio district on via Marmorata, which is not on my map. The restaurant is closed on Wednesdays, says the article, so I've waited a day to go. A group of Italian cab drivers are hanging around a parking lot outside Piazza Fiume, so I walk over, but none seem to recognize the location. Several of them congregate around my map and discuss the matter for ten or so minutes while I stand and wait. Finally, one of them seems to know, but he's not the one driving me--he points to another driver, who's been out of the loop here, and I explain the situation again. He consults with a few drivers and we're off. After ten minutes zipping through the streets of Rome, he pulls up at a piazza and says, "Sono qui pero non ristorante." I can't help him. He asks for the name of the restaurant, then for the article itself, and gets out his map. He drives, one hand on the wheel, the other holding the map, and turns down narrow, winding streets, mobbed with people who are forced to scatter as he comes by. Somehow, this seems illegal, as if we're driving on a sidewalk reserved for pedestrians. We drive this way for another ten minutes, and I begin to laugh. He looks at me through the rearview mirror, and he starts laughing too. I finally tell him I can walk the rest of the way, but he insists on taking me to the door of the restaurant. The meter now says 11 euros. Finally, when we pull up to the address, on an empty side street, we are thrilled to find it. We look over. A sign in the window says chiuso, closed. They're on vacation. We sit quietly for what seems like a long time. I can see the driver feels sorry for me. I feel sorry for myself. I hand him the fare, get out of the cab, and begin walking. I lunch somewhere in the area, and walk back toward the hotel again--afraid I'll end up getting on the wrong bus. On the way, I eat my first gelatto, and I'm in love. Italians stand around (at 1:30 on a Thursday) and eat giant servings of it. Altough I've heard that Nestle has a monopoly on the gelato sold in Italy, I convince myself that this is homemade, though I have no real way of knowing. After another hour of walking, I'm lost again. I recognize landmarks, but they don't help me discern the direction I need to go in. To comfort myself, I decide I need another dessert, so I step into a cafe and stand at the counter. I order a piece of ricotta cake with chocolate chips in it and an espresso. (I'm not a coffee drinker, but I insist on the espresso. The "Americana"--espresso with hot water added to it--is just insulting.) . . . And I'm tough now. I've just trudged miles since eating lunch. Along the counter are bowls of what look like cinnamon mousse, which I imagine would make a great addition--a dollop size--to my espresso. I ask what it is, and the answer I'm given isn't clear, so I leave it alone. My cake comes on a plate with a napkin beneath it, no fork, and I'm still standing. I wait for a fork, but none comes. I look around, picking up the cake with my fingers and taking a bite. I brace myself, but no one seems to mind.

That evening, when I head out for dinner, jetlagged and hungry, it takes me nearly three hours to walk to da Giggetto. I stop and spread out my map, not realizing I'm standing outside a caribinieri (police) stand. The one officer comes outside and sort of suggestively leans against the door to his post. "Aiuto?" he smiles. ("Help?") I try to explain that I'm just looking for a restaurant I'd been to the night before--da Giggetto. He makes a face as if to say why go there? "Where you from?" he asks. "New York," I tell him flatly, still looking at my map. "Yeah?" he says. (I've just made things worse.) "Big airport," he says.

I look up at him. This man is not interested in giving me directions. "Later," he says, in terrible English. "You meet me for a drink." I raise an eyebrow at him. "No, grazie," I say. I consult my map again, but he persists. "Why not?"

When I do make it to da Giggetto, they recognize me from the previous night. I take a different table, order some sea bass, which comes whole, its one eye staring up at me. I gingerly try to cut it away from the bone but eventually push it aside. I try to order a glass of red wine, but I'm told they only have bottles--"enough for two glasses"--which turns out to be more like four. I eat and people watch. For dessert, I order tartuffo. I'm asked, "bianco or nero." I say nero. Isn't tartuffo chocoloate-covered ice cream? I was about to find out. The tartuffo came covered in a powdered bitter chocolate, not the hard chocolate shell I've eaten in the States. (I'm happy to become a tartuffo connoisseur if anyone wants me.) I ask for my check and the waiter stops and smiles. Are you sure you don't want a little limoncello, he asks in Italian.

Before I leave, I make a second attempt to ask the owner for a menu. I want to take one with me. (The night before I made a failed effort by bringing the wrong menu--the wine menu--into the bathroom.) The menus are large, leather bound, several pages, but I explain that I only need the paper, not the leather binder. I even offer to pay him for it. He grows impatient, same as the night before. I leave menu-less.

I make it back on the bus without a hitch. Although I wish I were driving around in a fiat, speaking with the locals, blending in, blister-free . . . I think I've just made eyes with a city I want to get to know more. By the third day, perhaps because I'm tired, I walk out of my hotel in the morning and start to cry. I'm here. Finally.

Fabrizzia's New Casale

2006-08-17T16:37:00.000+02:00

A friend of Helen and Jack's has just bought a casale (a rural home), or rustico (essentially, a "fixer-upper"). She and her husband paid 290,000 euro and plan to put another 300,000 euro into fixing it up. They expect this restoration to take two to three years. From what I understand, that's pretty fast for Italy. But before the work commences, they must put through the paperwork on the house. Who knows how long that can take--even for local Italians who apparently have separate rules from the stranieri (foreigners).

The casale, located in Ripa, about 10 kilometers from Assisi, was built in the 17th century and formerly a convent.

In front of the casale is an old olive oil mill that is still in operation. Fabrizzia tells us that if you bring them olives, they will press them for you. Another thing I've learned, on the subject of olives, is that one tree amounts to about a liter of olive oil. There are fig trees on her property and room for a vegetable garden. The casale, which was typically inhabited by workers (the family lived in a mansion behind the casale) has three entrances. Here, Jack steps in to help Fabrizzia jiggle the key.

A room inside the casale with original beams that will need a bit of work.

Views of what will eventually be a remodeled second kitchen.

In her basement, the workers who lived there used to help the family make wine. Here's the stone "bath" where they squashed grapes with their feet.

Old wine barrels.

Some more views from the outside of the house.

Here, where this red machine is (I think it's to sort grapes or olives), was an outdoor brick oven. Next to it was a kitchen. Fabrizzia plans to restore it to its original and put it back to use.

Greta

2006-08-17T16:18:00.000+02:00

Greta lives in the apartment below us. She works at the local hospital, but mostly spends her afternoons outdoors either on her cell phone, chatting away in the most lively and melodic Italian, or visiting with friends who sit outside and listen as she talks and talks. Her hair is shortly cropped and she wears flowing linen dresses. Most afternoons, while I’m working in my room, I hear her from below the open window. I try to make out the words, but I get lost in their velocity.

The stress on the second syllable--the Penult--even if I can’t understand Greta's words--is full and beautiful, as are her Antepenults. This morning, she was reading outside when a man stopped on a Vespa to discuss a matter with her--a letter. I'm sure, from picking up some context, the conversation wasn't passionate, but Greta, with her mix of stresses, her Rs trilling, and the rise and fall of her voice, sounded like she was performing poetry.