It's not every day that one turns 50. In fact, there's only one such day in every (honest) man's life. And since it's a pretty significant ring on the trunk, it should be celebrated. We did. In fine style.
Of course, being in Italy only adds to the flavour of it all. The day of my birthday itself (Thursday 4th September) was a quiet, relatively uneventful day - a swim in the lake (after the clouds had come and the chilly wind had arrived), and a somewhat disappointing dinner at one of the touted local restaurants serving quintessential marchigiani fare.
But it was two days later - on Saturday 6th - that the milestone was consummated. It started out as a surprise party, but given all the preparation necessary, along with my periodic jabber about "what we're going to do on my birthday", I was soon helping (in a peripheral sort of way). Maria, along with the sterling efforts of friends Janette and Chiara, threw together a shindig that will go down in the annals of serious parties (and I've been to - and thrown - a few).
With a mixed crowd of our ex-pat and Italian neighbours and friends - split about 50:50 - we fired up the brick wood-burning oven for the first time and cooked around 30 delicious home-made pizzas. Giuliano - one of our neighbours - played the saviour and stepped in to direct (and ultimately took over from) our flailing efforts to get it going. And with the willing helping hands of his wife Ivana, another neighbour Giuliano and his sister-in-law Sabina, the production line clicked into full swing. Platters of steaming pizzas came flowing thick and fast - mozarella with tomato, onion, prosciutto, eggplant, mushroom, zucchini, many with a zing that required a swift response in the form of (the second) Giulano's family farm wine - a rich and edgy chateau di Regnano of the highest order.
When the birthday cake came out, I gave a (very) short speech in Italian, to the appreciation of all the locals.
As midnight approached and some of the neighbours were about to leave - some ex-pats had already scarpered - Janette and Chiara brought out "the present": a multi-layered wrapping with an anecdote from my life in each layer. These were translated into Italian for the locals. There weren't too many embarassing revelations, just stuff that added meat to the skeleton character that they'd all known up to now. Once that was done, the locals went off home, leaving just 9 of us.
And that's when it started. Pushing the volume capabilities of my laptop stereo to the brink, we blasted out a mix of old and contemporary music across the hills of rural Le Marche - Manfred Mann, 4 Non Blondes, Queen, Rihanna, Mattafix, Massive Attack, Madonna, Boston, Angelique Kidjo, Animal Logic, and still others. And we danced, none more freely - read "wildly out-of-control" - than my dear wife, who let go like I've never seen before, throwing herself around like the black-leather-jacket, rockin' German she is. It was wonderful to watch. The others left at around 4, we tidied up a little (or rather Maria tidied up a lot, me a little), and relaxed on the mattress outside to the strains of my favourite, more sedate music - Bruce Cockburn, Django Haskins, Lisa Gerrard, Aimee Mann, Bandits, Oystein Sevag, amongst others. Bedtime 5:30am.
I don't know when last I went to bed that late, or when I let rip quite as freely as that. But 50 be damned - I'll still be doing that (God-willing) when I'm 80.
Perhaps more significant than the milestone birthday that it was, was the feeling of being at home. Every single Italian neighbour turned up ... and stayted until the (pre-rave) death, outlasting quite a few of the younger ex-pats. I won't pretend that it's me that has fostered such goodwill in them, it's Maria, who's out there interacting far more frequently and freely than I do. But they look on us as a family, and they'll be there for us just as they'll be there for another neighbour.
I may not ever completely integrate into this country and its people, but one thing I'm pretty sure of - when it comes to the community we've chosen to live our lives, we've done pretty well.
And another thing - I'm happy here.
(Photo version to follow)
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Talking of food ...
Say "Italy" and I'd wager a good 6 times or more out of 10 the knee-jerk response would be "pasta" or "spaghetti" or some other gastronomic impulse. This is no accident. Every single citizen of this country has a gene that renders them both willing and unwitting marketers of arguably their most renowned cultural facet: their cuisine. It's as if they're swept along on a sort of wave cast by the gourmand magician's wand, riding it boisterously and happily in blissful ignorance of their role in perpetuating an enviable tradition.
It's a little difficult to work out which is the proverbial chicken and which the egg in all of this - did the food come first, followed by the enthusiasm for it ... or did their desire for things sensual produce, inter alia, the most exquisite tavola? It doesn't really matter - it is what it is, and the world is truly thankful for it.
Most intriguing in this epicurean theatre - replete with its din of gestures and noisy camaraderie - is the role of the male. Not any and every male (although I suspect it's the vast majority), just those that don't spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen. They are, in my experience, the most eager to expound on the specialties of their regions ... the key ingredients of a ragu sauce ... the best place to find fresh (insert foodstuff here).
Two classic examples.
First, Pepe, our neighbour who lives in Bari in Puglia, and who visits his mother's house in Regnano several times a year. She (nonna) seldom comes these days, having now reached the age that her physical condition keeps her back in Bari. When she is here, though, you'll find her - blue scarf wrapped around her head in the way that makes all the older woman seem related if not clones of each other - bent over like a hook, scavenging the fields for cicoria or nettles or some other green leaf that grows wild in the fields.
Perhaps Pepe got his knowledge from his mother, or perhaps from his wonderful cook of a wife, Anna. But it's most certainly as a looker-on, albeit a mighty observant one, that Pepe's knowledge derives. When quizzed by Maria - as Anna slaved over the dishes after another of her prodigious feasts - whether or not he helped in the kitchen, Pepe responded that he had tried washing up once before, but he didn't like it so he doesn't do it any more. He wasn't joking.
But he can tell you exactly which ingredients to use for the perfect penne arrabiata ... what it is that makes pugliese bread so delicious ... and how long you should blanch the beans before taking them off the stove and mixing it with the ubiquitous olive oil and I forget what else. He's a gem, though, genuinely caring for our well-being, and - it goes without saying - the satiation of our appetites.
The second instance was on a hike with some 15 or so Italians on the premier festa of all summer feste - ferragosto (which falls on 15th of August and whose origins deserve a blog entry all of its own). Now going on a hike with a group of Italians (the word "large" is superfluous here) is an experience of an entirely different kind from a hike anywhere else that I've been, and is one to be savoured and enjoyed for its very uniqueness. However, that's not the point here.
The point is, after we'd had our various sandwich lunches and roused ourselves from the gentle slumbers that the food and the hot day had induced, somehow the topic got around to food. (There is a saying that all roads lead to Rome - perhaps that has some sort of proverbial significance here with respect to conversations and food.) Claudio - a really interesting guy who paints frescos and collects ancient stone implements - launched the first salvo, proclaiming with deep sincerity and mouth-watering conviction his unflinching and passionate loyalty to dried pasta (as opposed the fresh kind made with egg). He reeled off all sorts of shapes and incarnations of his culinary elixir, but I don't remember any of them. I do, however, remember his face - alive, sparkling, ecstatic, as he reeled off his heavenly weak spots. For a consistently fascinating and fascinated fellow, he rose to height that I hadn't seen before.
Sitting some distance away, Giuglio, normally a (very) silent, smiling chap, was immediately drawn to the topic, like a moth to a flame. Over he came and joined in with a verbosity that might even have surprised Carla, his wife. He bubbled with mirth - for what seemed a disproportionately long time - at the recollection of a friend of his who had once eaten pasta for breakfast. He took on a new persona for me in that moment.
It was indeed a spectacular hike, through a narrow, towering gorge with a crisp river that we had to wade through up to our knees. I'll remember it for that, no doubt. But I'll remember it more for the simple joy of that conversation, when everything else stopped and fell away, and the lifeblood of the Italian passion came charging to the surface, eager to be heard ... and shared.
It's a little difficult to work out which is the proverbial chicken and which the egg in all of this - did the food come first, followed by the enthusiasm for it ... or did their desire for things sensual produce, inter alia, the most exquisite tavola? It doesn't really matter - it is what it is, and the world is truly thankful for it.
Most intriguing in this epicurean theatre - replete with its din of gestures and noisy camaraderie - is the role of the male. Not any and every male (although I suspect it's the vast majority), just those that don't spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen. They are, in my experience, the most eager to expound on the specialties of their regions ... the key ingredients of a ragu sauce ... the best place to find fresh (insert foodstuff here).
Two classic examples.
First, Pepe, our neighbour who lives in Bari in Puglia, and who visits his mother's house in Regnano several times a year. She (nonna) seldom comes these days, having now reached the age that her physical condition keeps her back in Bari. When she is here, though, you'll find her - blue scarf wrapped around her head in the way that makes all the older woman seem related if not clones of each other - bent over like a hook, scavenging the fields for cicoria or nettles or some other green leaf that grows wild in the fields.
Perhaps Pepe got his knowledge from his mother, or perhaps from his wonderful cook of a wife, Anna. But it's most certainly as a looker-on, albeit a mighty observant one, that Pepe's knowledge derives. When quizzed by Maria - as Anna slaved over the dishes after another of her prodigious feasts - whether or not he helped in the kitchen, Pepe responded that he had tried washing up once before, but he didn't like it so he doesn't do it any more. He wasn't joking.
But he can tell you exactly which ingredients to use for the perfect penne arrabiata ... what it is that makes pugliese bread so delicious ... and how long you should blanch the beans before taking them off the stove and mixing it with the ubiquitous olive oil and I forget what else. He's a gem, though, genuinely caring for our well-being, and - it goes without saying - the satiation of our appetites.
The second instance was on a hike with some 15 or so Italians on the premier festa of all summer feste - ferragosto (which falls on 15th of August and whose origins deserve a blog entry all of its own). Now going on a hike with a group of Italians (the word "large" is superfluous here) is an experience of an entirely different kind from a hike anywhere else that I've been, and is one to be savoured and enjoyed for its very uniqueness. However, that's not the point here.
The point is, after we'd had our various sandwich lunches and roused ourselves from the gentle slumbers that the food and the hot day had induced, somehow the topic got around to food. (There is a saying that all roads lead to Rome - perhaps that has some sort of proverbial significance here with respect to conversations and food.) Claudio - a really interesting guy who paints frescos and collects ancient stone implements - launched the first salvo, proclaiming with deep sincerity and mouth-watering conviction his unflinching and passionate loyalty to dried pasta (as opposed the fresh kind made with egg). He reeled off all sorts of shapes and incarnations of his culinary elixir, but I don't remember any of them. I do, however, remember his face - alive, sparkling, ecstatic, as he reeled off his heavenly weak spots. For a consistently fascinating and fascinated fellow, he rose to height that I hadn't seen before.
Sitting some distance away, Giuglio, normally a (very) silent, smiling chap, was immediately drawn to the topic, like a moth to a flame. Over he came and joined in with a verbosity that might even have surprised Carla, his wife. He bubbled with mirth - for what seemed a disproportionately long time - at the recollection of a friend of his who had once eaten pasta for breakfast. He took on a new persona for me in that moment.
It was indeed a spectacular hike, through a narrow, towering gorge with a crisp river that we had to wade through up to our knees. I'll remember it for that, no doubt. But I'll remember it more for the simple joy of that conversation, when everything else stopped and fell away, and the lifeblood of the Italian passion came charging to the surface, eager to be heard ... and shared.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Bureaucracy bondage
Bureaucracy is an evil that of necessity one has to deal with in any country, doubly so when you move from one country to another. When one of those countries is Italy, the bureaucracy factor disappears into the stratosphere. But like all things Italian, it's not a static, predictable thing - it's dynamic (not in an energetic sense) and mostly very difficult to predict. I even suspect that the bureaucrat dealing with whatever's in front of them feels very much the same way - heads: reject, tails: ask for another form, coin stands on its edge: approve.
But I shouldn't be critical or cynical - the research I'm doing for a book about moving to Italy asserts that the way I came into this country and got my permission to stay (permesso di soggiorno) is actually impossible, can't be done, against the law, don't even think of trying it. I can only assume that I was a benefactor of the other side of that Italian bureaucratic coin - the Italian character.
Anyway, my permesso di soggiorno, the very thing that allows me to stay here, expires on September twenty-something. (See here for a blog entry on the original application process.) Three months before the due date, I start making inquiries. Coincidentally, at the same time I'm in the process of updating the very section of aforementioned book that deals with residence permits. Turns out - after clarification of the contradictory terms of the law - that I can actually work here legally thanks to my matrimonial state with an EU citizen. This is a revelation to me, I actually thought I was prohibited from working. I guess I can now follow up on that list of job offers that have poured in over the past months.
The application process - along with the law - all changed last year, and now one submits the application through the Post Office. This fills me with trepidation. When I finally get all the paperwork together - 40 pages of it! - I have to hand it over to a clerk working for an organization that routinely loses things, some of them very big things, like the box I sent from the US two years ago that never arrived. On top of it, I arrive to hand in the application just as they're closing, meaning they're all anxious to head off for lunch. But what can I do? I hand it over, and hold my breath ... only to be pleasantly surprised ...
Two weeks later I get three things - a web site where I can check the status of my application, and a text message on our cell phone, which says I have an appointment at the immigration office on December 12th. The text message even agrees with what the web site says. And then a letter arrives, confirming what the other media have already said. I am wary to start changing my view prematurely, but I'm now looking at all of this with a cocked head, creased eyes, and a curious, questioning, twisted pursing of the lips - is the system actually ... working?
I can actually vouch for the fact that the bureaucracy is indeed working exactly as intended in another arena of the government's grasp on my life - taxes. Now based on everything I've researched - and believe me the info I've found would fill more than a small book - I have no idea where I'm actually meant to pay income taxes. But given my belief that I wasn't allowed to work here, I decide to file in the US (which has a worldwide taxation policy for its lucky citizens). Hours and hours later, head bulging with with the instruction of numerous regulations, I fill in my 40 forms and find out that despite my meagre earnings in 2007, due to my status as a self-employed individual, I owe - guess what? - self-employment tax. Off it goes, once again into that black hole that is the Italian Postal Service, and lo and behold it finds its way to its intended destination.
On the Italian side, things work differently. Maria worked here last year, and so has to file a tax return, even though employers have to deduct and submit taxes from each month's payslip (i.e. PAYE). But unlike the US, where a tax return form arrives at your doorstep comfortably in time to file before April 15th, there's no such notification in Italy. Now I acknowledge that this isn't such a big deal. What is a big deal is getting the right form, accurately filled out, from her prior employers. With the due date have sailed languorously by a few months ago, we still don't have it.
More intriguing to me, though, are the other taxes. Two in particular - rifuti and ICI. Rifuti is for waste removal, ICI is property tax. You don't get notified that it's due, when it's due, and how much is due. You just have to know these things. If you don't go and pay, you're likely to get a bill in a few year's time with substantial penalties and interest. Interestingly, Berlusconi decided to abolish ICI for primary homes, but there's no official announcement (as far as I'm aware), it just sort of acquiesces.
[Update - with a uniquely Italian flair for the deadpan-faced prank, our rifuti bill arrived in the mail the day after I posted this entry to the blog.]
As far as taxes go, I think I'll miss ICI, even though I never had to pay it. As I understand its machinations, you march down to the comune, tell them what you think your house is worth, they then work out what you owe. So effectively you're telling them what you think you should pay. Now if I absolutely have no option but to pay tax, this is the kind that I could live with.
As for rifuti, you follow a similar path down to the comune office, tell them how big your house is, and they tell you how much to pay. Now it's not a huge amount, but my (thankfully) spendthrift wife tries to save on everything she can, and after an appeal to the woman behind the counter, she got a discount!
And you wonder why I love it here.
But I shouldn't be critical or cynical - the research I'm doing for a book about moving to Italy asserts that the way I came into this country and got my permission to stay (permesso di soggiorno) is actually impossible, can't be done, against the law, don't even think of trying it. I can only assume that I was a benefactor of the other side of that Italian bureaucratic coin - the Italian character.
Anyway, my permesso di soggiorno, the very thing that allows me to stay here, expires on September twenty-something. (See here for a blog entry on the original application process.) Three months before the due date, I start making inquiries. Coincidentally, at the same time I'm in the process of updating the very section of aforementioned book that deals with residence permits. Turns out - after clarification of the contradictory terms of the law - that I can actually work here legally thanks to my matrimonial state with an EU citizen. This is a revelation to me, I actually thought I was prohibited from working. I guess I can now follow up on that list of job offers that have poured in over the past months.
The application process - along with the law - all changed last year, and now one submits the application through the Post Office. This fills me with trepidation. When I finally get all the paperwork together - 40 pages of it! - I have to hand it over to a clerk working for an organization that routinely loses things, some of them very big things, like the box I sent from the US two years ago that never arrived. On top of it, I arrive to hand in the application just as they're closing, meaning they're all anxious to head off for lunch. But what can I do? I hand it over, and hold my breath ... only to be pleasantly surprised ...
Two weeks later I get three things - a web site where I can check the status of my application, and a text message on our cell phone, which says I have an appointment at the immigration office on December 12th. The text message even agrees with what the web site says. And then a letter arrives, confirming what the other media have already said. I am wary to start changing my view prematurely, but I'm now looking at all of this with a cocked head, creased eyes, and a curious, questioning, twisted pursing of the lips - is the system actually ... working?
I can actually vouch for the fact that the bureaucracy is indeed working exactly as intended in another arena of the government's grasp on my life - taxes. Now based on everything I've researched - and believe me the info I've found would fill more than a small book - I have no idea where I'm actually meant to pay income taxes. But given my belief that I wasn't allowed to work here, I decide to file in the US (which has a worldwide taxation policy for its lucky citizens). Hours and hours later, head bulging with with the instruction of numerous regulations, I fill in my 40 forms and find out that despite my meagre earnings in 2007, due to my status as a self-employed individual, I owe - guess what? - self-employment tax. Off it goes, once again into that black hole that is the Italian Postal Service, and lo and behold it finds its way to its intended destination.
On the Italian side, things work differently. Maria worked here last year, and so has to file a tax return, even though employers have to deduct and submit taxes from each month's payslip (i.e. PAYE). But unlike the US, where a tax return form arrives at your doorstep comfortably in time to file before April 15th, there's no such notification in Italy. Now I acknowledge that this isn't such a big deal. What is a big deal is getting the right form, accurately filled out, from her prior employers. With the due date have sailed languorously by a few months ago, we still don't have it.
More intriguing to me, though, are the other taxes. Two in particular - rifuti and ICI. Rifuti is for waste removal, ICI is property tax. You don't get notified that it's due, when it's due, and how much is due. You just have to know these things. If you don't go and pay, you're likely to get a bill in a few year's time with substantial penalties and interest. Interestingly, Berlusconi decided to abolish ICI for primary homes, but there's no official announcement (as far as I'm aware), it just sort of acquiesces.
[Update - with a uniquely Italian flair for the deadpan-faced prank, our rifuti bill arrived in the mail the day after I posted this entry to the blog.]
As far as taxes go, I think I'll miss ICI, even though I never had to pay it. As I understand its machinations, you march down to the comune, tell them what you think your house is worth, they then work out what you owe. So effectively you're telling them what you think you should pay. Now if I absolutely have no option but to pay tax, this is the kind that I could live with.
As for rifuti, you follow a similar path down to the comune office, tell them how big your house is, and they tell you how much to pay. Now it's not a huge amount, but my (thankfully) spendthrift wife tries to save on everything she can, and after an appeal to the woman behind the counter, she got a discount!
And you wonder why I love it here.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Cost of living in the Italian countryside
The other day I filled up my car. I was horrified, not because the pump just stopped before the tank was full, but because it took 78 big old euros to get that far ... and it still wasn't finished - the pump was somehow set automatically at that amount, and so it didn't even fill up the tank. €78??? That translates to about $114, or R893 (South African rands).
Such is the price of living in the Eurozone. It prompted me to thinking that those of you in the netherlands (USA, South Africa, the UK, and other places) might find it interesting to know what it costs to live here. So I put together a list of day-to-day items. (In truth, I didn't just do this for the blog - I have a couple of assignments that were looking for this info.) The grocery items come from a local co-operative and include in-season fruit and vegetables, which are either more expensive or simply not available out of season.
Such is the price of living in the Eurozone. It prompted me to thinking that those of you in the netherlands (USA, South Africa, the UK, and other places) might find it interesting to know what it costs to live here. So I put together a list of day-to-day items. (In truth, I didn't just do this for the blog - I have a couple of assignments that were looking for this info.) The grocery items come from a local co-operative and include in-season fruit and vegetables, which are either more expensive or simply not available out of season.
| Shopping basket | Euro | South African Rand | US $ |
| Loaf of rustic bread | 2.03/kg | 23.24/kg | 1.36/pound |
| Milk | 1.25/liter | 14.31/liter | 6.95/gal |
| 6-pack of coke | 2.64 | 30.23 | 3.88 |
| Bottle of table wine | 3-5 | 34-57 | 4.50-7.35 |
| 6-pack of beer | 3.76 | 43 | 5.53 |
| Mineral water | 0.45/1.5 liter | 5.15/1.5 liter | 0.66/1.5 liter |
| Sugar | 0.90/kg | 10.31/kg | 0.60/pound |
| Coffee | 2.05/205g | 23.50/250g | 5.47/pound |
| Free-range chicken | 4.30/kg | 49.25/kg | 2.87/pound |
| Ground beef | 6.00/kg | 68.70/kg | 4.00/pound |
| Pork chops | 4.90/kg | 56.11/kg | 3.27/pound |
| Norwegian salmon | 7.90/kg | 90.50/kg | 5.28/pound |
| Prosciutto | 19.80/kg | 226.70/kg | 13.23/pound |
| Bananas | 1.69/kg | 19.35/kg | 1.13/pound |
| Peaches | 1.89/kg | 21.65/kg | 1.26/pound |
| Onions | 1.28-2.45/kg | 14.66-28.05/kg | 0.86-1.64/pound |
| Potatoes | 0.86-1.14/kg | 9.85-13.05/kg | 0.57-0.76/pound |
| Zucchini | 0.89-1.49/kg | 10.20-17.05/kg | 0.59-1.00/pound |
| Carrots | 0.89/kg | 10.19/kg | 0.59/pound |
| Tomatoes | 1.48-1.98/kg | 16.95-22.67/kg | 0.99-1.32/pound |
| Quality Pecorino (sheep's milk) cheese | 14.50/kg | 166/kg | 9.69/pound |
| Italian butter | 1.66/250g | 19/250g | 4.43/pound |
| Eggs per 1/2 dozen | 1.32 | 15.10 | 1.94 |
| Spaghetti | 0.86/500g | 9.85/500g | 1.15/pound |
| Olive oil | 5.05-9.59/liter | 57.80-109.80/liter | 7.42-14.10/liter |
| Monthly costs for running a 2000 sq ft (200 sq m) farmhouse | Euro | South African Rand | US $ |
| Water & electricity | 60 | 687 | 88 |
| Gas (for cooking, hot water and heating) – winter | 375 | 4294 | 551 |
| Gas (for cooking and hot water) – summer | 100 | 1145 | 147 |
| Fixed phone(moderate-significant international calling) | 50 | 572 | 74 |
| Cell phone | 30 | 343 | 44 |
| Hi-speed internet | 25 | 286 | 37 |
| Satellite TV | 45 | 515 | 66 |
| Going out | Euro | South African Rand | US $ |
| Movie tickets for 2 w/popcorn & 2 sodas | 18 | 206 | 26.50 |
| Dinner for 2: 3-course + wine | 50 | 575 | 74 |
| Espresso | 0.80 | 9.15 | 1.18 |
| Local beer | 2.50 | 28.65 | 3.70 |
| Car expenses | Euro | South African Rand | US $ |
| Gasoline | 1.47/liter | 16.83/liter | 8.18/gal |
| Diesel | 1.44/liter | 16.50/liter | 8.01/gal |
| Car insurance per year (bare bones for 10-year-old car) | 1200 | 13740 | 1764 |
Monday, August 25, 2008
HRH: pre-teen going on 20 ... or 70
"Eh."
"Bo'."
"Si."
"O!"
"Eh."
"Ciao."
This is the regal telephone diction of HRH. He's rather more eloquent with us, but only sometimes, and only just. I guess it's the age, and the concomitant slide into monosyllabic taciturnity.
This summer, a new habit has evolved - the Urbisaglia get-together. Urbisaglia is the little town just 10 minutes away where HRH goes to school. His mates live there. They go out to the local piazza and campo (field) on a daily basis to play football and "hang out" (one of HRH's more verbose phrases).
We typically drop him off at about 4 or 5pm, and pick him up as close to midnight as we can manage. Italians are night owls, and their children get inducted into their ways when they're still toddlers, so there are often plenty of them still milling about when we pick up HRH. Needless to say, this "early" pick-up is not the most popular of our parental actions.
I must confess that rural Italy is probably one of the few places I'd feel comfortable about doing this. I'm sure he'll want to start moving further afield the older he gets - he's already started talking about getting an Ape when he's 14 (fat chance) - so maybe our concerns will grow accordingly then. Last year it was Colmurano, this year Urbisaglia, next year ....?
But even then it's not a major problem - the local comune puts on buses to the discos on the coast a half-hour away that pick them up at 11pm on a Saturday night and bring them back in the wee hours. Now that's what I call a pro-active attempt at keeping the youth happy and keeping them safe at the same time. But in any event, I'm hoping the fairly frequent presence of girls in the current crowd helps to motivate a more "local" interest.
Last night I went to pick him up just before midnight at one of the local bars. Now this is not the type of bar you'd find in the US or the UK or South Africa, for example. Here they're gathering points for the village, probably the biggest item they sell is coffee, and anyway heavy drinking is not something one finds in rural Italy.
The boys had gone down to watch the Inter Milan - Roma derby on TV. When I arrived, they were playing cards on one of the outside tables. Just across from them on another table, the 60 and 70 year-olds were also playing cards. Both tables were engaged in rapid-fire chattering, loud remonstrating, and hand-led gesticulating as is the Italian wont. I had to do a double-take. For a moment I thought I was looking at a superimposition of future time against the present - which one of the old guys was HRH?
"Bo'."
"Si."
"O!"
"Eh."
"Ciao."
This is the regal telephone diction of HRH. He's rather more eloquent with us, but only sometimes, and only just. I guess it's the age, and the concomitant slide into monosyllabic taciturnity.
This summer, a new habit has evolved - the Urbisaglia get-together. Urbisaglia is the little town just 10 minutes away where HRH goes to school. His mates live there. They go out to the local piazza and campo (field) on a daily basis to play football and "hang out" (one of HRH's more verbose phrases).
We typically drop him off at about 4 or 5pm, and pick him up as close to midnight as we can manage. Italians are night owls, and their children get inducted into their ways when they're still toddlers, so there are often plenty of them still milling about when we pick up HRH. Needless to say, this "early" pick-up is not the most popular of our parental actions.
I must confess that rural Italy is probably one of the few places I'd feel comfortable about doing this. I'm sure he'll want to start moving further afield the older he gets - he's already started talking about getting an Ape when he's 14 (fat chance) - so maybe our concerns will grow accordingly then. Last year it was Colmurano, this year Urbisaglia, next year ....?
But even then it's not a major problem - the local comune puts on buses to the discos on the coast a half-hour away that pick them up at 11pm on a Saturday night and bring them back in the wee hours. Now that's what I call a pro-active attempt at keeping the youth happy and keeping them safe at the same time. But in any event, I'm hoping the fairly frequent presence of girls in the current crowd helps to motivate a more "local" interest.
Last night I went to pick him up just before midnight at one of the local bars. Now this is not the type of bar you'd find in the US or the UK or South Africa, for example. Here they're gathering points for the village, probably the biggest item they sell is coffee, and anyway heavy drinking is not something one finds in rural Italy.
The boys had gone down to watch the Inter Milan - Roma derby on TV. When I arrived, they were playing cards on one of the outside tables. Just across from them on another table, the 60 and 70 year-olds were also playing cards. Both tables were engaged in rapid-fire chattering, loud remonstrating, and hand-led gesticulating as is the Italian wont. I had to do a double-take. For a moment I thought I was looking at a superimposition of future time against the present - which one of the old guys was HRH?
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Colmurano Go Kart Grand Prix in pictures
The setting
Didn't quite come out as intended, but the sweeping colours are interesting
Through the neighbourhood
Avid potential go kart buyers (HRH at center)
More unintentional waves
Monday, August 04, 2008
Hot August
Hot. Stinking hot, in fact. Indeed, it wouldn't be out of place to suggest, Bruce, that it's hot enough to boil a monkey's bum (a knowing nudge and wink to Monty Python adherents). As dry as dust, too, with a hot wind just to make it that smidgen drier.
At this point clichéd vernacular would normally require me to attest: "At least it's not humid." But unfortunately this provides no solace for a sweat-drenched gardener or tree-house builder who has to wear long pants to keep the biting flies off his legs.
On the windless days, clouds puff up into thunderheads, the air crackles with electricity, shadows darken the distant skies ... but it's all just a ruse - nothing happens. I'm surprised, with the lack of rain, that our plants have not simply said "To hell with this place" and died. They're actually still going - well, dragging, really - and some of them (the weeds, mainly) are positively flourishing.
Unfortunately, the heat does not dissipate household and garden tasks, and so - when my writing deadlines allow me a day or half-day - I take to the broiler outside and tackle a heat-inducing task. Like clearing out the back porch so that you don't trip over any one of a hundred stacked-up, metamorphosising "things" ... donning pore-less plastic gear to take on the wasp's nest right on a frequented path in the garden ... building a tree-house with (and for) HRH.
This last task has been both a joy and struggle (although thankfully the latter in lower measure). The heat and our differing opinions on what to do to secure the thing have produced a few beano disagreements, but the end product is nonetheless taking shape, and is - as a first effort on both our parts - quite a thing. Julius even slept overnight in it once the lower walls were up to prevent him rolling over mid-dream into the dark abyss. With just the roof and the deck remaining to be done, I'm hoping it accords some utility beyond the satisfaction of constructing it - we'll see. At some point I'll post some pictures of the finished article.
In the midst of the heat wave, the streets of our local village, Colmurano, were once again transformed for a weekend, this time for a national go-kart grand prix. Attracting top-class drivers from all over Italy, it was curious to see my normal routes play home to screeching rubber and squealing engines. Julius, of course, now wants one, but he's been told that he'll have to be satisfied with his dad's robust rendering on those hairpin bends, an assertion that elicits nothing but contempt from HRH, given his claim that said dad lacks any trace of a spirit of adventure.
The grand prix was somewhat out of the ordinary for this time of year. Italy is in the throes of shutting down for August, and every town, village, hamlet, and collection of more than one house is in festa mode. What's so pleasant about it all is that here they make no attempt to disguise their primary intent behind each festival - eating. This is what it all comes down to - life, the universe, and everything: they want to eat. Lots. Different things too - lentils with pork rind ... paparadelle with duck ... nettles ... And always with a passion that is unique, infectious, and nation-defining. Yes, August in the Italian countryside - I haven't experienced one yet (last year we were in southern Africa), so I'm looking forward to the phenomenon.
But right now I have to go - after all that food talking I'm starting to get a little peckish. I'll have to see what's on the festa menu in Cessapolombo tonight ...
At this point clichéd vernacular would normally require me to attest: "At least it's not humid." But unfortunately this provides no solace for a sweat-drenched gardener or tree-house builder who has to wear long pants to keep the biting flies off his legs.
On the windless days, clouds puff up into thunderheads, the air crackles with electricity, shadows darken the distant skies ... but it's all just a ruse - nothing happens. I'm surprised, with the lack of rain, that our plants have not simply said "To hell with this place" and died. They're actually still going - well, dragging, really - and some of them (the weeds, mainly) are positively flourishing.
Unfortunately, the heat does not dissipate household and garden tasks, and so - when my writing deadlines allow me a day or half-day - I take to the broiler outside and tackle a heat-inducing task. Like clearing out the back porch so that you don't trip over any one of a hundred stacked-up, metamorphosising "things" ... donning pore-less plastic gear to take on the wasp's nest right on a frequented path in the garden ... building a tree-house with (and for) HRH.
This last task has been both a joy and struggle (although thankfully the latter in lower measure). The heat and our differing opinions on what to do to secure the thing have produced a few beano disagreements, but the end product is nonetheless taking shape, and is - as a first effort on both our parts - quite a thing. Julius even slept overnight in it once the lower walls were up to prevent him rolling over mid-dream into the dark abyss. With just the roof and the deck remaining to be done, I'm hoping it accords some utility beyond the satisfaction of constructing it - we'll see. At some point I'll post some pictures of the finished article.
In the midst of the heat wave, the streets of our local village, Colmurano, were once again transformed for a weekend, this time for a national go-kart grand prix. Attracting top-class drivers from all over Italy, it was curious to see my normal routes play home to screeching rubber and squealing engines. Julius, of course, now wants one, but he's been told that he'll have to be satisfied with his dad's robust rendering on those hairpin bends, an assertion that elicits nothing but contempt from HRH, given his claim that said dad lacks any trace of a spirit of adventure.
The grand prix was somewhat out of the ordinary for this time of year. Italy is in the throes of shutting down for August, and every town, village, hamlet, and collection of more than one house is in festa mode. What's so pleasant about it all is that here they make no attempt to disguise their primary intent behind each festival - eating. This is what it all comes down to - life, the universe, and everything: they want to eat. Lots. Different things too - lentils with pork rind ... paparadelle with duck ... nettles ... And always with a passion that is unique, infectious, and nation-defining. Yes, August in the Italian countryside - I haven't experienced one yet (last year we were in southern Africa), so I'm looking forward to the phenomenon.
But right now I have to go - after all that food talking I'm starting to get a little peckish. I'll have to see what's on the festa menu in Cessapolombo tonight ...
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Cosmopolitan rural Italy
Our local village's annual arts in the street festival (Arti Strada) is on again right now. It's brilliant - top class music, dance, magicians, performance art, painting and sculpture, along with the requisite stalls selling perfumed candles, rings, ornaments, and a host of other interesting stuff. Not to mention tarot card and palm readers next to the fortune teller. It's arranged along much the same lines as last year's event, which is chronicled here, so I won't go into it in detail.
But there is one thing about the festival that prompted some reflections about living here. I was standing mesmerised watching a band playing, applauding loudly at the end of a piece when a friend tapped me on the shoulder and said: "That was worth coming here for, wasn't it?"
Indeed it was - a rhythmic, energetic, infectious world beat number played by a band thrown together from immigrants that gather in a piazza in Genova. They're from all over the world - Russia, Brazil, Morocco, China, Sri Lanka, Mexico, Senegal, and - believe it or not - Italy. Here in our little corner of rural Marche, a region that none of the 20-strong band had been to before, a world-class act playing just for the couple of hundred of us swaying enthusiastically with them.
And while they were the top billing, they weren't the only top notch performers from far afield. Uruguay, Australia, Holland, Spain, Chile, Macedonia, Congo, and Honduras were all represented as well. I could have been almost anywhere.
The international flavour of the day didn't end there. The friend watching the band with me is Scottish, an author and illustrator of books on goblins, legends, and spirits from all over the world. And earlier in the day as we sat on the beach, a Venezuelan who used to play baseball for the White Sox in Chicago struck up a conversation with us. He lives not too far from us with his Italian wife.
Who would have thunk that we'd be rubbing shoulders with such an eclectic mix in this place? It's not an isolated occurrence either. While this weekend was perhaps a little more concentrated on the international flavour front, interacting with "foreigners" is a fairly regular occurrence. And that's not including the many English people here, their community on its own offering layers of class, outlook, and soap opera happenings on a daily basis - there are also Australians, Americans, Argentinians, Kosovari, Albanians, Senegalese, Nigerians, Ghanaians, Moroccans, and still others.
Then of course there are also the locals, who provide their own distinct essence in an already rich patchwork. Vitaliano, our contadino neighbour, has likely seldom ventured much further than Macerata, a half-hour away. In contrast, our other neighbour, pensioner Franco, has travelled more than I have, in his days with Italian oil company Agip reaching distant parts of South America, North, Central and South Africa, and the Middle East. He still doesn't speak English, but it didn't stop us spending an Arti Strada night together, sharing travel stories and enjoying the music, him tapping his 70-year-old feet along with the teenagers surrounding us.
It's a veritable surprise of diversity. In a country known for its xenophobia, more pronounced in its rustic reaches than the urban sprawl, it's just another contradiction in the mass of anomalies that somehow hold Italy together.
It's a wonderful thing. As I look out of my office over the rolling hills at the breeze blowing the cotton-wool clouds gently across the cielo azzurro, bringing a welcome coolness to the air, I can only think how lucky I am to be here.
But there is one thing about the festival that prompted some reflections about living here. I was standing mesmerised watching a band playing, applauding loudly at the end of a piece when a friend tapped me on the shoulder and said: "That was worth coming here for, wasn't it?"
Indeed it was - a rhythmic, energetic, infectious world beat number played by a band thrown together from immigrants that gather in a piazza in Genova. They're from all over the world - Russia, Brazil, Morocco, China, Sri Lanka, Mexico, Senegal, and - believe it or not - Italy. Here in our little corner of rural Marche, a region that none of the 20-strong band had been to before, a world-class act playing just for the couple of hundred of us swaying enthusiastically with them.
And while they were the top billing, they weren't the only top notch performers from far afield. Uruguay, Australia, Holland, Spain, Chile, Macedonia, Congo, and Honduras were all represented as well. I could have been almost anywhere.
The international flavour of the day didn't end there. The friend watching the band with me is Scottish, an author and illustrator of books on goblins, legends, and spirits from all over the world. And earlier in the day as we sat on the beach, a Venezuelan who used to play baseball for the White Sox in Chicago struck up a conversation with us. He lives not too far from us with his Italian wife.
Who would have thunk that we'd be rubbing shoulders with such an eclectic mix in this place? It's not an isolated occurrence either. While this weekend was perhaps a little more concentrated on the international flavour front, interacting with "foreigners" is a fairly regular occurrence. And that's not including the many English people here, their community on its own offering layers of class, outlook, and soap opera happenings on a daily basis - there are also Australians, Americans, Argentinians, Kosovari, Albanians, Senegalese, Nigerians, Ghanaians, Moroccans, and still others.
Then of course there are also the locals, who provide their own distinct essence in an already rich patchwork. Vitaliano, our contadino neighbour, has likely seldom ventured much further than Macerata, a half-hour away. In contrast, our other neighbour, pensioner Franco, has travelled more than I have, in his days with Italian oil company Agip reaching distant parts of South America, North, Central and South Africa, and the Middle East. He still doesn't speak English, but it didn't stop us spending an Arti Strada night together, sharing travel stories and enjoying the music, him tapping his 70-year-old feet along with the teenagers surrounding us.
It's a veritable surprise of diversity. In a country known for its xenophobia, more pronounced in its rustic reaches than the urban sprawl, it's just another contradiction in the mass of anomalies that somehow hold Italy together.
It's a wonderful thing. As I look out of my office over the rolling hills at the breeze blowing the cotton-wool clouds gently across the cielo azzurro, bringing a welcome coolness to the air, I can only think how lucky I am to be here.
Our garden in pictures
A few pictures from our own little plot of turf. While some of the colourful products of our garden had us to thank for their robust vibrance, many are entirely free of our intervention, helpful or otherwise.
Talking of apples ...
And finally, another wild, unaided member of our colourful throng.
First up, a few cherries. Delicious they were, as the birds I'm sure would agree.
This rose had Maria to thank for its survival and ravishing health.
Growing wild ...
... as are these.
An onion blossom.
A couple of onion blossoms getting to know each other a little better.
Corn flowers a long way from the corn.
Four existing hibiscus bushes decided to burst forth this summer after taking a year off. No thanks to us either.
This yellow broom has likely seen its last season as a wood stack is destined to take its place.
Another wild guest.
And another Maria rose.
Flowers from our flourishing potato plants.
More cherries ... and an apple.
Talking of apples ...
And finally, another wild, unaided member of our colourful throng.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The three P's of wisdom in rural Italy
As things start taking on a semblance of normality, there is occasionally the time to think. Make no mistake, there is still plenty to do before we could say the house is "phase 1 finished":
- light fixtures to replace the blatant wires and bare bulbs
- office file cabinet to eliminate the iceberg-pile of stuff in the corner
- patio paving and loggia
- garden differentiable from the nearby forest so that it actually looks like we're in control, not the plants (weeds)
- TV moved from temporary location with frenzy of wires to permanent wall fixture
- furniture in the lounge(s) to replace picnic fold-up chairs, Marty Crane specials, and bare carpet
- kitchen drawers to reduce risk of back problems from having to bend over for everything
- proper storage space for tools so that we can actually get in and out of our back door without tripping over something
... and so on.
Basically what I'm finding is that there are 3 main ingredients for living contentedly here, or anywhere, for that matter - planning, passion, and patience. (OK, "passion" may be a bit poetic, but it was alliterative.)
The prime example is the garden. We planted vegetables back in April/May, romantically envisioning the bulbous onions, fabled beanstalks, and Popeye spinach adorning our daily tavola. Indeed. But such is the fertility of the soil here, and such was the dampness of the spring, that our garden positively exploded, burgeoning with green growth everywhere to such an extent that I'd barely finished the hacking through the rash-inducing, sweat-provoking, jungle-like growth on the bottom slope that I had to start again on the flat surfaces on the top (since they'd shot up in the interim like speeded-up home videos).
The vegetable garden? Forget it. It was a tangled mass of stalks and vines and leaves and grass and weeds within a few weeks of planting. It was so overgrown that on several occasions I simply turned away from it and banished it from my thoughts (at least temporarily) because it was so overwhelming I didn't know where to start. Eventually I came back to it, of course, and did some weeding, just enough to be able to recognize the vegetables from the feral growths that had invaded the place.
In the meantime, of course, while I turned my attention to the vegetables and my back on the remainder of the garden, the parts I ignored took the opportunity to enjoy a growth spurt. When I looked back at them again, it was as if I'd never even tended them in the first place.
Demoralising. When we stopped and commiserated with each other, we came to the realization that we just tried to do too much. We weren't ready for the vegetable garden, to give it the numerous hours per week that it needs. We hadn't planned adequately on what we wanted to plant and harvest, when we were going to do so, and where we were going to put them. And after a hellish year of renovations and nomadic living when everything was such an effort, we wanted it to happen too quickly.
Well, guess what? Everything is still an effort, and it'll always be. The garden will come in time, but only in it's own time, and after we've put in the time. And got the blisters and callouses on our lily-white hands.
Only if we embrace the process too, not just the end result. Without the passion going into it, the results will be lacklustre.
The same is true for the rest of the house and the property. Ditto for living here - the language, the friendships, the life...
It reminds me of an article I read some years ago about a young Yahoo! turk who had reflected that something that took two years to come to fruition (in business) was way too long. Six months was basically the edge of his time horizon. As a forty-something at the time, I had to smile wryly at the impetuous impatience. Such is the world in some minds.
What I'm finding is that things that endure take a little longer. And they don't have definitive measuring units - they simply take as long as they take. And there's no place better to learn that lesson than out here in rural Italy, where this concept is baked into the earth and infused in the veins of the locals that surround me.
I'm coming to terms with it, and calming down as a result. The key is to keep planting one foot forward, and if you get knocked backward - as we have innumerable times already and will be in the future - to step up and plant it again. With conviction. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Maybe in a decade or two, I may even have a few pearls of advice for my son and his progeny.
Having endeth-ed the lesson here, a couple of more encouraging sequels. First, the fava beans were delicious and monstrous, we're enjoying the 3 types of onion right now, and the potato plants have been prolific in their output. Casualties? The peas and spinach. But 3 out of 5 ain't bad for a city slicker with computer keyboard fingers.
The rest of the garden, too, has taken it upon itself to grow anyway, in spite of my efforts to hold it back, rendering a colourful display that will be the subject of a pictorial blog in the not too distant future.
- light fixtures to replace the blatant wires and bare bulbs
- office file cabinet to eliminate the iceberg-pile of stuff in the corner
- patio paving and loggia
- garden differentiable from the nearby forest so that it actually looks like we're in control, not the plants (weeds)
- TV moved from temporary location with frenzy of wires to permanent wall fixture
- furniture in the lounge(s) to replace picnic fold-up chairs, Marty Crane specials, and bare carpet
- kitchen drawers to reduce risk of back problems from having to bend over for everything
- proper storage space for tools so that we can actually get in and out of our back door without tripping over something
... and so on.
Basically what I'm finding is that there are 3 main ingredients for living contentedly here, or anywhere, for that matter - planning, passion, and patience. (OK, "passion" may be a bit poetic, but it was alliterative.)
The prime example is the garden. We planted vegetables back in April/May, romantically envisioning the bulbous onions, fabled beanstalks, and Popeye spinach adorning our daily tavola. Indeed. But such is the fertility of the soil here, and such was the dampness of the spring, that our garden positively exploded, burgeoning with green growth everywhere to such an extent that I'd barely finished the hacking through the rash-inducing, sweat-provoking, jungle-like growth on the bottom slope that I had to start again on the flat surfaces on the top (since they'd shot up in the interim like speeded-up home videos).
The vegetable garden? Forget it. It was a tangled mass of stalks and vines and leaves and grass and weeds within a few weeks of planting. It was so overgrown that on several occasions I simply turned away from it and banished it from my thoughts (at least temporarily) because it was so overwhelming I didn't know where to start. Eventually I came back to it, of course, and did some weeding, just enough to be able to recognize the vegetables from the feral growths that had invaded the place.
In the meantime, of course, while I turned my attention to the vegetables and my back on the remainder of the garden, the parts I ignored took the opportunity to enjoy a growth spurt. When I looked back at them again, it was as if I'd never even tended them in the first place.
Demoralising. When we stopped and commiserated with each other, we came to the realization that we just tried to do too much. We weren't ready for the vegetable garden, to give it the numerous hours per week that it needs. We hadn't planned adequately on what we wanted to plant and harvest, when we were going to do so, and where we were going to put them. And after a hellish year of renovations and nomadic living when everything was such an effort, we wanted it to happen too quickly.
Well, guess what? Everything is still an effort, and it'll always be. The garden will come in time, but only in it's own time, and after we've put in the time. And got the blisters and callouses on our lily-white hands.
Only if we embrace the process too, not just the end result. Without the passion going into it, the results will be lacklustre.
The same is true for the rest of the house and the property. Ditto for living here - the language, the friendships, the life...
It reminds me of an article I read some years ago about a young Yahoo! turk who had reflected that something that took two years to come to fruition (in business) was way too long. Six months was basically the edge of his time horizon. As a forty-something at the time, I had to smile wryly at the impetuous impatience. Such is the world in some minds.
What I'm finding is that things that endure take a little longer. And they don't have definitive measuring units - they simply take as long as they take. And there's no place better to learn that lesson than out here in rural Italy, where this concept is baked into the earth and infused in the veins of the locals that surround me.
I'm coming to terms with it, and calming down as a result. The key is to keep planting one foot forward, and if you get knocked backward - as we have innumerable times already and will be in the future - to step up and plant it again. With conviction. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Maybe in a decade or two, I may even have a few pearls of advice for my son and his progeny.
Having endeth-ed the lesson here, a couple of more encouraging sequels. First, the fava beans were delicious and monstrous, we're enjoying the 3 types of onion right now, and the potato plants have been prolific in their output. Casualties? The peas and spinach. But 3 out of 5 ain't bad for a city slicker with computer keyboard fingers.
The rest of the garden, too, has taken it upon itself to grow anyway, in spite of my efforts to hold it back, rendering a colourful display that will be the subject of a pictorial blog in the not too distant future.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
A Grande day - in pictures
The visual companion to the verbal version chronicled here. (Note also that if you click on the picture it opens full-size.)
Monday, June 30, 2008
A Grande day
Up in the Apennine mountains in a bowl surrounded by soft, curved hills is a wonderful place. It’s called Piano Grande, and is actually just across the regional border in
The spectacular weather attracted throngs, and as we sauntered through the shady, oak-covered avenues in the valley en route, we were constantly overtaken by bikers buzzing like black insects toward the honey pot. Biking is a very popular weekend sport here, particularly among the curving mountain roads in our neighborhood. For some reason – maybe it’s a biker thing – they’re always in a hurry, which means, given the innate and unchangeable habits of the Italian driver, a constant dance with the wild side: overtaking on solid white lines (what lines?), speeding by on the other side on blind curves (who's blind?), and generally making a mad dash to get there … and do nothing. It’s all black leather, making everyone look the same, so it’s always intriguing getting to a communal stop to see who’s actually underneath all that black – anyone and everyone, as it turns out, and – in this country – pretty much as you’d expect.
Casteluccio has a permanent population of about 3, and on festival days, 30,000. Cars are parked all the way down the approaching roads in typical Italian fashion: eclectic, avante-garde style. The numerous mammoth coaches slow things down to a crawl, and jam up the village’s piazza, but it doesn’t matter – it’s festa time and all that’s important is that you’re there in some way or other. Chaos, after all, is what Italians thrive on, it’s like a life juice that injects them with an oblivious energy that makes everything just OK.
Ignoring the apparently obvious requirement to park a kilometer away, we crawl into the piazza, and scoot up a sidestreet, finding a parking on a precipitous slope just 50m from the action. Why everyone else isn’t doing this is anyone’s guess – I thought that finding obscure but convenient parking places was a national pastime.
Anyway, after spending a nano-second on that thought, off we go to explore. In the town itself, there are only three things to do – browse the few stores for the local products (lentils, salami, cheese, and curios), watch the people … and eat (of course). We did all three, crushing into a busy diner-cum-restaurant that had a single, heaving line to get in and out. Amongst the many dishes available, Julius and I had the compulsory lentil and sausage soup – more like a stew but delicious. My son then followed this up – much to our surprise since his appetite has shrunk since his eating-machine days – with a monster of a porchetta sandwich: whole roasted pig, a specialty of the larger region and an absolute must if you have the stomach for it. To our even greater surprise, he flattened it, and left sated and satisfied, hands and mouth glistening with grease.
We then took a drive up a bumpy dirt road that leads to who-knows-where up and around the corner, and stopped to watch the group of hang- and para-gliders readying themselves and throwing themselves off the slope and into mid-air. It reminded me of Douglas Adams’ flying instruction manual: throw yourself at the ground … and miss. Well, miss they did, these fellows, most of them English, it seemed, and went soaring over the plains and some of them up into the stratosphere, gliding peacefully some few thousand feet above the central Apennines’ highest peak, Vettore. There’s actually a school for such ventures not far from where we live, and watching these guys do what birds do – apparently as easily as they do too – took me another step closer to being convinced that I want to do it too. We shall see, maybe it’ll be my 50th birthday present to myself, although my Italian would need to improve in order to be able to understand all of the instruction and increase chances of survival.
After a couple of hours of this, down we went into the plains to get a close-up of the flowers. Not inordinately spectacular, I have to confess, but given the peaceful setting, buzzing with happy visitors lying down in the fields posing for photos, there was little to criticize.
Driving back at the settling dusk, I was reminded why I came here (notwithstanding my son’s unfathomable tantrum). Sure there are other beautiful places like this all over
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Contrasts and contradictions
About a year ago, a friend visiting from
We get our honey from one neighbour, eggs from another, milk from a third. Our vegetable patch is doing OK given the lack of attention it’s received, but we had a few delicious meals from our first crop of the season – the fava beans.
In between, I do research on the internet and write for my American and Irish clients. Last Saturday, I watched
I can go days without speaking Italian. Over the past three weeks, I’ve had to dust off my improvised German for Maria’s visiting friends and family, causing my hard-wired brain untold confusion and my bumbling speech to substitute languages with reckless abandon.
I suppose it is a little more complicated than it used to be in some ways, but it most ways, it isn’t. The simplicity of it is calming, even if the pressure to make money – a greater challenge here for me than ever before – isn’t.
But I’m reminded every now and then how different my life is - not only from my old life - but also from so many people around us, the locals in particular – what constitutes a good day, what a crisis is, how I earn a living … the list goes on.
A week or so ago a particular event brought it home in a jarring, etched-in-the-memory type of way. When we went to collect our milk from the farmer across the valley, I noticed one of the cows lying on its side next to the road. Thinking this an unusual posture for a bovine, I looked closer, and noticed a long gash in its neck. The cow-hand (a woman) came over and told me that it wasn’t well (pointing to its swollen leg) and so they slashed its throat. As we watched, it was eking out its last, moaning and groaning as the life bled out of its neck.
“Mi dispiace” (I’m sorry), the woman kept saying matter-of-factly, which is pretty much how they must have come to the decision not half an hour before our arrival. And then led the cow across the road to its death gutter.
I suppose this sort of thing shouldn’t bother me, but it simply points to how different an upbringing and life I’ve had. People like me imagine life in the rolling hills of
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
From the land where nothing is straight-forward
There is no peace for the wicked … no such thing as a free lunch … no gain without pain … one forward, three back – you name it, there’s a cliché out there to describe our experience here.
Take our internet connection – my life-changing internet connection, chronicled here – for instance. Everything went fine for a couple of weeks. Even our neighbour backed off when I was able to string the cable a couple of metres off the ground, allowing him to cut the brush below it.
But then the inevitable happened – failure. During a storm. Just quietly shut down.
So down I go to the internet store – my network port is dead. Well, not dead really – the system knows it’s there, but it just didn’t work. No-one knew why.
So they gave me a network adapter that plugged into my PCMCIA slot. Worked like a charm … until the next storm (two days later). Down it went again.
Back to the internet store – network adapter’s dead. No problem with the antenna or my computer during and after the storm, mind. They were puzzled.
So they gave me a different type of network adapter, one that plugs into a USB port. Again, no problem … until the next rain, that is (two days later).
Now, at the best of times, this would have been a frustrating experience, but with two looming deadlines and a bucket-load of online research to do, the timing couldn’t have been worse.
But we soldier on. Down to the internet store again – now this network adapter is dead. The techie’s suggestion? Get an exorcist. He chuckled when he said that, and in a different scenario, I might have joined him.
He and his techie partners are flummoxed – they don’t know what’s causing it. So as a last resort, he gave me a network filter to moderate the signal coming through. Of course I had to get another network adapter, but since I had already blown the only two they had at the store (they only have a call for about two a year, since, in their words, “they never fail”), I had to go and get it somewhere else.
The store down the road was closed – permanently, it seems (their timing from my selfish standpoint was perfect, of course). The other store had to order it, and it took a day to arrive (not bad, given where I am).
In the meantime, my deadlines came and went, and I scrambled through them by to-ing and fro-ing to the internet store, where my wireless card – a useless piece of equipment so far in this neck of the woods – got me onto their network.
But the new network card has a gimpy connection, so I lost the connection the second time I tried it. I was distraught, thinking that the ghost was still in the machine. And hoping the fact that I got the network cable outside caught up in the weed-eater (strimmer) yesterday wasn’t the reason for it. Luckily, a firm push and the network card connected.
The network filter, however, needs to be properly earthed, something I’m led to believe will require an electrician. Which means a phone call & an appointment, neither of which has happened yet. So the filter is not operational yet.
As a result, the network adapter gets disconnected when rain threatens, which right now is daily, for several prime working hours. Last week it rained solidly for 3 days.
And so when the weather starts turning, I have to do something else – like cut the lawn, weed the vegetable patch, install something …
Yes indeed here we are in the Italian countryside, mixing vegetable growing with internet surfing.
But only when the weather’s good.
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