Time in Purgatorio

Every year, we eat at Purgatorio, a lakeside restaurant in Capodimonte, about 40 minutes away. It’s magical. We usually do the Sunday afternoon 2:00 seating (There’s a pm seating, too.), and it lasts several hours. Some guests arrive via boat, and many bring their dogs. Italians love their dogs.

The menu is not huge, which we’re fine with. Too many choices is completely unnecessary. We always get corregone, the fish from the lake—Lake Bolsena, a huge and very deep volcanic lake with black sand. The fish is pretty bony and comes with its head still on, but it’s GREAT. And the bones keep me from inhaling the meal, which I tend to do. :) There are probably 15 tables, all full on this particular day, of families, from babies to the very elderly. We’re all under a tent (with no sides), and several stray cats roam around us, looking for discarded fish bones. 

The lunch menu goes something like this:  two antipasti, one with frutti di mare (seafood), and the other more typical—paté and meats. A pasta course—alla vongole (clams), pesto, ragu, etc.) Finally, a simple salad or maybe grilled vegetables. 

The Faculty.

The two Irish-American (but very German-looking) profs.

Liters of wine (red and white) and water (with and without gas) litter the table by the time we’re sated. Some of the other guests have gone for a swim, while others lounge around on the grassy area or play with their dogs.

Purgatorio. Its name belies its character because nothing about this experience can be even remotely associated with punishment.

See Assisi

Our nephew recently visited Assisi and sings its praises. That's pretty much all it takes for us to put a new destination on our agenda, as long as it's driving distance. And Assisi is just under two hours away. Kelly joined us, which is always fun.

St. Francis' birthplace, Assisi has a big church where the Saint is buried. St. Francis is my favorite saint, or maybe tied for first with St. Anthony. I think they are the only two I really know. St. Anthony finds lost things (almost always!) and St. Francis loved animals, and/or birds. I have a little statue of him in my garden.  NOT ONE St. Francis statuary in the gift shops of Assisi! Maybe we Americans have commercialized the guy, but seriously, the Italians don't exact shy away from capitalizing on their culture. I'll have to look into this.

Assisi is a beautiful and pristine little town. The stone here is much lighter (or maybe just cleaner?) than that in Viterbo, so it makes for an almost blindingly white look. We did a ton of walking because there's a fortress with a tower that's worth climbing. To get to it you have to go up a bunch of spiral staircases and then down a long tunnel. Perfectly straight and very narrow. When Kelly was up ahead her voice was muffled as if she were talking into a towel. It was a bizarre sensation. Signs said not to do this if you suffer from vertigo or claustrophobia. The view was fine. I'm not into views. Never have been.

The Papal Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi

Can you spot the legs?

The four-legged but three-footed kitty.

It's wedding season in wedding country, so if it's Saturday in July, it's wedding day. I can never resist being a paparazzi and they seem to preen for us all.

Another bride & groom!

As is our custom, we let Fred (and Kelly today) take off for a couple of hours and make a picture, while the boys and I camp out at a café and read, write and play on our phones. I also take off with my camera and explore a little, more so now that I have no worries about leaving them alone.

When Kelly and Fred came back, we did what we always do on our way home from a day trip: stop for a visit in a new town on the way back, find a bar and have a drink in the Centro (historic town center), then make another stop at a town closer to home for dinner. This time it was a drink in Spello, a town we had never heard of. Charming and quiet. Bello Spello I call it :)

And dinner was in Narni, one of our favorites spots to eat. Only in Italy on the edge of a hill town would I find it acceptable to be the only diners at a restaurant. At home it's sort of a warning sign, but here it just means you're the guest tonight. I keep all the restaurant phone numbers in my phone so we're able to make a reservation (not that it's needed!) so these ladies were expecting us. There's no menu. One of the women throws out a few ideas and her partner cooks it up!  We all had pasta—some of us a cingiale (wild boar) dish, and others a sausage, gnocchi and bean dish. All delicious, of course. Dessert was over the top.

Beware of old men on bikes.

Forty minutes later (now midnight!) we arrived back in Viterbo having marked yet another town on our Italy map as having seen. See Assisi for yourself!

Arsenic and Old Water

Judy, the program's founder, who has been coming to Italy since she was a teenager, told us this year not to drink the water. That it has arsenic in it. Our way of staying hydrated has always been to carry around a plastic water bottle and fill it up any time we see a water spout. They have these things all over. It's always cold and clean. Or clear anyway. I, frankly, ignored the warnings because there are always things to ignore, like you can't rent a car without an international driver's license.  For years I made the trip to AAA to buy one and have never been asked to show it. All set with that little exercise.

But when Owen experienced excruciating stomach pains, and alternating hot and cold sweats, I did some Googling about arsenic. Sure enough, in February of 2013, the country put a ban on drinking water from public fountains in certain areas of Italy where there is high volcanic ash content (including arsenic). The areas most effected are those north of Italy, primarily Viterbo. Us. Symptoms  of arsenic poisoning from water are all things Owen experienced, except death (in rare cases, thank God). A few hours later, Henry was stricken, too. So we buy our drinking water now... Still living on the edge using tap for tea and coffee (also banned), but so far no issues with that.

You can buy water (really cheap!) in a six-pack of double liters. They're particularly big and unwieldy. The garlic head is there for perspective.

Laundry Day

Every day really could be laundry day, the way we run these clothes into the ground, but I do a dark and a light every few days. The challenge in the past has been learning to use the machine. (There are no dryers, so it’s just one machine to learn.) The people we rent from always try to explain it, but there’s still a fair amount of winging it. They run famously long cycles. Once for 17 hours! And you can’t open the door mid-cycle so that was a bummer. Might’ve been my fault.

I start with buying what looks like detergent. I like this box because it most looks like it washes clothes rather than dishes or bodies. And it looks very clean. 

I thought I only intuited it was for clothes, but there, on the mid-right, is a picture of a sparkling white shirt.

This is what the machine looks like. Not much is familiar, right? There are dials, but you don’t turn them yourself. They move along with the cycle. You just press buttons. 

First, you make sure it’s plugged in and the water is turned on. You would never unplug or shut off the water if you lived here, I don’t think. I know I’ll be leaving it all on for the month.

Next, I put the detergent in. There are these three sections. It seems not to matter which one you use. I picked the one on the left because it looked most encrusted with residue from previous users. Put in any amount. Every single time I fill it, and we're talking over 100 times at this point, I think of I Love Lucy and envision coming home to an apartment full of suds. Hasn't happened yet!

Someone once told me 60° was a good temperature. One wrong move here and you could literally boil your clothes. They come home destroyed as it is, but boiling would surely hasten their demise.

It's best to do washes that are small because the cavity is small. Press the button on the far right that is marked GO and PAUSE (I think) and you're off and running. This one takes about two hours. 

Then you set up your foldable drying rack on the balcony. It’s really helpful to have a balcony, by the way. When we don’t, we have to hang out a window and crank a line on a pulley from our house to another house across the street. It’s a killer on your back.

There’s an art to hanging laundry to dry. I am self taught. But I think it’s an inherited memory from my predecessors. 

First, line up your pins.

Locked & Loaded

Shirts are best hung on hangers because it avoids the whole pointy shoulder problem. 

Shorts and pants and boxers are best hung upside down because you want the thickest part (the waistbands) to get the most air and not be bunched up under the clothespin.

Always conserve pins by sharing early on because you can never have enough as your near the end. For instance, the inseams of the pants can share one, and the right leg of one pair can share the pin of the left leg of another.

I hang t-shirts upside down (to avoid the pointy shoulders). It’s also important never to fold over the edges. For two reasons: that part won’t dry as quickly and it will retain that fold forever. You’ll walk around with the hem of your t-shirt perpendicular to your body and look ridiculous.

I keep socks together for no good reason but neurosis. And I bunch my underwear up as one clump—for privacy and because they dry really quickly anyway, so the thickness of the bunch is not a problem.

Proof that dryers aren't always to blame for eating socks.

This wash will be dry by the time the next one is hung. Always try to hang in the middle of the day and in the sun, and not under any overhang where pigeons roost. And try never to drop a wet item on the balcony floor because you will need to wash it again. If you drop a pin down to the street level, someone will pick it up at some point and clip it to a fence or rail for you. If they’re walking by when it happens, sometimes they try and toss it up to you. This is always a hoot. It has to be the right kind of person, though. Most Italians are very blasé about everything that, to us, is fascinating.  Like hanging laundry.

Mission Accomplished

Days One & Two, 2014

Typically, Day One is stressful. We're jet-lagged, seeing our new home for the first time, hungry and unbathed. We haven't gotten our car yet so we haven't done a big shop yet, nor have we retrieved our big boxes of household things we store here. Household things that make us feel less like we're camping and more like we're living.

This year, Day One was a breeze. Our apartment is one we stayed in two years ago. Big, clean, centrally located, nice neighbors, and above a wine store to boot. Day Two, however, was a different story. I went to get the car at Hertz, a new place for us because the EuropeCar office we've been going to for years seemed to have closed (according to the internet in the spring when I tried to book). I'd heard good things about Hertz.... their rates and their location. I knew it was near the train station, so I walked there and asked. The train station guy was baffled. Never heard of it. So I walked to a nearby hotel where the concierge was also baffled. After finding it on Google Maps, he told me it's way too far to walk. So I took a cab. Unheard of for us because there's nowhere we can't walk that we ever need to get to. Ten euros (three miles) later... that's five bucks a mile... I arrived. I handed them my reservation (for a four-door Punto, like a Ford Fiesta, only a Fiat), all pre-paid (to the tune of $1800, $500 of which will be returned to me if I don't damage the car). She pointed to a CinqueCento and asked if that would be okay. It's a two-door, next size up from a Smart Car. Not happening for a month of travel for a family of four, two full days of which will be driving ten hours to and from France. I told her my reservation was for a Punto and I had two big boys, and a husband to fit. She said that's all they have. No sign of ever having anything bigger. Apparently the only reason one makes a reservation is in order to be able to pay two months in advance for whatever wheels they have on hand when you show up. We went back and forth about other ideas... Can I have a full refund? (But where would that leave me? Maybe EuropeCar--which is alive and well, by the way, and two blocks away from our apartment--would be out of cars. Maybe other Hertz offices have Puntos. I sat behind the desk with the office workers and tried communicating via Google translate. I can get by with my Italian for ordinary things, but for discussions about waivers and  "paid in full," I needed help. Turns out there is a Punto--two, actually. One in Orvieto and one in Civitacecchia. Both an hour away. They suggested I take a train to GET IT. I was so stunned that it was my job to retrieve my $1800 car, that it took me another 20 minutes to think of the best solution:  I take the CinqueCento, drive up to Orvieto, get the Punto and return it on July 30 to THIS office. Deal. And so that's what I did. She told me to be sure and top off the gas tank before switching cars. I did not and was not asked to do so in Orvieto. Before I left, I logged on to Google Maps to locate the Orvieto office, then took photos of the computer with my phone so Henry or Owen could co-pilot. We've been to Orvieto enough to know the general area. And thankfully, this whole process went incredibly smoothly. No issues with the toll booth eating my credit card, no issues with their not expecting me at the Hertz office, no issues with having to pay more for what is now a far bigger car than a Punto. Yeah, it's not a Punto...it's an almost SUV-like Fiat... dwarfing us all, who are used to seeing each other in the Mini Cooper at home. Glancing into the back seat I couldn't even see a trace of Owen. THAT'S how big it is. Parking isn't as easy as it usually is, but it will be nice to have for the drive to France later in the month.

Before & After Cars

Back in Viterbo, we rushed to do the first big shop, but first to get SIM cards and internet keys for phones, iPads, laptops... This took a while, but went smoothly. So our shop was a medium shop instead of a big one since we had to meet someone where our boxes are stored. When we got there we found out the time had changed. Not for another hour. So home we went. We shout up to Fred when we pulled up since we can't park where we live, but we can unload. Fred came down and helped, after which he and I went  back to the boxes place because it's not worth finding a place to park for 45 minutes, coming back to the apartment, then going back for the car. So we brought stuff to read. When the guy arrived to get our boxes, he couldn't find, on his massive wall of keys to every apartment in this building, the key to the room where our boxes are. He said our director has them. She left two weeks before we stored the boxes last July and she is in Massachusetts right now. She does not have the keys.  He can't find his. We were told to come back at noon the next day when a locksmith would arrive. We asked that we be contacted AFTER the locksmith opens the door :)   We are very demanding Americans. An hour later we got a text. He found the key. It had fallen behind something. We can come back tomorrow. It's okay... another day without a teapot or a bar of soap or a dish rack or a coffee cup. We wouldn't enjoy the highs if we didn't experience the lows. So Day Three will be a banner day of nesting and settling in.

Before & During the Group Dinner

Mirto (a berry liqueur from Sardinia) and homemade biscotti, courtesy of the bar where we watched the US not beat Belgium in the World Cup.

Another typical summer Tuesday night in Viterbo.

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Our Italy. Past & Present.

This will be my final blog post for Luglio (2013). See you next year, and thanks so much for following.

Twelve years ago, my father wrote a brochure for a Tuscan villa, for which he took a week at the property in lieu of cash. We four lucky Lynches got to tag along with my folks. This year, since we were visiting Siena (very near this villa), Owen suggested we find “our” villa. And that we did. It was much easier than one would expect—with an iPad in the car and the MAPS app, anything is possible. And easy.

Barbara, the proprietor’s daughter, whom we had not met 12 years ago, lives there now with her young family. She found us snooping around and asked if she could help us. We explained ourselves and all the walls came down and we are now Facebook friends. We have history. And memories. 

Here are our pictures, past and present:

                

         

Festival of Steak

Two years ago, we stumbled upon a festival…think bean supper crossed with the North End of Boston—one of those Saint celebrations they have on Saturday nights in the summer. These Festas, or Sagras, are all over Italy in the summer. The year we stumbled upon one was over-the-top fun. We were doing one of our day trips, exploring, driving, stopping, snooping around, and came upon one of these town-wide celebrations. This one was in honor of Hunting and Fishing. So there were huge long tables set up, and a team of “soccer moms” in matching tee-shirts cooking up fish and game. You paid some flat fee and filled your plate with tons of food and got a bottle of wine in a green label-less bottle. (Homemade.) It was a blast. We only wished we were at home and/or with friends because everyone else was with friends. If we had this in Winchester, it would be amazing. But they couldn’t serve wine like this at home….. hence, we Americans have things like church suppers.

This year, I found a website listing all the Festas in the region. We set our sights on the Festa della Bistecca (steak) in nearby Soriano Nel Cimino. We grabbed Karen, our friend and Fred’s TA for the summer, and set out. 

We assumed it would be in the town center. Wrong. I asked some guy sitting in his car—with his shirt unbuttoned all the way down to his waist—who told us where the festa was……totally far away. But since we were already parked, we did some exploring there. (There was a castle.)  

Here are some shots we took there.

Windblown atop the castle.

There was the tiniest church with the prettiest little interior. The only tipoff that it was a church was the cross on the top of the building and the two open doors giving passersby a peek inside. It was basically just another rowhouse.

Back in the car, we turned on the iPad GPS and made our way to the outskirts of town where the festa was being held. Parking was in a field. It was just what we had hoped for. You get in line, buy a ticket, and you’re all set for the night. We were brought to a table (one of about 40 LONG tables with paper tablecloths) on which the person who brought us there wrote our “number” and gave our receipt (with what we paid for) to someone else. In about twenty minutes, around came the waiters with our bruschetta (our first course. And our wine, of course.) Later, MORE steak on each person’s plate than we’d ever seen. Tons of people. Tons of wine. Watermelon for dessert. It was a hoot. The music was a bit underwhelming—accordion players performing the Sounds of Silence. If I hear one more accordion player performing Simon and Garfunkel……

The view from the parking lot.

ONE serving.

Great look!

Sweet Sixteen

Every year, my poor son has a birthday in Italy. (So sad…… ) But seriously, the sad thing is that very often if falls on the day before we leave, so his special day is spent cleaning the apartment, returning the car and bringing boxes to the school for storage till next year. Not all that fun for anyone on any day, never mind a birthday for a kid. 

This year, we squeezed time in to have a nice lunch of pasta with pesto on our little landing. Fred’s legs had to go off to the side, and I had to climb onto my chair from behind it, but it worked out well.

Dinner, later, was at Il Monastero, the home of the two-plate pizza, Owen’s favorite. Everyone’s favorite, for that matter. The pizzas are so big they literally need to be delivered on two plates. And the crust is so thin, and the toppings so fresh, nobody ever has any trouble finishing it. 

TA Extraordinaire Karen came, too, which always makes it a party.

Two years ago, we asked if we could buy a plate. The response from the owner: he gave us FOUR!

 

Hay!

We had a blast climbing on top of haystacks in Tuscany. Owen’s suggestion. Why had this idea never occurred to us before? So fun, and a little scary because they’re wobbly! Cars driving by seemed to get a kick out of us. Crazy Americans.

Martini Mission in Montepulciano

We were on a mission all day to find a martini glass my father bought in Montepulciano ten years ago that has since broken. We are now convinced there is not a SINGLE martini glass to be found in all of Italy. We waited for one shop to re-open after “riposo” (that quiet time when things shut down). The shopkeeper was late, and while we waited, I leaned on the glass door to his shop. The sunblock on my arm left two huge smudges on the glass that caught his eye the second he returned. Luckily, I was standing across the street at this point—mortified to see him notice the big smears! I felt terrible but was convinced by my family not to run over and apologize. I am very glad I didn’t because he was a perfect ASS to us when we went in. We politely gave him a few minutes before descending upon him, even though he was 15 minutes late. No martini glasses. Never had them. He did, however, have some glassware that reminded me of the style of the martini glass, so I asked if he would mind if I took a photo of the little tag on one of the pieces so I could research if they made martini glasses. He said Si, he would, in fact, mind. What’s that Italian hand gesture that means !@#$%^&*? 

These photos are of Montepulciano and have nothing to do with the aforementioned ass.

                    

Tuscan hills in the distance. Placing the camera on the wall, set with a timer, restricted our angle, forcing us to feature more body and less scenery than I would have liked.

                    

Montepulciano Piazza.

                    

Even the ugly stuff is eye-catching in a not-unattractive way.

                                                          

I so wish I could have evesdropped. They talked animatedly for quite a while. What might they have been discussing? Some kind of service interruption—electric, water, gas…..A parade that’s shutting down the street later that day… or one that shut it down earlier? A mutual friend?  How ‘bout that Brunelli we had last night? I love a man in uniform. I love a woman dressed as a flamingo. You talkin ta me?

                                           

Kitty in a cage. He was not pleased with my advances.

                                         

Fred droppings!! His camera…..little foldable stool…. sketching supplies….. hmm… Fred Lynch is in our midst.

                      

LOVE THIS!!! To think a wine store might, in fact, have a self-service bar! Point me in that direction!

Basile Day

This is a post I’m so glad to write. One of our most special experiences in Italy every July is visiting with the Basile family. We lived next door to Mario and Assunta Basile our first year in Italy, in 2007. Three of their grown kids, and four grandchildren live in the area, so we got to know them as well. Alessia, one of the granddaughters, spent last Easter week with us here in the States, as she was attending high school in Kentucky for the year. 

We all speak Italian and English with varying levels of proficiency. And I do mean varying. One or two words for some of us, all the way to pretty much fluency now with Alessia. (The year in the States put her into this category.) So we have some fun communicating. Assunta and I speak very well together, considering the obstacles. But this year she told me my Italian was not as good as last year….. must work on this! You will always here straight talk from Assunta. No beating around the bush about how she feels. The Pope—this one and the last one—thumbs up. Berlusconi, thumbs up. Obama? Hmm… not so much.

Sometimes the day we spend with them is at the sea, once was at Mario and Assunta’s home, last year was at a restaurant, and this year, we gathered at Alessia’s family’s home in Vitorchiano (the next town over). Their house is beautiful, up on a hill overlooking rooftops of the neighbors. They have a pristine pool, a perfect green grass lawn (the only one I’ve seen all month!), a pizza oven (!), lemon and orange trees and two really cool spherical outdoor lamps that I must have.

The day often starts out with a smallish group of us, but as time goes on, more and more members of the family accumulate (always a surprise to us!), so that by 10 pm, there’s a gathering of 17. This time, we started with some coffee in the afternoon… and a swim.. and lots of chatting. Then some fizzy water…. then some prosecco… Next, grilled vegetables (including potatoes from our host’s mother’s garden), pork, sausages, bread, olive oil, cheeses, fruit, tiramisu, wine, wine, wine and finally, mirto, a digestivo made from the myrtle plant. The kids, whom we’ve watched grow up, sat at the kids’ table (just like a family celebration at home!)  Every year I ask Assunta the same question—accidentally, I should add: Do you all get together every Sunday? Oops. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I remembered this is a sore subject on any continent, apparently.

The Basiles are the best hosts and the warmest people. They allow us to be with their family for this day every year, the real gift being that they carry on the way they would as if there weren’t four non-family non-fluent-in-Italian people plopped down in their midst. They include us when they can, and sweep us along even when they can’t. It’s authentic Italian amore, and we are blessed.

Fred showing Assunta, Mario and Alessia his drawings of Viterbo. Assunta grew up in Viterbo and knows every via and vicola!

Happy swimmers.

If you look closely, you can see Mario in the pool—upper right corner.

Pizza oven chimney. The flowering plant is no worse for the wear.

Owen wants to build one in our yard. We said, you find the plans and we’ll make it happen. I think Fred and I were so enthusiastic about it, we scared him off.

Hot!

Potatoes aren’t just for Ireland anymore.

These are a kind of eggplant.

Roberto rinsing the roasted peppers.

These Cypress trees (which need to be groomed) are so densely packed they are hard as a rock!  I’d never been close enough to touch one!

HOT.

Mario admiring his daughter and son-in-law’s yard.

The potatoes were cut two ways. 

Olive oil. It’s just an every day commodity. We Americans have all kinds of fancy vessels for ours.

Father and daughter team.

My boys monitoring the situation.

Kids table! Owen, Henry, Alessia, friend Gabriele & cousin Leonardo! Later, the boys bonded by shooting bottle caps into each other’s cups. Who needs language?

The Fam! xoxoxox

Tuscany Day Trip

We always take a lot of day trips during the last week after classes end. This day, on the agenda were Montepulciano, Pienza and San Quirico d’Ostia. Beautiful honeymooner-type towns. My friend Peter Pappas and his family just got back from their favorite villa, for which the owners commissioned Fred to do a drawing for a label for either their wine or their olive oil. We forget. Anyway, we found it (easily) and dropped in to meet the brother of our contact. Gracious host. Beautiful spot.

                        

The boys and I were thrilled to have the company of this kitty.

But I was the happiest, being the only one not allergic.

                   

Notice the light to dark change. This happened almost every day for the first three weeks of our stay. Huge thunderstorms.

                   

Another picture-perfect piazza. Pienza, in this case.

                   

Grape lights!

                                        

Groups of old women are fixtures on every piazza.They’re almost as irresistible as CinqueCentos.

                   

"Gas" marked behind each chair. Need a better caption…..

                   

Ugliest flower ever?

                                

Ciao Bimba! 

                                  

I don’t like this monk’s body language. It says, “Who, me?”  

                   

I feel like I’m being watched.

                   

Cheese, Grommet!

                                   

Cutest shop, cutest proprietor. I bought a ring made from a wine bottle’s spout. Everything in the store is made (by her) from things people usually throw out. 

                   

Pienza is a town (like our own, Viterbo) that is on the Roma via Francigena, an ancient road and pilgrim route running from France to Rome. In mediaeval times, it was followed by those wishing to visit the tombs of the apostles Peter and Paul. This charming ceramic signs pop up often.

                   

Badass Henry Lynch.

                   

Small boy with smaller dog.

                   

The man responsible for all of this.

                   

Where’s Waldo? (Find the cat.)

                   

Sun setting on Tuscany.

CinqueCentoCharm

I love these little gems and cannot not shoot when I see one. The shot of my dreams (which I’ve never been quick enough to capture) is a Cinquecento with an elderly, well-dressed couple in it. (This is not rare.) Second best would be just the man. (Also not rare, just always unexpected. And they move quickly.)   

   

Back in the 'Hood

Last year’s apartment was next to a very friendly older woman (who spoke no English) with whom we would chat, balcony to balcony during our cocktail hour. She was very warm and interested in us, and in Fred’s art. Her friend lived just above, and would sometimes pop out on her balcony. The two of them would exchange things (cup of sugar, for example) using a long pole with a hook on the end (used to pull out canopies to protect the balconies from the sun) with a mesh basket on the end. This is how we passed Fred’s Viterbo art book across from our balcony to hers.   

Here are two shots showing one of the women passing the bag all the way down to a friend on the street.        This year, Fred and I took a walk over to the old apartment to buy wine from the shop on the ground level of the building. As soon as we turned the corner, guess who greeted us. Good to be back.      

Word on the Street

There’s this little street along the edge of Pienza (which is a lovely town, by the way), and it has four streets that are perpendicular to it. The first one I noticed was Via Del Bacio. 

                      

Street of the Kiss. I thought, how sweet! I’d love to live on a street called that.

The next street was Via Dell’Amore. 

                          

Street of Love. REALLY sweet, I thought. The city planner must’ve been a real romantic. I wonder what the next street’s called.

Via Della Fortuna. 

                         

Street of Fortune. I excused myself from the family and told them I needed to check out that fourth and final street.

Via Buia.

                         

Street of Dark, Black, Somber. 

Talk about a buzz kill.

Supermarket Culture

In a foreign country, even ordinary places can be extraordinary. Fred and I have probably never been in a supermarket together in the States. Why bother? Isn’t one person’s time better spent doing something else? But in Italy, it’s like a date—”Want to go to Sigma with me???”  And the shopkeepers think we’re nuts taking pictures of cans of beans. I guess I’d think the same of someone stooping down in Stop & Shop to get a nice close-up of the Liquid Tide.

                       

                               Beans beans! Le frutti musicali!

There are large and small markets in Italy. But there are no BJs. That’s the antithesis of how Italians live. The packages are just way too big. The small supermarkets are much like our small markets, in that there’s a little of everything, not a huge assortment of choices, but fine for the daily stuff. And the large are sort of like Walmart or Target, in that they also carry housewares, pharmaceuticals and even clothing.

You put on a plastic disposable glove to pick your produce, bag it, weigh it, punch in a code, and stick the price on your bag. Even Italians sometimes forget to weigh it and have to run back. This was quite foreign to me years ago, but now I do it all the time here at my own market (sans gloves).

Most people seem to remember to bring their own bags, but if they don’t, they buy the plastic ones. Busca, Senora? Si, due, per favore.  Do you want a bag, Ma’am? Yes, please, two. You have to guess how many you’ll need because by the time she’s done ringing you up, you’re still bagging. And YOU bag, by the way. Not a supermarket employee.

                       

Check out the bags—new promotional bags every year for a euro each. Why, oh, why, do they look better suited for a New England farm stand?

In all the Italian supermarkets (in my experience), the cashiers get to sit down. Ironic, huh? In a country where it would be unheard of to use the car to pick up some things a half mile away, and where riding a bike is not done to save the earth, but just to get across town, they get to sit down on the job? I think we Americans can all use the time on our feet. 

Other striking differences are: On Saturdays, when it’s mobbed with all the Monday through Friday nine-to-fivers (well, nine-to-five does not accurately describe an Italian worker’s hours, but you get the gist), nobody’s in a hurry. You can stand in a traffic jam in an aisle while nobody cares that you’re blocked, but also nobody (but us Americans) seems to mind being blocked. They are illogically calm and unemotional at times, while flying off the handle at others. (Fred sits and draws for hours most days and hears families during riposo—that “quiet” time between 1 and 4—arguing with tones of voices, and levels of volume that would take our family months to get over. The Irish just do not let it all out that way. But that’s another blog.

                                                

                        Friskies aren’t just for cats anymore.

The other thing is there’s no check-out line for 12 items or less. Someone with one item has to ask all the people in the line if they mind if they cut. And nobody ever minds.

This part is the same: standing in line, people chat with each other, call out to someone they know, fiddle with their phones, and run back because they forgot their peaches (or fish—I can never remember the difference between pesca and pesce). 

                    

The Screen Door Slammed

              

Fred and I went for a pre-thunderstorm walk in Viterbo the other day that turned into a thunderstorm walk. We ran for refuge into a restaurant that wasn’t to open for dinner for several hours. They offered us a drink, and, not wanting to be rude, we accepted. : )

They brought us an amazing glass of very cold white wine and a great beer for Fred, and then grilled bread drizzled with olive oil and salt. It was great to be inside while the storm raged outside. BIG lightning, too. I was concerned the boys might be worried about us but I had left the phone at home so there was not much I could do. In fact, the power did go out in our apartment while we were gone. But they were fine.

There was music back in the kitchen for the cook while she (yes, a lot of the kitchen people seem to be women now) pounded the hell out of what I hope was already dead. Then the guy up front with us put Bruce Springsteen on. Thunder Road. My favorite. I have to believe it was for us.

We spent a raining day in Rome last week. The boys were on a field trip with Henry’s art history class, so Fred and I took the train down with them and spent the day not in museums or churches. Great day, once we got on the same page about exactly how one wanders and discovers unexpected things when one is not one, but two. :)  

For pictures, please visit:

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This is just before a huge thunder and lightning rainstorm in Montefiascone. It has rained all but three days in the last three weeks! But only for a short time. We like it.

For more new pics, visit:

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