You know you've arrived ...

Arguably the most singular announcement of your arrival in the Italian countryside is the Bee. Not just your common-or-garden lower-case bee, but one with a capital "B". Or "A" rather, since "bee" in Italian is "ape" (pronounced ah-pay), and here we're talking about the ubiquitous and quintessential Ape. Now the intent is not to heap disrespect on the magnificent worker that supplies us with that godly nectar, honey, but rather to profile an aspect of living in the rolling hills of central Italy.

First built in post-war Italy to help kick-start an economy populated by millions with meagre financial means, the little three-wheeler Ape with a small flatbed and cab has become a fixture of Italian life, and constitutes many a contadino's sole means of transport. Baby brother to its urban predecessor the Vespa (wasp), its buzz is a constant among the hills of rural Italy, its little motor whining up steep hills with the ardour and work ethic of its namesake insect cousin.

Not only does it serve the needs of the rural smallholder, it also gives a modicum of independence to the country's fourteen-year-olds, whose landmark birthday gives them the right to drive the 50cc version after having taken the test. And they take advantage - drive through any village out in the countryside of a summer evening, and there's a veritable hive of them congregated in the piazza, drivers and hangers-on buzzing around them in sociable amity.

Which brings me to my point: one certain fourteen-year-old recently took - and passed - the written driving test which enable him to drive one legally. And it just so happens that said youth - known as HRH to (one-time) regular readers of this blog - has one, acquired for a small sum about two months ago. A vintage 1976 model, it has now passed inspection, had a few things fixed up, and been insured, thus preparing itself for the independence onslaught that lays in store.

As HRH (and I) will attest, driving them is not the simple matter it seems at first blush. The absence of a fourth wheel gives cornering a whole new meaning, and their reputation for tipping over is well-founded. The severed side mirror - now sitting glass-less and forlorn on the steps in our house - bears testament to this proclivity, the result of a near-introduction to a tree that found itself in the way of a sharper-than-advisable turn on one of HRH's early learning forays. The downside of the misfortune has its corollary, however, in the added caution HRH now exercises when approaching turns.

Another learning experience has been the emergence of HRH's apparent inheritance of a trait that both his parents possess - an uncomfortable relationship with things mechanical. Unlike their more modern brethren, the older Apes do not have a starter button, but rather a stiff lever that one has to pull with some force to get it to sputter into life. Whether the Ape was in gear (as I maintain) or not when HRH tried to start it some 10 days ago is perhaps beside the point - he ripped it off its soldered base, leaving it waving somewhat uselessly in the stifling confines of the cab ... and therefore unstartable by mechanized means. Until we had it re-soldered - for which the generous solderer charged nothing - HRH was reduced to giving it running starts down hills in order to get it started for the jaunts he took around the roads of our rural paradise.

But that is all behind us now. Last night he provided his own transport to and fro the local festival, and this morning at 6:45 took off to catch a bus to the coast from a stop some 8km from our house. For the first time ever, we found ourselves in the luxurious situation of being able to slumber on, rather than performing the heretofore parental task of taking him to the bus. Early morning schooldays in the next school year paint an equally desirable scenario, leaving us with the sole task of getting him up and feeding him before launching him on his buzz off to catch the bus ... alone.

For all the advantages, however, there are also several other sides to the coin. The obvious one is the concern for his safety, and we will now be faced with the prospect of waiting up for his safe arrival home on those nights he decides to stay out late. But perhaps the bigger one is the start of a new phase of his and our lives. He now has the independence that he has for so long craved, giving him a new world to explore. While this in and of itself is not a bad thing - indeed, I look forward to observing his new experiences - it also means he will be taking a step away from us. And as any parent will know, this type of change is difficult to go through. From one perspective, I'm going to miss those drop-off and pick-up trips.

But if any event signals his sinking of roots into the earth here, getting an Ape is as profound as anything he's done before. Not that he isn't integrated - on the contrary, he's more integrated than his foreigner parents. Amongst his friends, he's the only one who passed the driving test, and is therefore the only one legally bopping around under his own steam, leaving him a step ahead of his peers on the Italian growth curve. Seeing his smile as he takes off up the driveway in his own vehicle tells its own story - methinks he's happy with the whole situation. I guess we'll now have to start saving for that Fiat Panda ...

When in the Italian countryside ...

Spring is probably my favourite season here - warm days, cool nights, green everywhere, wildflowers blooming, trips to the mountains, and a busy bustle on the streets. Things don't just grow in this time - they explode into life, bursting out of their slumber and smothering the landscape with their colour. It's a phenomenon.

Of course, this applies everywhere - out in the fields, up on the slopes ... and in our garden. We've arrived - by a sort of natural evolution - at a horses-for-courses division of labour: Maria does the artistic work, nurturing and helping things to grow, while I'm the destructive maintenance man, cutting the grass, cutting the trees, and gathering up the detritus for burning and stacking for next winter's fire.

So an arduous week of cutting back our garden jungle back in April was barely over before I had to start again, given the vigourous growth that the warmth and moisture contrived to foster. It's one of those tasks that induces sighs and prompts thoughts of other "necessary" tasks to divert from the pressing need to get out there. Eventually you realize that it can't be delayed any further, and so out you go ... only to discover that your trusty lawnmower or weed-eater/strimmer or some other machine is not as eager as you are (and that's saying something). All of which brings me to the point of this post ... buy Italian.

First of all, rule #1 for garden machines with engines - they will break down, and they will need to be fixed. Rule #1a (applies to rural Italy) - if it's not an Italian machine, they can't fix it. Italians tend to be a tad xenophobic, which could be interpreted as nationalistic when it comes to cars, clothes, household appliances ... and garden machines: they (almost) always buy Italian. Consequently, when one takes in the German mower or strimmer for repair, the response is invariably the same: "Where am I going to get the parts?" If said machine is Italian, however, parts are readily available, technicians know how they work, and often there's a replacement available while your machine is being fixed. Now I can't speak for the big cities, or even further north, so maybe this is just a regional rule.

The Germans are very proud of their workmanship, and so initially I didn't resist the inclination of my German wife to procure gadgets and gizmos on her fairly regular trips home. But now I know. Even German machines break down, and I'm getting a bit tired of having to coax neighbours' and friends' mowers and strimmers and such out of their clutches so that I can delay the inevitable overrunning of our property and our house from the green advance.

It's going to take diligence to keep this mantra in full sight, because Italy is not Europe's cheapest country - in fact, it's generally more expensive than its neighbours, in many cases by some distance. But I know that any temptation to buy German engineering at a cheaper price is false economy, pushes the limits of neighbourly friendship to a degree I'd rather not, and ultimately makes for more work than the initial substantial load. I put this new-found wisdom to work recently, buying a top-of-the-range strimmer - Italian, of course.

But it doesn't end there. Just buying Italian doesn't always cover all the bases. If you've got a go-to guy for fixing all these things, he's the guy you need to buy it from. Only then will the not-to-be-sneezed-at Italian proclivity for going the extra yard kick in. Hence we bought the strimmer from Roberto, who rewarded our final acceptance of the rule by giving us a nice discount off the substantial price.

So for those thinking of bringing your appliances over here when you move - without even starting on the different electrical requirements if you're coming from the US - unless you're absolutely positive that your fearless flamethrower will never, ever stutter and stumble, sell it. Buy a new one when you get here. It's taken me over two years to learn this valuable lesson, but I have now reached the point of integration where my automatic response - with unflinching conviction - to any who has bought a new watchamacallit, is this: "Is it Italian?"

Italy stops

There are several phenomena that tumble without effort into the category of "reality checks". From a purely individual experience point of view, heart attack, near-drowning, brain seizure, for example, would all typically qualify. From a shared experience perspective, one thinks naturally of tidal waves, war, ... and earthquakes. We just had one of the last-named here in central Italy, and - like all its brethren phenomena - it has left me checking my reality.

The first impetus to do so came in the middle of dreamtime just over a week ago, when a shaking bed bothered me awake. After looking to see if our new family acquisition, Zack the "well-built" ginger tabby, was the cause - he was nowhere to be found - Maria and I exchanged thoughts: "Was that an earth tremor?" I agreed without fully believing it.

After feeling five of the countless aftershocks - including one last night (April 14th) - I'm now believing. The ruins of L'Aquila and its neighbouring towns ... the 294 dead ... the 1000-plus injured ... the 40,000 homeless ... all make it dreadfully, thought-provokingly real.

In planetary terms, it was a mere shudder, a shiver up the backbone - in this case the spine of the Apennines, which run down the middle of central Italy. In geological terms, it was caused by friction between the African and Eurasian tectonic plates - Africa is supposedly marching north towards Europe at the rate of 2 cm a year (invoking all sorts of symbolic thoughts). In human terms, it makes us realize how powerless and unmighty we are when measured against the sheer raw dominance of the earth as it flexes itself (for us ignorants) in apparently random jerks.

So much for economic crises, so much for border disputes, so much for nuclear arms races ... if we felt every one of the 6-plus-magnitude earthquakes that occur somewhere in the world every three days - we miss most because they occur out at sea - these other human-instigated things might seem less worthy to expend valuable energy on. I, for one, found Easter Sunday's exhilarating breezes on the Apennines a little more invigorating than normal as they blew over the proliferating crocuses sticking their heads out of the recently snow-free soil to check out what spring's all about.

Naturally Abruzzo's earthquake conjured memories in our area of the similar-strength 1997 earthquake that destroyed the Basilica of Assisi in Umbria just over the mountains, causing significant damage here in Le Marche as well. In fact, back in 2006 for the first 3 months of Julius's school life in Colmurano just 4 km away, he went to classes in a prefabricated building while the reparations of the main school's damages from the quake were being completed. While much of this lengthy restoration period can be ascribed to the lethargic leviathan that is Italian bureaucracy, it does give a sense of how long it will take before the poor people of L'Aquila can return to their homes.

One upshot of the 1997 quake was the increased stringency of building regulations on earthquake damage containment. Our house, for example, had to be fitted with a steel collar before it could pass structural muster. And maybe that's why it just felt like the bed was shaking the other night and not the whole house.

However, after all's said and done and we're finished with our existential reflections and spiritual confirmations, it really is quite something to live through, an earthquake. I've experienced a few, including a fairly major one in Los Angeles some 20 years ago, and on each occasion I've never failed to be in awe of what's happening in the moment when the whole building starts shaking. Everything stops. If someone's nearby, you look them more directly in the eye than at virtually any other time, and make a connection in that instant that few other experiences can match. Emotions, thoughts, physical sensations collide in an instant to provide an experience that can never quite be adequately described in words. And you're left with the deepest of memories, the most profound of reflections which arise from those singular glances - sometimes between strangers - when you look directly into each other's soul ...

It's been a while...

I think I recognize this place, I was here about a month ago. But it seems like an awfully long time ago, during which rather a lot has taken place.

First there was Christmas, enjoyed with 3 other English and Italian families, and then the trip to a bitterly cold Germany for an enjoyable family time and social New Year's celebration. Even though Maria did most of the driving (not least because we went in her car), and it's entirely on 2/3-lane highways (i.e. it's not complicated driving), I must say it's a long 1,060 km journey up there and back - 12 hours each way, thanks to traffic buildup in a few places - and doing it 3 times a year as Maria did in 2008 would be daunting for me. But it's no surprise that she did, the option to be able to hop in a car at short notice to go and see her aging parents being one of the motivators to move here in the first place - not so easy when you're 3 expensive flights and an ocean away as we were in North Carolina.

Then - as it has been for the last 13 years and will always be the case - just a week after the seasonal festivities were eking their last (January 6th - Epiphany or La Befana in Italy - is a big holiday here), HRH's birthday was upon us (on January 8th). This year was different, though - he officially became a teenager, even though he's been practicing at it unofficially for some time. Pretty low key, all in all, despite the momentous milestone that it was. Even our ruse to take him out of school for the day in order to give him his first skiing experience was scuppered - it was a total white-out up at our local ski resort, Sassotetto, and we had to "resort" to sledding blind down the deserted ski slopes - visibility was less than 10m. (There are a couple of photos on my Facebook page of the new towering teenager.)

But these aren't the reasons for the delay in keeping this blog up to date. It's rather the fault of a new initiative I've started with an English friend here - a monthly magazine in English about life and events in our province, Macerata. With modest initial intentions, we started with an email transmission to a list we developed from our own contacts, and after two months it's grown organically by about 50%. Feedback has been positive, and we're now looking at approaching advertisers, and indeed have been approached by one or two already. So far so good.

But it takes an awful amount of time, hence my absence from this place. One of the most frustrating parts of it is dealing with the local municipalities (comuni), who we're fairly reliant upon for the events (festivals, music and dance performances, etc) that form a core part of the magazine's motivation. Our first edition had a rather inauspicious start, at least as far as Tolentino and Sarnano were concerned - we received Tolentino's listing of December events on the 12th (of December), and Sarnano's on the 16th! The magazine goes out on the first of the month, as it should do to be useful for the month in question. I must have made over a dozen calls to my contact in Tolentino, every one of which yielded a promise to get me the info "the next day", and two personal visits to my Sarnano contact produced that quintessential Italian gesture that I've now become so familiar with - the shrug of the shoulders.

But on we tread. And it feels good. Not having had a consistent, ongoing "job" for a while, and finding the adjustment from employed to self-employed to be a real "learning" experience, having monthly deadlines is actually rather refreshing.

Not to mention, of course, the fact that I'm in charge of the monthly wine column, which entails visits to all the wineries in the province ...

(If anyone's interested in receiving a copy of Macerata Monthly, send me an email at duncan@maceratamonthly.com. So far we're simply sending out a PDF copy by email. We'll probably post them online at some point in the future, but I'm not sure when. As I said, it's a modest beginning...)

Drifting a little off the subject

This is a slight – OK, significant – departure from the normal subject of these blogs, but after reading a few articles recently, there’s something inside that’s just compelling me to pass comment. I found the articles in question on the BBC web site – my primary source of news – under the Science category, an occasional destination for me when I see a headline that piques my natural affinity for things extraterrestrial.

You can read the articles in their entirety here:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7774287.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7660449.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7725584.stm

Now it’s worth pointing out that I have an innate fascination for things related to journeys into space and the search for other worlds “out there”, so my mind is probably more open than most when reports are subject to the personal credibility test. Even so, wandering through the corridors of the BBC’s space reports is like stepping into another world, and they’re always worth the visit. But these three reports took an extraterrestrial step just a little beyond my credibility threshold, and they left me with an overriding question – are they really serious?

The obvious answer is “Of course they are, these people dedicate their lives to their quest,” and I have to admire them for it. But just scanning through the names involved seems to indicate that it’s a kind of club – Shoskar, Gabriel Gatehouse, Oli Madgett, Charkin, McCaughrean … did they change their names when they chose their vocation, or did their professions choose them? I suspect that if I applied for a job at the Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence Institute, my application would be rejected when they got to “Name”.

Working in these fields also without doubt requires a mind that relishes the prospect of knotting itself into contorted, labyrinthine blobs on a daily basis. Just take the concept of a black hole, for instance. It’s defined as an object whose gravity is so great that nothing – including light – can escape them. Now I have an analytical mind, and like to think that I can occasionally get my head around complex concepts, but this one has my synapses firing off without reply into the very stratosphere where such dark cavities are “found”. Gravity … light … bedfellows … ?

They then go and compound the issue by telling me that the black hole they discovered in our galaxy is four million times heavier than our Sun, which itself – as we all know – weighs a mere two billion billion billion tons, or – more familiarly – 220 duodecillion pounds. Also that it’s 158 thousand, million, million miles from the Earth. Say what now? How heavy and how far? How do they know this, and can I check their calculations? What sort of scale did they use to weigh these things, and what kind of ruler to get the distance? Seems like they rounded off quite heavily there too, immediately raising my suspicions. At least if they’d put it in terms I could relate to – like how many elephants or how many trips to the grocery store, for instance – I might have been able to relate.

Not surprisingly, the observations were made with the Very Scientifically-Named Very Large Telescope – affectionately and curiously known as the “VLT” – in Chile. Apparently the study to find and define the new discovery took 16 years – quick work rate there, I must say, it would take me that long just to type those numbers into my computer. However, what I want to know is – how did they know to look for it? What if, after 16 years, they didn’t find anything – would they continue for another 16, and turn it into a generational thing? And after several generations of “studying” would they eventually be able to make a conclusion – “Nope, there’s no black hole there”? Would they then start looking for another black hole next door?

Thankfully, we don’t need to answer these questions, and we can comfortably move on to the next, particularly satisfying phase of every science study – coining new terms. I’m not sure if coming up with this one to describe the size of this black hole also took 16 years, but they can be confident they came up with a real doozy – “super-massive.” I kid you not. What are they going to call it if they find an even bigger one? Super-duper-massive? Incredibly-mind-bogglingly-huge? So-unbelievably-big-that-it-dwarfs-the-last-one-by-three-duodecillion-times?

Moving on and talking of competitiveness, it seems that the burgeoning social networking movement doesn’t want to be left behind. Either that or they’re on a serious membership drive – they (Bebo) sent out an electronic package to a planet just around the corner, some 20 light years away. According to the report: “Some 501 photos, drawings and text messages were transmitted on Thursday by a giant radio-telescope in Ukraine normally used to track asteroids.” Apparently the message "passed the Moon in 1.7 seconds, Mars in just four minutes and will leave our Solar System before breakfast tomorrow".

Now that’s all very well, but does this planet have PayPal so they can sign up? And do they have a reliable internet connection? After all, it’s only going to reach there in 2029, by which time all Bebo’s members would have solved Saturday night’s date problem, and even if they hadn’t, how could you be sure that the message’s recipients didn’t age badly?

One of the article’s more illuminating quotes suggests that we may not get a reply: “So if anybody's out there and they find that signal, they at least know it that, in the direction of that star system over there, there must be a planet with some pretty clever things on it.” If this quote is any indication of what’s in that electronic package, I suspect that the recipients might make the Very Disruptive Decision to go and colonize a planet a little further away.

One last thing puzzles me too. The target they chose was a planet called Gliese 581C – why? What was wrong with Gliese 581A and B? Or, for that matter, the exoplanet Fomalhaut b or the three that orbit the star HR 8799?

This last option is the subject of the third article, which raises some teasers of its own. First off, who gets to name stars and planets? For example, I wonder how the residents of Formalhout b would take to being named after a fallen angel and a gatekeeper in Italian witchcraft? And not even an A-grade one at that. At least I’d be able to counter their complaints by saying their name has a little more character than the inhabitants of the HR 8799 solar system can claim. After all, if hurricanes – which are a tad more transient than planets, even if they are full of character – get real names, why not stars? At first blush it appears that there are multiple planet- and star-naming committees, some drawing on their passion for folklore, others on their favourite chemical formula, and yet others opting for a dart-in-the-board method. While they’re at it, why not take suggestions, or name the planets after real people – Bart, or Yogi, or Joe, for instance.

One other thing that emerges from the third article is the apparent reversion in planetary science to terms we can relate to. “Super-massive” broke new ground that way. Now there’s “wobble”, which is what an exoplanet induces in its parent star. It would somehow give me a sense of comfort and confidence if I were selected for a manned space mission to search for life in a far-off solar system, knowing that its star had “wobbled” in the telescopes of astronomers some 11 billion miles away.

But I’m taking things out of context here, and the article clearly states that the “wobble” method is passé. Things have moved on since then, and with today’s technology, they’ve been able to detect that Formalhout b is “the coolest, lowest-mass object ever seen outside our own solar neighbourhood.” How about that as an advertisement – cool and low-mass, bound to fill up its social calendar in a heartbeat. Needless to say, personal visits would only be possible for those able to cover those less-than-precisely-calculated 11 billion miles within a reasonable time, not to mention access to a warm wardrobe. You’d also need to have faith in the assertion of the scientists that it is indeed the coolest and lowest-mass, and be sure that they had no ulterior motive in promoting it thus.

Perhaps the most revealing of indications comes from the concluding quote of the third article – astronomers indeed have a sense of humour, or at least a colourful way of expressing themselves to those of us who spend most of our time on terra firma. When reflecting on the fact that not just one, but three exoplanets have recently been detected, astrophysicist Mark McCaughrean had this to say: “It's like a London bus - you've been waiting for one for ages and suddenly four come along at once.”

And it wouldn’t surprise or concern me if sometime in the future they all had the last laugh at the expense of tongue-in-cheek people like me. After all, while Copernicus was encouraged to publish his heliocentric model – placing the sun at the center of our solar system – in the early 16^th century, he delayed it, perhaps for fear of the reaction to his claims. Even then, the heliocentric model had been around for over 2,000 years, first emerging in India in the 7^th century BC. And a contemporary of Aristarchus of Samos in the 3^rd century BC accused him of impiety for “putting the Earth in motion” in his own heliocentric model.

So who knows – maybe London bus number 6222 isn’t only going to King’s Court …

Olive picking

It's olive-picking time. November-December, generally. Last year's crop was poor thanks to the lack of rain. This year's is better due the late rains we got in September-October. Last year, our singular tree - buried as it was by others of different varieties around it - produced a total of four olives! This year it was full.

I've covered the mechanics of the process in a previous blog post (here), so won't go into it now. But a couple of things caught my attention this year, prompting this post.

First, I was struck by the tradition of it when I took my chain-saw for the umpteenth time to the local garden machinery repair man. (In our city days, I used to have a dry-cleaning guy; now I have a chain-saw man.) His father, an ever-present fixture at his workshop, hovers around seeking conversation at every opportunity. A few weeks ago he cornered me as soon as I walked in and asked me if we'd finished picking our olives. No clearance check to even see if we had any olive trees to begin with - he just assumed it. After all, why would you live out here if you didn't have any?

He then proceeded to tell me of all the mishaps he'd heard about - a 70-year-old that fell off his ladder to his death in Macerata, an 80-year-old that broke his arm in Loro Piceno, another anziano (senior citizen) who got badly scratched in a fall. Now this is a wide swath of territory that he's talking about, testimony to the enduring efficiency of the bush telegraph. And it's also a dangerous business too, one that's responsible for its fair share of population culling, it seems.

But more than all that it's a testament to the powerful nature of the cycles that still exist out here in the country. November - olive-picking time. No question, there is nothing else. It's porobably more prevalent and deep-rooted as a tradition for the elders than it is for the merely middle-aged, who see it more as a task than anything. So its gravity may be on the wane, leaving me thankful for the old guy who's genuinely interested in our lonely little olive tree.

Second, we're helping some other neighbours - Teresa and Franco - pick their trees this year. They're both in or near their seventies, and have just a daughter to help them with their task. And it's a big one - they have some 450 trees. That's a lot, when it takes a good twenty minutes to a half-hour to clear just one (moderately-fruited) tree.

Now you can't pick the olives when they're wet, and you can't pick in the dark either, so with the surfeit of precipitation we've had lately - combined with the early hour that the sun takes its leave these days - opportunities to clear those trees have been limited. Once the serious frost arrives, or the last appointment for delivery to the olive press comes and goes (for them it's December 15th), it's all over, and the olives will simply be left to rot on the trees.

That's a real shame in anyone's language, but to Teresa it's more like a tragedy. She's an avid biodynamic farmer - simply put, one who works closely with nature's innate cycles, properties, and spirit to nurture her charges - and so she really cares for her plants and their offspring (even if they're destined for the dinner table). And so these various situational aspects have conspired to add to their stress to get it all done.

Being biodynamic also precludes the use of mechanical devices - or at least automated ones - since they have the potential to bruise the olives and stress the trees. So it must all be done by hand. Luckily their trees are all of a stature that ladders are not required, and some of them are not laden with olives.

But 450 - that's a lot, and so we've been helping. I use the term "we" here more liberally than I should - I've been there three days now, Maria's been there probably more than ten. We're still shy of being two-thirds done, and judging by the speed and the weather, I'm not sure they'll all get harvested. Real pity.

On a crisp, clear early-winter's day, when the sun's shining and the effort eventually prompts the pullover to be discarded, it's a classic pastime. Zen comes immediately to mind - breathe, pick, clear the mind, feel the touch of the silvery-green leaves, the smooth skin of the olives, clear the mind, breathe, pick ... Not to mention the chance to exercise my spotty Italian - neither Teresa nor Franco speak English (Teresa speaks a little, but not really enough for a conversation).

And that's why I have to sign off now - to go and pay homage to this age-old tradition, to exercise my spotty Italian, to get my dose of Zen meditation for the day, and to help out some neighbours. Just another day in the Italian countryside.

Silvio and Barack

Not surprisingly, the euphoria emanating from the US on November 5th drifted across the Atlantic to Europe, permeating the atmosphere with an equivalent spirit of hope and promise. Perhaps equally unsurprisingly, one of the first - and arguably the most enthusiastic - of the European leaders to come out with a positive message of congratulations was French President Nicolas Sarkozy, who said: "At a time when we must face huge challenges together, your election has raised enormous hope in France, in Europe and beyond." Others followed - Gordon Brown referred to Obama as "inspirational," "energising," and "progressive," hailing his "vision for the future." Others such as Angela Merkel and Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Grigory Karasin were more circumspect, but they were generally positive, and they were all quick to comment.

All except Italy, that is. I kept waiting and searching for an official Italian reaction to the result. Nothing. Perhaps not surprising given the cronyism Berlusconi and Bush practiced. But really - for an event that captured the world's attention, when virtually everything else stood still, surely the Italian leadership could offer more than an awkward and deafening silence? Niente.

Until today. Berlusconi was in Russia this week, and in a press conference, he made his first public reference to the US elections. (At least it was the first that I've read.) And boy was it a clanger - he referred to Obama as "young, handsome, and tanned." Now I must confess that we can't for one moment say we're not used to Silvio's proclivity for back-handers, crudity, and chauvinism, but honestly, doesn't the man have just one classy cell in his decrepit body?

Needless to say, his opponents were quick to jump out in criticism, just as his supporters - at least the few mildly sensitive ones - were no doubt scuttling for the shadows. And what did our noble prime minister do? Called his critics "imbeciles", of course, claiming instead that it was "a great compliment." I haven't been able to canvass any of my neighbours on their reaction to his PR finery, but I can imagine that most will react much as they do, for example, to a foreigner's incomprehensible rantings about the Italian postal service - a shrug of the shoulders, interpretable thus: "That's Berlusconi, what else did you expect?"

Indeed. He's truly a law unto himself, and the product of a unique culture, full as it is of peculiarities and contradictions. Recently the man enacted a law that places members of certain offices (including his own, of course) above the law. In other words, all the corruption charges against him that lie wallowing in the glacial Italian courts are now irrelevant (or at least more irrelevant than they were, if that's possible). And by the time he's ousted from power, the statute of limitations will render those charges as valid as they are now.

I have to believe, though, that the "Obama effect" will have some effect on the youth of this country, and mobilize them into some degree of political awareness. But who knows, Berlusconi's term runs for another four-plus years, and that's a long time for political memory and consciousness to endure.

However, at a minimum everything points to Berlusconi losing his moniker as the US President's biggest pal. Hopefully that'll end up marginalizing him in the power corridors of Europe, and he'll finally be revealed as the fraud and crook that he is. I suspect, though, that this is all just wishful thinking - with Italy's anemic contribution to the Eurozone's faltering GDP, it's just not that important to the Germanies and the Britains and the Frances of this world: whoever the Italians want as their leader, let them have him, they've only got themselves to blame.

So here we, tingling in the afterglow of a historic global event, living in a country whose leader at best makes light of it, and at worst spews out barely-disguised racial insults. Meanwhile, the average Italian gets on with his or her life, struggling to make ends meet, ignoring him as they would an embarassing family member.

As for me, my lot doesn't really change much, I suppose, given my choice of challenge and discovery living in this country. But out here in the rolling hills of Le Marche, I'm thrilled to see the spirit of a nation rise up and bellow its undeniable wish for change. Each day now I feel I can get up with just a little more hope ... and the recognition that, along with millions of others, my vote did actually make a difference.

A transplant's dilemma

I'm confused. This is not an unusual occurrence, but this time it's unique - I'm not sure who I am.

It all stems from the decisions I make at the start of my day, and it all comes down to this - should it be a day of brawn, or a day of brains?

Indecisive as I am (I think), this is not the type of decision I've faced before, and as a result my indecisiveness is breaching new existential boundaries. In my old life, I used to get up and go to work - nice pressed clothes, sometimes a tie, and for the most part a corporate-type environment. Analyze, manage, liaise, plan. All pretty neat and compartmentalized.

Of course over the last couple of years prior to coming to Italy that existence took a slight turn in that I was working in the corporate environment three days a week, and freelance writing the other two. But still I was behind my desk at the computer, doing research, writing, and trying to find clients.

This last part of my life has followed me from the US to Italy, and while the change of location has indeed had a major impact - for example not being able to hop in the car and go and see my client, or even give them a call during my work hours - the essential elements of it remain within the realm of (my) known experience.

It's the other part that's thrown the spanner in the works, the cat amongst the pigeons, the clean finger-nails into the dirt. The wood's the most recent (and stark) example.

Since we heat our home and hot water using a fireplace - unlike others who use gas - we need to have a good stack of wood to do so. With prices running at around 13 euro per quintale (100 kg), and an annual need for around 40-50 quintale, any savings are eagerly sought. One of our neighbours, Giuliano, recently discovered a source selling high-quality oak for 8 euro a quintale. This is almost 40% below the going rate, and we jumped. Two trips later we had around 30 quintale lying on the ground ready to go into our brand spanking new wood-shed (which a friend and I built). Only we couldn't just load it, because it's in huge pieces. Pieces so large in fact, that I can barely lift them. Hence the price.

So I had to cut it up. Our bargain chain-saw - which according to the local chain-saw maintenance man is good for cutting the little twigs at the top of trees - has lived up to its price-quality promise and failed on several occasions. A unique screw, custom-made for the saw without which it can't operate, broke. I bought something vaguely similar and fashioned it according to my saw's need, and it now works better than the original.

But the screw's demise also signalled the demise of the chain, since it came off the rails when the screw broke and blunted several links so that they could no longer run in the guidebar's groove. New chain.

These time-consuming iterruptions didn't help overall progress, which itself is hardly racing ahead at break-neck speed. Chain-saw work, I'm finding, is actually hard work, not least when trying to saw through a three-foot-thick log with a chain-saw that doesn't reach through to the other side. My body's finding that there are muscles required that haven't been called on for a while, and their shock at being jolted into service has caused them to revolt after a long day's wood-cutting. Getting out of bed in the morning has, as a result, taken on a new significance, alerting my mind to the fact that I had so long taken it for granted. "No more" is the multi-layered message I'm getting loud and clear.

But the chain-saw's not all. In order to cut manageable longitudinal logs one has to employ a 7-kg long-handle hammer, with which one smashes cast-iron wedges into grooves one has cut into the top of the wood. Depending on the grain of the wood and the accuracy of the strike, the wood splits into nice wood-fire fodder. This effort, now in it's third full day and only halfway through the load, makes the chainsaw cutting seem like a gentle flexing of a well-used muscle. (Taking a pound - OK, a gram - of flesh out of one's finger on day one has the unsurprising consequence of not speeding things up either.)

Two consecutive days of this task are not possible to a white-collar, keyboard-centric professional like me. But the wood-pile still sits there, waiting to be hacked up. In my white-collar way, I have sequenced the chopping and stacking to leave the oldest (i.e. driest and best-burning) wood on the top of the pile. Which means the stuff we need first is yet to be done. And now the rain is reportedly on the way. Not to mention the cold. In other words, I have to get it done - soon. Only my body's saying "Not today, please" while my mind's saying "Wood pile waiting to be cut, wood pile waiting to be cut."

Hence my confusion. Even as I type this - very gingerly thanks to my flesh-diminshed right index finger - I'm reminded of my quandary. My brain votes daily for a brawny session, while my body pleads for a cerebral journey into (something like) the impact of the Romans on today's world.

Of course I could simply gloss over the dilemma with the recognition that it's all very romantic - chopping wood in the Italian countryside so that we can heat our house in a natural, sort-of traditional way. Watching Maria pick the tomatos from one of our plants helps to enhance the feeling. And in fact, while I'm in the thick of the task, I must confess to a sort of wood-chopping, masculine enjoyment. It's actually a zen-like thing, as are most of the jobs one has to do in rural Italy. Which, after all, is where we'd like to be, us men, even if we don't readily know it - being brawny in the bliss of a "zenful" sweat.

It's just that morning feeling as I creak out of bed, asking the question whose answer will ultimately define our existence here: "Who am I today?"

Amalfi, Cilento, and a Greek surprise

There’s something about travelling on your own. Especially when it’s somewhere you’ve never been before, even more so when you know little about it.

That’s why my breath was taken away when I saw the massive columns glowing golden in the morning sunlight, a glorious surprise on the flat, uninteresting plains some 90 km south of Naples. Paestum is a gem, regardless of your expectations. Populated by the Greeks around 650 BC, it contains some of the best-preserved Greek temples in the world, and boy are they impressive. The fact that they’re still standing, pretty much intact, some 2,500 years after being built tells something of their amazing construction. But what strikes you most is their size – they’re absolutely massive, and built with a precision, grace, and scale that I’m doubtful could be produced today.

Called Poseidonia until the Roman takeover of 273 BC, the site not only reveals layers of history that cover centuries and different cultures, it also conjures visions of the spiritual world that its citizens lived in. Three main temples dominate the place, dedicated to two goddesses – two to Hera (the goddess of fertility and motherhood – Juno in the Roman world), one to Athena (goddess of wisdom and the arts – Minerva to the Romans).

The town was abandoned when deforestation silted up the rivers nearby, turning the area into a malaria-ridden marsh. Ironically, it was the marshland that ultimately saved the buildings from ransacking and destruction. I’ve been to the Parthenon in Athens, and seen the Pantheon and the Coliseum in Rome, but I have to say nothing prepared me for the grandeur of Paestum – for me they blew the other legendary sites away. Maybe it was my lack of expectation, or maybe not …

Paestum is on the northern end of the Cilento National Park, second largest in Italy. Combining stretches of rugged coastline with expanses of sandy beaches, it’s not as dramatic as the Amalfi Coast further north, but in many ways it offers more. There are a lot more places to swim, for example. And inland the Alburni Mountains rise rapidly, creating an entirely different atmosphere and environment, where cool forests offer misty vistas and miles of hiking trails. In fact, it’s been declared a Unesco Biosphere Reserve, giving the area the protection it needs to retain (at least some of) its distinctive character.

Tough job, though, in Italy – on the drive up to the sanctuary on the top of Mount Gelbison, trash littered the way up, just as it does on the steep coastal cliffsides. “National park” in Italy means something a little different from other places in the world – people carry on their normal lives here, living in their towns, farming their land, building their industry, disposing of their waste ... I know from our own area back in Marche that the parks protect certain fauna and flora, so I assume that this is how they achieve some sort of protective preservation. But like so many things in Italy, there’s a contradiction – people throw their rubbish out of the car window, but they won’t pick a flower because its protected …

I stayed two nights in Cilento – one at an inland agriturismo, where I enjoyed a hearty meat-based dinner, and one on the coast at a young couple’s B&B. In many ways it’s comparable with our own mountain-hill-coast combination in Marche, but it’s different in that the mountains are far closer to the sea in Cilento, and it’s coastline overall is more rugged, the Marche’s Conero section of the Adriatic coast being the only exception. Indeed, driving through the cool, green countryside inland reminded me of my own home further east. Had it been warmer, the beaches might have been more inviting, although finding the best spots proved frustrating and fruitless, with roads to Punto Licosa declaring “Private” and preventing me from satiating my curiosity and desire for exploration. But there’ll be a next time, there’s still lots to explore …

Before the Paestum and Cilento experience, I drove the renowned Amalfi coast, my first time. It is indeed dramatic and not for the faint-of-heart, but I must confess our “Sorrento squeeze” experience topped it for sweat-on-the-brow. Stopped in to look at the famed Amalfi cathedral, a Byzantine work of art supposedly housing the remains of St. Andrew, the town’s patron saint. Tourists everywhere, as one would expect, but I must say it’s really an appealing little town, nestled into the crook of a steep mountain valley as it descends to the sea. Left there with a rahter unwanted souvenir - a 36 euro parking ticket.

The drive through Salerno down to Agropoli at the northern edge of Cilento, however, was nothing special, with the long stretch of coastline offering a sort of second-class oceanside experience – run-down resorts, dusty towns, and a rather bland stretch of beach which didn’t really appeal despite its lengthy span. But I suppose one has to have the average in order to appreciate the special, and it served to speed up my arrival in Cilento, for which I’m unquestionably grateful.

Pictures to follow.

A milestone event (in pictures)

A (belated) pictorial companion to the verbal version here. Thanks to Anna Finn for all photos save the last.

A brown grotto, a perfect beach, and the Sorrento squeeze

If you go to Capri (pronounced CAH-pree as all those in the know are well aware), the Blue Grotto is likely to be on your itinerary. Go in the morning, when the lighting's just right, and the row-boats are there to take you inside.

We went in the afternoon - no boats. They normally leave just after lunch, since the grotto doesn't have the same appeal at that time of day. But today was different - they weren't there because the tidal swell apparently made it too dangerous. So we walked down the iron steps to look at a small bland opening in the side of a cliff - the entrance to the grotto. Having resigned myself to not seeing it, the sight of a young guy and his girlfriend diving into the water from a visiting boat and swimming into the cave didn't immediately flick a switch in me, but it did in John, and quick as a flash he was in. Carl and I followed, apprehensive but thankful for John's gusto.

It wasn't dangerous, and even though the lighting wasn't optimal, it was impressive, a luminescent glow under the water giving it a surreal feel. When we got out, we saw the sign absolutely forbidding swimming nailed to the rock face right above where we'd dived in.

Carl - a true gentleman (mostly) who's not only modest but is always thinking of the comfort of others - asked for my towel to wrap around himself so he could change modestly into his dry clothes. Since the place was deserted, I encouraged him to simply drop his swimming trunks and change right there. He did. That's when the boat full of sightseers came around the corner, with Carl bent over showing them his least romantic aspect. With smiles beaming from the passengers, Carl's frantic efforts to pull up his drawers served only to get his knickers in a knot (sorry). The only competition to Carl's strangled cries of embarrassment were the howls coming from John and me. (As mutual friends will attest, if there's one person you'd prefer to not have around during an embarrassing moment - out of the knowledge that it would never, ever be forgotten - it's John.)

For reasons that escape me, the phenomenon has since been officially renamed "the brown grotto."

As Carl said after our trip, our get-together is etched into his memory. It certainly is in ours, no doubt as it is for a number of tourists who decided to take a boat trip around the island.

Capri was one of the destinations of a 4-day trip that the three of us took to celebrate our 50th year. As I said in an earlier blog entry (here), a 50th birthday only happens once. But there's no reason you can't celebrate it several times. And there's absolutely no reason why one of those celebrations can't be a several-day affair in a cool place like Italy.

At least that's what a bunch of (aging) boys from a Durban North high school (South Africa) decided some nine months ago. My preference for having the celebration in Italy earned me the job of leading the organization effort - destination, accommodation, etc. Since "coast" and "action" led the field in terms of priority, we eventually settled on Sorrento, my first choice of Matera being a little too far from a major airport to be worthwhile for those coming from far and staying just a few days. The agreed date was the end of September, after the main summer season.

An initially enthusiastic group of about a dozen started seeing casualties in about April. Numbers dwindled steadily for all manner of reasons, and with just 3 remaining at the end of August, it looked doomed ... until the original instigator of the whole event (Carl) said: "I'm still in, who else is?" Another (John) re-joined the fray, while the timing unfortunately eliminated a third (Kevin). We were on.

Having driven the pleasant 6-hour journey from home in the morning of the 25th and checked into the hotel, I duly left in the evening to go and pick up Carl & John at what I thought would be an airport apt to a major urban center such as Naples. I was wrong. It took at least 45 minutes to find the sucker, Naples' road signs to Capodichino acting as an apparent deterrent to anyone with the odd idea of actually going there. Once I found it - dogged persistence being the only reason I did - it was a shambles, construction rendering it a site of pure Italian chaos, with cars parked at Picasso-like angles in places that you'd never imagine a car could go. Lucky their plane was several hours late, and the airport is the same size of that in Podunk, Idaho.

Sorrento itself, like Capri and Pompeii where we spent our first afternoon, is a quintessential tourist place, with a character moulded by the hordes of Englishmen, Americans, Germans, and French - not to mention the odd South African - that jam its streets, piazze, and mostly cater-to-the-tourist restaurants. Until late night, that is, when the young beautiful people of (probably) Naples and the surrounding areas gravitate to its main piazza. Perfect spot for a trio of 50-year-olds to "observe" the passing parade. (Sorry, one 50-year-old and two near-50-year-olds.) Bar Fauna took a good few euros from us on their overpriced beers and grappas as we watched the Italian proclivity for social interaction unfold. Since the Italians are not big drinkers, who needs to spend money at a bar or pay to get into a club when all you want to do is talk? Just as it's been for a thousand years and more, the piazza is the perfect place for hooking up, and all three of us are very glad that it is.

Our other memorable destination, unfortunately without an embarrassing tale to hang on it, was the beach at Marina del Cantone on the inside of the Sorrento peninsula. Cupped by a curving mountain ridge, its pebbled beach was the perfect spot to recline and relax with a few beers and a few swims to clear the head from the night before. With mostly Italian families wandering the beach (mostly in jeans and long-sleeved shirts), the ideal setting sparked thoughts of another reunion with families in the Torre Turbolo (http://www.torreturbolo.com) just a short walk away. Maybe ...

One last quintessential Italian experience deserves mention. As we attempted to drive out of Sorrento on the Sunday morning, my penchant for finding "quick" backstreet routes found us in a long alley that seemed to have been built hundreds of years ago. In other words, it was narrow. Very narrow. So narrow, in fact, that we couldn't get through it with my side mirrors folded out. When we came to a corner - more of a kink in the road, actually - it took a few inch-long back-and-forward maneuvers to get through it. "How am I doing on that side John?" typically earned a response that I should move more to my side, where my elbow was scraping the side walls. Carl's picturing the arrival of an oncoming car didn't help. Our sparse conversation in thin voices confirmed the reason for my white knuckles on the steering wheel, and I had visions of having to go for help to haul us out of there ... except that none of us could actually get out of the car. Eventually, the alley emptied us out on to another sidestreet, one where I could actually flip out my side mirrors - it felt like a six-lane highway. The smell of a burning clutch filled the car and our trailing path as an acrid legacy. The guy working in his garage gave us a bemused, puzzled smile as we went by, no doubt wondering how the hell we'd ended up there. Somehow, we made it without a single scratch, but the sweat pouring off my brow told a different story. The "Sorrento squeeze", I call it.

So now it's come and gone. All the hours I spent in doing my research for it are done, and - as a major event in my life - in a way I'm just a little sad that it's now past, perhaps because of the lengthy months of anticipation. Not having seen Carl for 26 years, and only seeing John every 5 or so, we slotted in as a threesome as if we'd been travelling together for ages. In retrospect, it couldn't have been plotted any better, I just wish it could have lasted a little longer.

Carl and John left on the Monday morning to head back to their respective homes in Cape Town and Jersey. For my part, I headed down the Amalfi Coast and then further south, on another journey of discovery. But that's the subject of another tale ...

[For a few pictures of our Sorrento soiree, go here: http://tinyurl.com/424qh4]

A Tuscan grape harvest

Merlot is not a wine grape that one would typically associate with Italy. More often than not you'll run into its better-known cousins such as Sangiovese, Montepulciano, and Barbera, but in recent decades Merlot has been making inroads, often as one of the varietals blended with Tuscany's renowned Chiantis.

Some people, however, have a particular penchant for Merlot, and have dedicated themselves to it exclusively. Mario Madiai is one of those people. On his country home just outside Livorno, he produces about 1,000 bottles of his own Merlot every year. He picks his grapes - as do most - when the sugar content reaches a certain level. This year it was September 11th. We were lucky enough to be there to help him pick a few of them.

Mario is an artist of some renown. His specialty is red roses. He hand-paints the labels for each bottle of his annual harvest. He also happens to be the father-in-law of my Indian friend Yogesh from my Columbus days. And that's how we were lucky enough to take part in this quintessential Italian tradition.

I'll have to admit that the mention of the "harvest lunch" was perhaps one of the most appealing aspects of it all beforehand - visions of a large home-made feast piled high on the table with a large boisterous group quaffing good local vintages under an autumn Tuscan sky. It was like that ... only better.

Picking grapes was of course fun and a little sapping given that it was a boiling hot day. (In fact, such was the state of the dryness that the Madiai's well dried up, leaving the house without water (twice), an event that would have thrown most people into a state of panic on such a day. Not here though - it didn't take long before one of the local neighbours was chugging along the dirt road to the farm with a large tank of water on his tractor's trailer.)

And the "harvest lunch" didn't only live up to expectations - it exceeded it. Francesca's mother, Enrica, put so much into it that it couldn't have been much fun for her, given the scope and demands of such an undertaking. Under the spreading pinyon tree with the classic rolling hills of Tuscany stretching off into the distance, plate after plate of home-made antipasti, pasta, and meat cooked in the brick oven came rolling out to a table of companionship, relaxation, and mirth.

These were all wonderful things, and worth the trip. But what made it extra-special were - not surprisingly - the people. Catching up with Yogesh, and meeting his wife and children for the first time was just as one hopes such events to be - warm and interactive. Yogi's friendly brother and wife added further colour to the reunion. Francesca's family - from mother and father to sisters and boyfriends - welcomed us like good friends, opening up their hearts and homes with genuine warmth and ease. And our fellow grape-pickers were chirpy, playful, and interested in us. I'm sure such warmth exists all around the world in its own way, but there's something very distinctive about the Italian personality and their open arms and their welcoming smiles.

Then there's the house, a huge stone beauty in the middle of an expansive open area with gentle hills surrounding it, and a calm, at-home feel about it. It took Mario and Enrica 3 years to renovate it, taking meticulous care to give it its original character - simple, strong, stylish, serene. Maria fell in love with it.

As one would expect, a trip to a wine harvest involves a certain amount of contact - one way or another - with wine. In this respect, we were doubly blessed. Both Mario and his daughter's sommelier boyfriend, Massimo, know their wines. I say this in a way of deliberate understatment - they know their wines in a way that makes them unique among my circle of friends and acquaintances. On the night before the harvest, Massimo treated our palates to the most mouth-watering, distinctive, cant-have-enough white wine experience of my life. Just when we were getting over the raptures of one wine, believing we'd reached the end of the quality road, he ordered another one which matched it and took us charging off down another vinous lane of ecstacy. All of them were Italian, most of them from the north. On the evening of the wine harvest, we lazed around the table savoring the renowned quality of a few Californian Zinfandels. Once again - just as my humble palate was heaving itself up from another ecstatic collapse, Mario and Massimo delivered their verdicts: OK, not great, good ... Oh that my life could count such sensual experience as "the norm" ...

These memories will live with us for a long time - they're etched in there for good. We're still talking about the trip, and how lucky we are to have had the opportunity. After all, experiences like this one and the kind of people we met are precisely why we came to this country.

[For a pictorial rendition of the trip, go here: http://tinyurl.com/47pqng]

A milestone event (in words)

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)

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.

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.