Is it just us?

“Is it just us?”

Such simplicity in a question, and yet such resignation at the same time.

Aside from the standard quota of things not going according to plan, it seems that we court “irregularity”, should we say, with what is becoming a particularly annoying regularity.

Case(s) in point –

Our (foolish) plans to make living arrangements according to our building contract – which had us in our house by July 1^st – had me once again toiling in the heat of an unusually hot July, preparing for a move. The memories of last year’s brutal experience (recounted here) came flooding back in equal measures of sweat as I moved things from one place to another, frequently up stairs and down steep driveways, with my wife and son enjoying the coolness of Germany (just as they were a year ago), and without North Carolina’s air conditioning and close proximity of household goods and container.

Maria and Julius returned to participate in one last sweat-filled heave as we moved out of the rental home and into our temporary digs at an old farmhouse down the road.

It was a log, tiring, baking hot day, which started with a knock at the door first thing, around 7:30am – the carpenter who had given up his Saturday and Sunday to lay our wooden floors was the bearer of bad news. It seems the “first grade” oak boards that I’d made 4 trips to the other side of Amandola for – a 50-minute drive each way – were no better than fifth grade, with different widths, missing tongues and grooves, knots, and rough surfaces. The black plastic covering had done a good job of hiding their quality.

So a snap decision was required – continue as best we could with the stack of planks we had, or try and recoup our costs and get the wood elsewhere. The latter prevailed, leaving Claudia and Paolo the builder with an unenviable task of approaching the sawmill guy on Monday. This is the same very crusty fellow, a particularly unembellished man, who had brusquely and unashamedly breathed a frustrated “O Dio!” into the phone as I struggled to understand his rat-a-tat explanation of something or other a week ago.

So the floor upstairs remains unlaid, and chances are it won’t be before we leave for our six-week South African trip on July 31^st. I had planned, on the basis of a finished floor by today, to store several items in the house (the doors and windows supposedly arrive today) while we’re gone. Another plan of folly, based on an anticipation of things going according to plan. I’m either a slow learner or a fool after all.

Talking of July 31^st, a chance requirement to furnish Maria’s passport details revealed a concerning fact – her passport expires on September 2^nd, prior to our return from South Africa. Another hitch – the need for a new passport in 10 days. The Germans in Germany said no, you have to renew it where you live. Turns out the closest embassy or consulate in whose jurisdiction we fall is Rome, a good 3 hours away. Maria would have to go there in person to be issued a temporary passport to tide her through the South African trip, but with her boss calling her in Germany to confirm her return to work, her ability to go there is “uncertain”, at best.

Needless to say, Maria’s return from Germany uncovered all sorts of problems at the house, in spite of my daily attention to it and its intrusion on my working time (along with preparing for the move). Now it should be stated that these are all problems that are patently clear to her, but not to me or the builder. It is just as needless to point out where the fault lies ...

It is all so tiring. Last night I lay awake in the heat thinking how it should have been right at this point – me lying in my organic bed in my own home with everything inside it, comfortably ensconced and with no other pressure than to prepare for a 6-week trip home to see my family, something that could be easily accomplished a little bit each day.

The ponderance of why it isn’t like this is the ultimate stimulus for the question which opened this blog entry. Unfortunately the “test of character” and “test of our true desire to be here” answers are a little worn at this stage. So I’m convinced it is actually us – we harbour some sort of magnet in our bodies that draws us as inevitably to the bump in the road as a dog is drawn to a lamppost.

Having said that, I have heard tell of people whose eyes have completely lost the bright enthusiasm that they once had at the start of the renovation of a home, the beginning of a dream as it were, and are reduced to a “whatever” attitude to every question their contractor asks. For them, the trials of it all have defeated them, the luster is gone, and it will be a long time before the spark returns.

I’m happy to say I’m still a long way from there yet – every time I go down to our metamorphosising house, I can see myself comfortable in its cool walls during the summer, savouring its warmth in the winter, and feeling utterly and simply “at home”.

Yes, the dream’s still alive. It’s just taking a long time to get to the good part.

This, of course, is the good news.

What remains ahead is a network of roads littered – just as it’s always been – with as wide and numerous an assortment of bumps as there are opportunities …

House update

The house, the house – what to say about the house. I suspect that we’re going through similar gyrations to most other foreigners renovating a rural Italian house. Of course we think it’s harder for us. Stepping back and being a tad more objective, however, I suspect that our case is probably milder than most.

However, that is scant consolation when one considers that:

• contractually the house was due to be finished by the end of June, and isn’t
• it is unlikely to be finished by July 23^rd when our landlords arrive, and we need to vacate our rental home
• we have nowhere to stay until our departure for South Africa on July 31^st, and it’s the height of summer holiday season (which means accommodation is both scarce and expensive)
• nothing is done here in August – and when I say “nothing” there isn’t a smidgen of exaggeration in it – and therefore it’s unlikely to be done by the time of our return on September 10^th

Besides all of this, the builders continue:

• to make “design” and “style” decisions on their own without consulting us, in every case getting it wrong by an order of magnitude that neither they (in their incredulity at our taste) nor we (in our incredulity at their taste) can believe
• to ask the same questions four, five, and six times, and in spite of receiving the same answer on each occasion, do something contrary

Our theoretical contract manager, the architect, has created a mire of a situation by:

• sticking his head in occasionally and issuing instructions to either the builder or us – but never, ever both – that frequently cause all sorts of disruptions because they depart from the track of those of us who are living this thing every day
• getting annoyed with us – even tearing a strip off us – for daring to differ with his opinion, which he clearly regards as something loftier and more concrete than a simple personal preference
• telling us to go off and find our own plumber and electrician, without telling the builder (who thought that was his job), and then getting irked with us for bringing in our own people

Why don’t we fire them, particularly the architect? Because it’s my belief that it would be costlier and take longer if we changed horses in midstream. And you have to have one (a contract manager, that is) in order to get all the permits – your average man-in-the-street is not allowed to apply for them.

Stuck. No wonder there’s a homogeneous nature to so many houses here. The plumber has complained about us wanting things that are “non-standard”, and that he’s finished three other houses while he’s struggled with ours. I responded by saying that we weren’t “standard” people. He said – very wryly – that somehow he knew when he met us, but he didn't realize just how "non-standard" we were.

In any event, the roof is nearly complete, the walls are plastered, and the electrics and plumbing are being done as I write. What’s left? The floors – wood upstairs (we have the wood), concrete and cement downstairs (we have neither the cement nor the artisan to put it on) – the windows and doors, the heating system (it’s been started), the drainage, the septic tank, the lowering of the ground around the house.

Compared to everything else, this seems moderate to minor. But with the feria (holidays) looming – that’s the August shut-down – everyone’s scrambling to get finished what they already have on their plates, and so finding the necessary personnel to complete the special tasks to meet our “non-standard” tastes is proving difficult.

Last week I had a heated exchange with Paolo the builder, a very frustrating experience in my limited Italian and his (deliberate, in my mind) inability to understand. He was bemoaning the state of the project, and the risk of not getting finished before the feria. He complained about the “outside” plumber and electrician – this is when he responded in disbelief upon discovering that the architect had told us to find them instead of leaving it to him (the builder). I responded by pointing out 3 periods of delay (or his absence), totaling 11 weeks, that were the direct cause of our dire situation. He kept on coming back to the plumber and electrician. I kept on bringing him back to the 11 weeks. Eventually he changed the subject.

I asked Paolo where we should go when our landlord arrives to occupy our rental house. He missed the point – he simply said “Io non so” (I don’t know) and walked away. Attempts at subtlety are futile.

I didn't ask Paolo who was going to pay for the extra cost of not being in our house by the contractual June 30th. That's because our contract has a €75-a-day penalty clause for every day beyond June 30th that we're not in the house. I've heard it may be difficult to impelement the clause. But I'll tell you this - we're going to give it one hell of a try. And if they're not done by July 31st - which means it'll be September before we're in - you can bet I'll be counting every one of those 31 dead days in August.

Monte Vettore and surrounds ... in pictures

Summer in a small Italian town

Summer is definitely here. Temperatures have been up in the 30s (Centigrade, that is), and there’s plenty of sweat to go around. There’s no air conditioning here either, certainly none in people’s homes, and not much in stores and offices either. This is where the thick brick-and-stone walls come into their own, keeping houses cool during even the hottest part of the day. Thankfully it’s not humid like the soup of North Carolina which I remember without any longing whatsoever.

HRH the boy king is obviously on holiday, now in his fourth week of it. A week ago we had our final parent-teacher conference where we were given Julius’ report card, which, I’m hugely proud to say, came back with a “distinto” (distinction, the second highest grade). Following this, we had an outdoor dinner with the parents and teachers of the schools fourth and fifth graders. It was a somewhat haphazard, disjointed affair, in other words very Italian, but that was no matter – the overall sentiment was one a warmth and harmony, and it just felt good to be part of it.

The first week of holiday HRH spent rolling around the house in agonized boredom until I took him up to Colmurano in the afternoons. The school playground in the center of town seems to exert a sort of popular gravitational pull, and so I frequently just drop him off there for a few hours, comfortable in the knowledge that soon there’ll be a throng of kids there, mostly ready to play football. The throngs extend well into the night, when the Italian habit of socializing takes hold, turning the playground and its surrounds into a buzz of conversation, companionship, and contentment.

The whole fabric of it all has been bolstered by the opening of an ice-cream shop right in the heart of it. Michael and Amanda Smith. Irish friends of ours and parents of Julius’ classmate Jack, once owned a chocolate factory in Ireland, and decided to give the ice cream thing a go here. They’re already fully integrated into the community anyway, and so their store enjoys a loyal patronage. The fact that the ice cream is made from raw milk and is delicious doesn’t hinder any either.

After a two-week visit by an American friend of Julius’ and his mother, which involved a fair amount of exploring in the beaches and mountains, the boy king is now on a summer camp, which involves four mornings a week at the beach, and one full day in the mountains. While 7:30am is a very early start for this household, we embraced the prospect of a healthy experience outdoors, swimming and such. Turns out that the beach mornings so far have included but a half-hour in the water, and a whole lot of contentious “playing” with kids from other schools. The “mountain” trip involved a drive down the road to the Abbadia di Fiastra, a working farm, hotel, church, and ex-monastery complex with fields to play on, and a good league or two from the mountains. So much for the hike in clear Apennine air that I envisaged. Oh well, at least he’s outdoors and enjoying more stimulation than he would get alone at home.

Next week Maria & Julius will be in Germany for a family visit and a dentist appointment (!), during which time Colmurano will have its renowned Arte Strada festival, with music and all sorts of performers in the streets. Apparently people come from all over the country for it, and last year there were some 30,000 people in the tiny piazza on Saturday night. I look forward to it with mixed emotions.

August, of course, all of Italy shuts down, and generally goes to the beach. We, however, won’t experience the phenomenon. That’s because we’ll be in South Africa. I think it will be easier to be down there than staying here and seeing absolutely nothing happening on our house. (More on this subject in another Daily update.)

Invisible sleep-deprivers

You’re just drifting off into a beckoning dream, the silky clouds of sleep settling softly onto your wearied body, when … zing! An attention-getting bite pierces your skin and renders you instantly awake … and scratching. Having satisfied the immediate itching urge, you set about looking for the culprit, but it’s nowhere to be found. No noise, no trace … gone.

I remember that first episode about a month ago. The predator has occupied our nights ever since, and has given rise to strategies and tactics that I’ve never had to consider before. The bites have lingered for weeks, spawning must-scratch-right-this-very-second itches at random moments, and leaving pock-marked arms and legs from the frantic, no-holds-barred gouging that constitutes the only release from itching hell. A stinging pain, as it turns out, is a less deranging prospect. At one point one of my fingers sported 5 different bites, each one calling louder to be scratched than the others.

I took several paths of attempted remedial action – went upstairs, they were there already. Downstairs? Already checked in. Even slept outside a couple of nights – this worked fine while it was windy, but as soon as the wind died, all resistance faded, and I became a smorgasbord once again.

After weeks of enduring their barkless bite without being able to identify the transgressor, we finally found the culprit – a tiny, transparent-winged fly-like thing, somewhat like a midge. Its crude and basic shape and proportion make it look like it was designed by an apprentice caricaturist.

So we patrolled the walls of our bedroom before going to sleep, decimating the population to the best of our ability. But they’re elusive, these skin-piercers, they’re hard to see, and they’re soundless, so our efforts invariably fell short. The bite-fest continued.

It even became a talking point in a few of our circles, such is their pervasive and penetrating effect on the population. One friend says that he rubs himself with insecticide spray before going to bed – no thanks. Another said that they’d be gone by July – false. We heard too that 5 years ago they weren’t around. This last item is particularly worrisome – what else might we be breeding with our new ways of doing things? Will they be worse next year?

Regardless of the empty consolation and untenable remedies, the onset of night and the prospect of going to bed – once a welcoming kingdom – became a dreaded ordeal. So we took action – we bought fans. The point? Cover ourselves with sheets (the fans cooling us enough to endure the hot night under covers), and provide a layer between us and them. Of course they’re also determined, these blighters, not to mention being equipped with deadly accurate heat-seeking radar, and soon our foreheads, ears, and cheeks – the exposed bits – were sporting similar scars to our now-covered limbs.

It seemed that there was simply no escape – we were doomed. But then something strange happened. The itching became less intense, at least for me. Friends that arrived to stay seemed to be going through the same early-stage desperate scratching as we did, but somehow it seems as if I’ve build up a mild immunity. I’m still getting bitten, but they don’t itch nearly as much. I’m not sure if it’s me, or it’s them. Or perhaps it’s this cooler, windy spell we’re having.

Needless to say, I’m hoping it’s an immunity. But it’s not over yet, and so I’ll not hold my breath.

And even if the immediate irritation has passed, there are other flies to fry. Maria’s taken to collecting their corpses. Yes, it is a little strange, but then you see, she’s going to … well, that would be giving it away, wouldn’t it?

Monte Vettore hike ... in words

Monte Vettore is Marche’s highest mountain, as well as being the highest in the central Apennines. It’s been the aim of the boy king (our son Julius) to climb this beast ever since we got here. We had promised him on his birthday (January 8^th) to do it, but our first attempt (Jan 28^th) was stopped by ice, so we waited until June 24^th for a good snow-free day, and one that was agreeable to all social calendars.

This last point is no small feat since we did it with an Italian family that we’re friendly with. We hike with them often, and it’s almost always an event. We were five (us three and Julius’ friend from the US with his mother). Ornella’s family is four. There were 22 of us. This is normal – the supporting cast frequently outnumbers the lead players. This is hiking in Italy – the “popular” (or perhaps populous) way.

At 2,476m (8,123 feet), Vettore isn’t exactly a giant, but it’s still up there for us minnows. Getting up there is, if it’s not already obvious, a hike, not a climb. But it’s a fairly long one, and in places it’s rather steep. So it’s a full day … and then some.

We had a diverse group, ranging in age from 7 to 74. Gilda, the oldest, is a phenomenal woman, who apparently doesn’t stop going all day. She was the third person out of the 11 in our group that made it to the top. Alas, the youngest, Esther (Ornella’s daughter) turned back with her mother when a few drops of rain threatened to douse our enthusiasm.

Fortunately, the rain’s threat was nothing more than that. It was, however, a blustery, (thankfully) cool day, providing the necessary wind for the paragliders and microlites that soared invitingly above the soft green Piano Grande that stretched below us into Umbria.

In the distance sits Castelluccio, a gem of a town perched on a lone hill in the middle of the huge flat bowl surrounded on all sides by the Apennini. June is wildflower time, and impetus for the annual festival for the blooms that come with the maturing lentils for which this region is renowned. A poor rainfall, however, has rendered a poorer show than usual, and even though the place was busy, the festival’s organizers had to dump gallons of lenticchie and salsiccie (lentils and sausage) that were prepared for the throngs that never came.

In a group of 22 predominantly Italians, there were naturally several subplots. Gilda, the septuagenarian rock rabbit, was obviously the central character. But a few others coloured the day with the spice that always flavours such outings. HRH the boy king (Julius) twisted his ankle on the way down, resulting in free rides down on the backs of a few of us with enough energy and strength in the legs to carry him – one of these is a strong Colmurano woman who carried him with perhaps greater ease than either Giovanni or I. (It’s also somewhat unclear to me how much the injury might have been influenced by the need to divert Margherita’s attention away from the hovering Jack, but that’s a whole other plot for another time.)

Another subplot featured Ornella’s nephew, twenty-something Andrea, whose arrival with his new (and first serious) girlfriend was eagerly awaited. He was late (as he was the only other time he came hiking with us), but he didn’t disappoint in his choice of girlfriend (at least from a visual perspective). They made it to the first stop (for lunch), after which they were not seen again as we made our way to the peak. Turns out he – and therefore his girlfriend – thought we were going to have a picnic in the mountains. There was no expectation of having to work for it, least of all on the region’s highest peak. I’m told the girlfriend was unpleasantly surprised by this. I haven’t heard if they’re still an item.

From the top of Vettore one can look down over the edge of a steep incline into a bowl, in which lie two steel-blue lakes – the Laghetti di Pilato. Legend has it that Pontius Pilate is buried there. We haven’t been there to verify it, but we will soon.

Turns out that the legend of Pilato isn’t the only one around here. In fact, the place is rich with the myths of the Apennini Sibyl and the cave that she lives in somewhere in the area. In fact, the scree on the mountainside is supposedly created by her fata whose scrambling goat-like feet broke the stones as they hurried to re-enter the cave before sunrise (and therefore preserve their immortality) after a night cavorting with the local population. Apparently there are all sorts of “interesting” things that go on in the cave. I looked all over for it, but couldn’t find it. Perhaps I’ll creep back up there one moonlit night. And I’ll be sure to let you know what happens … if, of course, I decide not to stay …

Road debris

My mother used to jest with us as kids: "What lies in the road ... a-head?" (Get it?) I was reminded of this when, a couple of weeks ago on the school drop-off run, there in the middle of the road on the hill up to Colmurano sat ... or perhaps stood ... a leg.

OK, it was lying down, not standing. But it was unmistakably a leg. Not a human one, you'll be relieved to know, but in truth I'm not certain what poor beast was missing it. No other body parts in close proximity, nor a splattering of blood and gore. Just a leg ... neatly severed, lying there.

By its size, it could have been from a sheep, but that's really just a stab (kick?) in the dark, based on the fact that it had a hoof rather than a paw. Wild boar? Perhaps.

In fact, it still looked relatively fresh (given the absence of a cloud of flies), and there were quite a few steaks to be had for anyone with a sharp knife. I didn't, so I edged my way around it - it lay length-ways across the very middle of the road - and watched in the rearview mirror for signs of clues or practical jokes. Nothing.

When I returned sometime later, it was gone. No doubt it was claimed as a prize by either one of the opportune dogs that roam the area, or it's chilling in someone's fridge.

Or maybe it "legged" it down the hill, looking for a 3-legged beast in need of a more balanced gait ...

Picture update

The gas business

I have this picture in my mind of an earnest man doing his job seriously, entirely and blissfully unaware of the comedy he is perpetrating. I wouldn’t say that this impression is based on the lone sighting I had of this man as he was leaving after his first visit to attend to our gas problems (a little clarification of this last phrase is perhaps necessary and definitely forthcoming). Unshaven and dressed with an informality heavily weighted on the casual, dishevelled side, my first take as he sped away in his Vulcangas van was that we had disturbed an otherwise relaxing workday for him.

My cynical and clearly erroneous impression was corrected later by Maria’s report of his visit. He had proudly shown her where he had fixed the gas leak in the tube leading from the tank buried in the ground. It looked as if an infant had been playing there with silly putty. But hey, who am I that knows little of these technical gas things. After all, in response to Maria’s question whether the tank’s gas gauge read in liters or percent, he had replaced the gauge … with one that had the last 20% highlighted in red, “as a reminder for us to refill the tank when it reached this level.” Phew, glad he did that – I would hate to be surprised by an empty gas tank just because the gauge read 0%.

Helpful guy – fixed the leak, gave the ignorant stranieri an aid to improve their gas habits. No doubt he was very satisfied with himself on a job well done.

So I go and check his work. Open up the tank lid, and get assaulted by a release of trapped gas that made me feel instantly light-headed. The leak was worse by several degrees than it was before – no technical gizmos required, just an average nose.

It was hard to get close to read the now red-banded gauge, but, being the fastidious type, I did. There it was, nestling comfortably at the end of its red zone – 0%. The day before, prior to his “service” call, the old gauge had read 10%. Which means that in the space of a day we had used nearly 200 liters of gas, and we shouldn’t have had any hot water (which wasn’t the case, given the hot showers that were still freely available).

Hmmm – so this “technician” comes to fix a problem, leaves it worse than before, and with fewer aids to monitor our gas situation. Ever open-minded, I look upon this as a new twist on the concept of “aid”, perhaps viewed from a perspective other than mine (the alleged customer).

So Maria calls Simone, a contractor who does “customer service” on behalf of the gas company. He immediately says he’ll take care of it. Having met Simone before and failed to help him understand a different issue we were having (despite several different approaches to the subject by both Maria and me), his confident assertion left me strangely without even the slightest hint of comfort.

Eventually the gas man returned in response to our obvious emergency (according to his red-zone gauge) … 3 days later. Neither of us saw him, but he must have been there, since the leak has been repaired. It now looks as if he brought another of his infant children with him to perform silly putty artwork on the gas pipes.

The gas gauge? Uh-huh – 0%. I wonder what’s making the water hot. Maybe it needs a different technician to fix that problem. Or perhaps he just forgot. After all, he’s already done us enough favours, coming out here twice and all. We wouldn’t want to take advantage of him.

Maria called Simone again to report the possible gas gauge issue. I’m riveted waiting for his response.

Spring

[This was written some two weeks before its post date]

Spring is gushing. Everywhere. It’s positively pouring out of every organic pore of every living thing and competing for attention like a class of kindergartners. Things are growing so readily and so richly that one feels almost apologetic and its profusion. Vitaliano’s roses, for example, have spread themselves all over the side of his house, without any apparent nurturing or encouragement, and when we compliment him on them, he simply shrugs and smiles …

Pinks and reds and yellows and blues and purples stand out against a backdrop of an apparent “green” contest, so lush and varied are the shades of the plants and trees. But leading the parade are the moon flowers, or corn flowers, or poppies, depending on who you’re speaking to. There are colonies of them everywhere – some just small “villages”, some vast cities of a red so intense that it looks artificial. It’s as if a wandering painter has carelessly dangled his brush in broad swaths across the countryside, following random mood and carefree spirit. It’s stunning.

The air is warm, the shade is cool, and birds are everywhere, singing their thanks for the good life and the abundance of lizards and bugs and seeds that have exploded into their larders. They’re constantly darting through the air, either with something in their beaks or in pursuit of something to put there, and are so focused on their mission that they often barely get out of the way of the car – it almost seems as if they’re (date I?) playing chicken.

The season’s first spring produce is also changing menus. Vitaliano gave us some spinach the other day that was quite the best I’ve ever tasted (and I’m a spinach lover). The sink was clogged with earth after cleaning it, so fresh was the generous bundle he gave us. They gave us another bucketful 3 days later.

Asparagus, lettuce, beans, and artichokes are all finding their way on to the tables right now. Cauliflower? Can’t find it anywhere – “Finito!” says greengrocer Alberto in his assertion that the season is over, and raising an eyebrow in apparent curiosity that I would be interested in having something out of season. This is Italy – only fresh stuff in season is allowed …

Yes, spring is here, and it’s positively enlivening. Perhaps a godsend then that my computer died, and I’m forced to write this by hand, sitting outside. Perhaps a little later I’ll go and take some photographs.

Daily update parte sette

Work on the house continues to make progress, albeit slow. Paolo the builder has been gone for some 3 weeks now to complete another job, having finished his first phase. Now just (!) the roof, flooring, plastering, drainage, and lowering of the ground around the house remain for him to do.

The electrician has finished the first phase of his work, and the plumber is due to start in a couple of days. We’re still tussling with whether or not to install a ventilated roof (which enhances insulation), but are having an impossible time trying to get meaningful numbers out of people and make comparisons. We’ve recently selected and given the go-ahead on the custom windows and doors, as well as all the bathroom fittings. Now for the kitchen, and the downstairs floor, which we’re tussling over – Maria wants coloured stone pellets with resin, and I want coloured polished concrete. Both may be moot if we can’t find anyone local or reasonably-priced to do it.

Given where we are with everything, I must confess that the July deadline to be out of our rental house and into our home looms ominously close, rather too close for my liking. We could well be back in the caravan for a few weeks until everything’s ready.

If only we had our architect and project manager to help us – his fleeting presence seems barely sufficient as a reminder that he’s involved, let alone directing matters. However, I suppose I shouldn’t complain – at least we’re seeing progress, and it also seems as if we’ll stay within the projected cost. Friends of ours have had to fire their geometra (essentially the contractor) because she failed to submit their permit applications, resulting in a several-month delay on top of the mandatory 60-day waiting period (for certain urban houses, which ours is not) to begin their renovations. And any time you switch personnel (architect/geometra/builder) there’s another inherent delay and potentially additional hidden cost as one departs and the other arrives. We’ve reluctantly stuck with our architect and builder for this very reason. (Unfortunately being your own contractor is not an option – applying for all the permits has to be done through a geometra or architect.)

It’s an interesting process after all, if one is able to step back from it and look down on it objectively. It seems that humans incur a sort of minimum degree of imperfection and inefficiency whatever they do. In Italy it seems that minimum degree is a tad higher than other western countries. “Teamwork” is also not a term whose origins are or whose current residence is comfortable in Italy, and so getting the builder, the plumber, the electrician, the roofer, the window-and-door maker, the marble guy, and the architect to work together is a challenge that elementary school teachers would appreciate.

But even with these potentially frustrating tendencies, there’s a lesson – this is just the way it is. Nothing you can do to change it. And in the process we learn as much about ourselves as anything – what we find important for our comfort, what we like aesthetically, how far things have to go before we reach our “for-heavens-sake-just-get-it-done” stage, what it takes for us to snap, how we deal with resistance and differences of opinion, what our own tipping points are, and doubtless a few others to come.

And so next time I hear our umpteenth “Bruto!” response to our desires, I’ll take a deep breath (this is deep breath country), and in the time it takes me to count to the requisite number, I’ll remind myself how much I’m growing in that precise moment.

A privileged visit with King Arthur and Lancelot

I'm not sure that King Arthur and Lancelot ever discoursed in a rural Italian dialect, or that Guinevere was ever imprisoned in the library of a small central Italian town, but then I'll readily concede that my knowledge of such classics is far from complete. And who, after all, am I to question the passion of the pre-teen knights of the round table as they clambered in their garden-netting armour, cardboard swords clasped firmly in hand, up the hill, through the arch, past the coffee shop, and into the piazza?

It was a privilege to be part of it, an epic, low-cost (no-cost?) production of this legend of the middle ages. Earlier in the day, having just dropped Julius at school, I was asked by Ornella, teacher and film director (at least for the day) to take photographs of the proceedings. Following only one full rehearsal and a few days of memorizing lines, the children donned the costumes they had made themselves, and prepared themselves for the shoot.

Dialogue was delivered as it would be by 10- and 11-year-olds the world over - in a deadpan monotone. The words, however, were to some extent incidental - after all, it's really about the process, and the experience for the kids. And of course the fact that frequently passing farm vehicles drowned out any recognizable words anyway.

For me it was a peek into the world of an Italian elementary school. I discovered there is one constant - noise. Lots of it. The teachers seem immune to it, or perhaps simply deafened into submission. On a few occasions, they invited the kids to let out surplus energy by yelling at the tops of their voices. Somehow, the building remained intact.

The second insight was of the teachers, at least the ones involved in the production. First is the incredible patience they showed in dealing with the very vocal troupe, which impressively remained harmonious throughout the day. Second, and rather more telling, was the obvious love they feel for the children. Touching a child on the shoulder, cradling their chin in their palm, holding their hand, ruffling their hair are natural things they do without even thinking, as if they aren't even aware of it. The kids love it, and respond so positively to it. I wonder how this degree of tactile teacher-pupil interaction would go down in the hypersensitive and vindictive society of the USA.

I've heard criticism that the italians coddle their children too much. We've seen evidence in the way they drown them in layers of clothes in even moderate weather. But if coddling means a liberal display of love, I'll defend the bundling up till the cows come home.

I've now become something of a celebrity with the kids. I and the (equally novice and short-noticed) cameraman were novelties for all of them, participants and lookers-on alike, but me perhaps more so than he because I have a child in the school. They now wave and greet me enthusiastically whenever they see me. I won't deny that it gives me a real kick. Now if only I could hold a conversation with them ...

An unexpected award

Italians like to speak in public. Particularly the mayor of Colmurano. However, between the poor acoustics, fellow audience members who continue to talk as if they're in a coffee shop, and my own linguistic inadequacies, I'm frequently lost within the first few sentences. So I look around at the crowd, and clap appropriately at the annointed moments.

Two Saturdays ago was no different. Sindaco Fabrizio was rambling on, his fellow mayors from Loro Piceno and Urbisaglia at his side, the children and their parents showing impressive endurance given their eager anticipation. It was the inauguration of the tri-town 4th and 5th grade Mother's Day jewelry design contest, and we were there to learn the outcome of the young Colmurano jeweler's deliberations.

We didn't expect a showing, so when Julius was called up as the first Colmurano recipient of a Special Prize, a rousing cheer went up. I swelled with pride and emotion as he smiled self-consciously with the mayor and his plaque. Just 6 months in this country, and the joy and support from his peers for his award was palpable.

Julius' friend Margherita was one of the 3 overall winners, whose designs were turned into real pieces by the jeweler and put on display. The proceeds from their sale go to a local charity for disabled children.

I'm not sure how they chose the winners, since there were numerous other designs that several of us thought were really good, and unlucky not to have been selected. But I'm not complaining - the boost to Julius' confidence is more than I (or he) was expecting or asking for. And as many, many males will attest, confidence is what it's all about ...

Easter Sunday service

With a pronounced tremor, the pale white hands poked out from under their ornate robes and raised the chalice, golden and elegant, to the lips that drained its contents in one jerky quaff. (How none of it spilled is a mystery, it was a right storm in a chalice on its way up there, given the earthquake-like shakes it was experiencing.)

None for us, it seemed. And with that wine disappearing act, my knowledge of Catholic rites trebled – the masses only get the host, they can’t be trusted with the alcohol.

Our frail priest, clothed in his Easter best for this small Regnano congregation, gazed out at his motley flock with a sort of distant, resigned look. Not surprisingly, perhaps, given that it was arguably the most religious day of the year, and there was but a clutch of us to hear his words on light and new beginnings and doubtless other pearls contained in his – to me – otherwise unintelligible sermon.

On one side of the church the first two rows were empty, on our side the front pew was similarly vacant. Those of us that took to the benches dotted the remainder of the 5 rows somewhat sparsely, while still others stood at the back. It was like a lecture hall of reluctant students.

Why those fellows stood at the back when there were plenty of seats I’m not sure – to make a quick getaway, perhaps? My suspicions appeared to be more than groundless when one of the stand-at-the-backers came round to take collection, looking as if he had slept in his denim outfit, got out of bed, and come straight to church without combing his wayward mop, shaving, or even splashing a dash of water on his face. I turned to watch him return to the back of the church, untucked shirt tail flapping against the creased back of his jeans, just to make sure he didn’t slip out the back door with my €1.50. He didn’t. (We met him a few days later at our English friends down the road – he sold them their house and is now doing all their (substantial) renovations for them. His dress clearly disguises a shrewd business brain.)

Anna and Pepe (neighbours from Bari), Maria and Umberto (neighbours that we picked olives with), and Orellia and Vitaliano (our immediate contadini neighbours) were all there, and it was a right social gathering after the comfortably brief service. We were novelties in the crowd, the stranieri (foreigners, outsiders) come to this little corner of the world, an entire universe to most of those present. I think it left an impression on them that we came, not only because of the brash entrance we made in our little Smart skidding noisily up the gravel road as everyone waited outside for the service to begin.

The church itself is beautiful, recently restored and reconsecrated, a sky-blue dome with stars and doves painting a fresh, friendly, and peaceful welcome.

But perhaps the thing I’ll remember most is when we were standing outside before the service on our own. All eyes were on the stranieri. Vitaliano separated himself from his cronies and came over, dressed smartly in pressed trousers, jacket and hat, to wish us happy Easter and greet V’ron – our English friend and landlady, and also Vitaliano’s neighbour – who had just arrived that morning.

For a man steeped in the traditions of the place, including a suspicion of all things foreign, this was a mighty big gesture. Small, old, and creaky he may be, but he certainly has a big stature in my eyes.

Hyena's burden

In the past, I’ve written about the canine family that lives across the street (see The canine sagas), scrounging out their lives as best they can, living off the scraps that Vitalliano gives them and the left-over favours they get from the neighbours. A few months ago, Hyena (the sly, black mother) was in heat, prompting curled lips, snarls and gnashing of teeth from Buster (the father) when Bilo from down the road suddenly started making an appearance and showing distinct interest. While the threats were vicious, no blood was spilled as the primal courtship unfurled, and in the end only one thing was clear – seed was distributed.

Then, a few weeks ago, Hyena suddenly disappeared for two days. When she reappeared, her teats were swollen, but no puppies. She seemed to be looking for them. She never found them. It seems as if the marchigiani method of birth control was once again practiced – the newborn puppies were drowned.

The poor thing – she lives a desperate, clinging life, she carries the burden of pregnancy … and then her maternal instincts are shattered by man’s delayed interference. They’re a nuisance they are, these vagrant animals, but at times like this how can you feel ill toward them?

The canine war between Buster and the Weimerana that I expected a few months ago didn’t materialize after all. It seems the Weimerana’s wandering habits were finally noticed by its owner, and so it was locked inside during the day. It yowled non-stop. So now it’s kept (with the German Shepherd) somewhere else during the week, and all is quiet on Regnano Street.

Or sort of. Buster took a knock, apparently the work of a passing vehicle, and he’s been hobbling around on three paws, his left hind leg taking no weight at all. It doesn’t seem to be getting better, and while he seems capable of hurrying when he needs to, he’s slowing down in general. There’s a sad look in his eyes – I don’t know if I’m just imputing it, or if he’s taken on a more burdensome gait lately. I guess now we’ll see how tough he is. In his favour, it’s getting warmer, and so maybe this is just his autumn rather than his winter.

As for Hyena, I don't think she'll ever shed the empty sadness that her eyes reflect.

A lazy amble through the heart of Tuscany

I don't know whether this is still a honeymoon feeling or if it will last, but I'm still amazed at our ability to take trips like the one described here. "Let's take a drive through Tuscany next week," is all it takes. OK, it's not quite that simple, but it's as close as dammit. And for anyone that finds themselves in Florence or Siena, it's a very satisfying way to spend an easy day discovering the wine and landscape of the heart of Tuscany. For John (my South African friend) and me, it satisfied all the quintessential prerequisites – scenic, sedate, and scrumptious.

Winding our way south from Florence, the SS222/SR222 took us through the heart of the Chianti region and the centers of Strada, Greve, and Panzano (all referred to as “in Chianti”, just in case you were wondering). Tasting opportunities abound on this road, both at individual wineries as well as in the town cantinas. We threw a dart at the multitude of options and ended up at the delightful little village of Volpaia, which owes its existence to the vineyards that surround it . Consisting of a wine shop, café, two restaurants, and cooking school, the village produces some quality Chiantis, olive oil and honey, and commands sweeping views across the classic rolling hills. Reputed to be busy in season (Easter-October), we had it virtually to ourselves in late March.

Continuing south, our next destination was Montalcino, home of the highly regarded red wine, Brunello di Montalcino. Bypassing Siena, the most direct route is via SR2, but a wrong turn had us careening toward Grosseto on E78/SS223. This required crossing over on a number of backroads, ultimately approaching on a dirt road through a verdant forest with views into forever.

As if it were possible or necessary, Montalcino itself has even better views, with a 270° panorama from its bluff-like promontory jutting out into a sea of rolling waves of green. At its highest point, the 14th century fortress commands the best aspect, although we forewent the opportunity of climbing to its upmost ramparts in protest at the €3 fee, exorbitant in our minds given the already-generous price of the wine.

Cost aside, the Brunello di Montalcino – which has to be aged in oak barrels for at least 4 years to earn the title – and its “poor” cousin, Rosso di Montalcino, are delectable and worth paying the €10 tasting fee, with each one displaying its own distinct character. The 200-odd vineyards crammed into this small comune – 16km at its widest point – also produce Super Tuscans, which are up there with the Brunello but are classified differently because they break a few of the stringent rules along the way. Depending on the weight of your wallet, you can pay from €10 to over €100 for a bottle of this liquid ruby.

Lunch at the small L’Angolo, right in the center of town, was quite superb. We started (and climaxed) with a thick tomato-based vegetable soup, which smacked the sweet spot with an ecstatic “Thwop!” We followed with the strozzapretti (short, stubby pasta that translates literally as “priest strangler”) and frutti di bosco (fruit of the forest - mushrooms and the like), accompanied by a plate of over-roasted vegetables, fresh and local and coated in a light film of olive oil – extra virgin and cold-pressed, of course. A small carafe of the house white, an after-meal espresso, and we were ready for the afterlife.

By the time we had eaten and peeled out a few blue euros for the bottles of Rosso, it was already after 4pm, and time to head ... to Le Marche, as it turned out (3-4 hours away). But from Montalcino it's less than 2 hours back to Florence, and within 60 minutes of Siena. After such a day you'll arrive full of the pleasures of life, sated, spoiled, and smiling ...

Daily update parte sei

The season has changed. This time I can feel it, it's not the false spring we had a few weeks ago before getting blindsided by a sudden chill, rain, and snow in the mountains. No pullover necessary until the sun goes down, and no extra blankets on the bed. It's actually a relief in a house that doesn't welcome warmth as a daily visitor.

Our own house renovations move on at what seems a reasonable speed, although the end of June deadline to complete everything looks precarious. Quotes are due from plumbers and electricians, and we're deep in the mire of selecting bathroom, kitchen, window, door, and other fittings. It's all become suddenly daunting, and is beginning to consume our free and thinking time. These are good things, I imagine.

Relationship with the builder and architect are tenuous at best, although they seem to have accepted the fact that our tastes are not theirs, and our suggestions are now met with a begrudging resignation rather than the "Bruto!" (ugly) and "Costa doppio!" (it costs double) that we've become familiar with. It's tiring being persistent, but it's necessary, although the irony is not lost on me that I'm frequently confused about my role as client or servant. Our architect even asked us point blank whether he thought Italians were stupid, this in reaction to our request for a different heating system than the average Italian employs. Unfortunately I wasn't quick enough to retort: "No, but do you think we are?"

It is rather exciting, though, seeing things take shape. Grouting and detailing on the exterior walls is nearly complete, returning the house's appearance to its former brick-and-stone elegance.

It's also been a busy social time, with a trip to Florence to hook up with a South African friend, with whom I did a leisurely tour through the heart of Tuscany before returning to Marche for the weekend. And then it was Easter, needless to say a big event here. Regnano was replete with its part-time residents, including our English friends and landlords, and our Italian friends from Bari in Puglia, and so there was much catching up. We also attended a large Easter dinner courtesy of our Irish friends, who fed 23 in total with the traditional roast lamb - delicious. After several bottles of Marche's best wines, we - the Argentine chef, this South African and his son, and a number of Englishmen and Irishmen and their sons - ended up playing rugby on the stone patio to end off the festivities.

We did stop for a moment to consider the plight of thousands upon thousands of lambs who, in that first week of April, were literally led to the slaughter, all across Catholic Europe. Reminds me of turkeys at Thanksgiving in the US. The day before the Easter weekend I was driving home behind a pickup truck, which had in the back a dog, some farm tools, and a lamb. It (the lamb) looked at me curiously, with an angst bred no doubt (a) from being separated from its flock, and (b) from being subjected to this alien and frightening journey in the back of a strange vehicle. It's angst was clearly justified, and these were among the last thoughts of its brief life - that was indeed its death wagon.

Julius has undergone substantial change in the past month or two, and it seems as if he's matured a couple of years in that time. Don't know what happened, but we look on with bemused interest. His best friends are now all Italians, notwithstanding the availability of English-speaking children, and he numbers girls among them. I don't remember even considering girls as humans at age 11, let alone befriending them (but then again I grew up in a rather male-dominated, distorted environment). His feet are now rooted to this place, and he kicks and screams when we suggest weekend trips away. He's also been devouring the Lord of the Rings trilogy (the books) which arrived a few weeks ago, and he's on track to complete them all in the space of about 5 weeks - not bad for a pre-teen. As we suspected, Julius has established himself quicker than any of us, in spite of his reluctant beginnings.

Maria has also settled in well, and is the primary reason we have a lot of friends. She also has a new job, doing the same thing as before - importing cars from Germany. This time, though, she only has to travel to Tolentino, and her boss is actually our neighbour with the Weimerana (see the previous "Canine sagas" post). Surprisingly (to me), she actually enjoys the job, being the only person in the office, and is responsible for the entire process, from proposal to import. Could be a good experience to learn about importing things into Italy.

Maria's job has meant that I'm now Julius' taxi and house cook, two responsibilities that are somewhat eating into my own job (writing) aspirations. Oh well, I guess it's a load I have to bear. After all, it's not everyone that can wake up in the morning as I did a couple of weeks ago, get dressed, and say: "I think I'll go to Florence this morning."