My Paesani

One more full day here in Castiglione Messer Raimondo before returning stateside and nine months of longing to be here. When asked what is the best part of this town, most guests say "the people". Indeed, they are rare and golden. They are what I will miss the most. Here is a sampling of some of them.

Donatella
Each morning I hear her voice through the kitchen window. Her "ortofrutta" is directly below it. It is resonant enough to rise above the thunks and thuds as she and her husband open the truck doors to unload the produce they have driven from their farm only 2 km away. There's a scrunching sound of metal on metal as she pulls up the folding door of her shop. And the ubiquitous, comforting "buon giornos" that tumble one after another as each person passes the shop on his or her way to begin  the day.
The barber steers his bicycle up the road, getting off to walk it the final few meters up the hill. At lunch time, I will see him circle around and around the bellevedere, killing time or exercising, I can't tell which.
 [I couldn't upload a photo of Donatella! Sad. One of my favorites.]

Sandrina

Sandrina and the Fish Man

On the way to meet the fish guy, who pulls up across from the bellevedere every Tuesday and Thursday, I encounter the woman who lives across the largo from my house. Right next to the house of the two other American men from my very own Lancaster county who have bought a house here. But that's another story! We are both seeking the fish guy, who seems to be late in arriving. So we wait and chat together. After all this time I finally find out that her name is Sandrina. But only her friends call her that. I am allowed. The more formal name is Sandra,
short for her full name, Alessandra.We buy our respective sea creatures,

Sandrina places her order

 and then walk back to our "neighborhood" together. We arrive at her door first. Of course, there is the usual offer to come in for coffee. I have time today, and so, I can happily accept. As I sip the amazingly strong but delicious elixer, she asks if I'd like some tomatoes. Would I? Of course! She ducks into a tiny pantry room off the kitchen and brings out a single tomato. I know this is not the end of the story. "Aspetta" she says, and disappears towards the rear of the house. About 15 minutes later, she returns with at least 5 pounds of freshly picked, ripe, plump pomodori, all of which I am obliged to take. No argument from me. Fried calamari with fresh tomato sauce tonight!

The Woman on the Piazza
On my way back from the Saturday market I greeted a woman sitting outside her house on the main square. She and I exchanged pleasantries, which always lately seem to begin with "Fa caldo! [it's hot]" Then she turned a bit sad and described her inability to leave the house for any length of time. She gestured towards her open door and said something about her "marito" who had been something for 7 years. Dead, I thought. Then she waved me inside. As soon as I entered, I saw an old man sitting in a Barcolounger, the kind that pushes you to standing with the flip of a lever, like the one my dad used at the end of his life. The man was very slowly placing cut up cubes of cheese into his mouth. He looked at me with a distant, beatific face and gently took my hand. I introduced myself. He responded in a hoarse whisper. A non-sequiter sentence. But his smile widened. Clearly he was in an advanced stage of Alzheimer's. Rina, the woman on the piazza, his wife, shook her head.  His name is Tomaso, she told me. And he has been that way for 7 years. "Piacere, Tomaso", I said. He smiled even more beatifically as he stared at me, trying to think of a response. Rina reminded him "Mangi, Tomaso."
Then, of course, came the invitation to coffee. I apologetically declined. Rina looked embarrassed and asked if tea would be more suitable. I put down my groceries. "No, grazie," I said. "Prendo un caffe' con piacere." [No, thank you. I'll take a coffee with pleasure.]. She made me one of those amazing espresso's, served in a tiny, delicate, beautifully decorated china cup.
In the open door then came another older woman. Solid. Square. Thinning hair dyed the reddish-brown tint standard in Italian women over 70. Her voice was booming; just her greeting echoed in the room. She sat down across from Rina; I sat at the head of the table between them. The new woman, whose name I cannot remember, launched into an introduction, and then, without pausing, swelled into intense conversation about all the houses for sale in town, punctuated by jabbing hands and sweeping arms. The two of them slipped into dialect. I couldn't understand a word. Suddenly, I was 6 years old. Sitting with my grandmother in her cousin Concetta's kitchen. Listening to Concetta's booming voice. Watching my gentle grandmother, like Rina, listen and nod. Slip in an occasional short response before being run over by that thunderclap voice. The delicate cup, the bitter aftertaste of my first espresso. And though I couldn't understand anything of what was being said then, either, like now, I  knew/felt safe and secure in this singular world. Intuiting that because it was a world particular to us, I would always be an integral part of something that would hold me and care for me. We had the bond of being like beings. As I sat at Rina's table, existing in two time zones simultaneously, I was hit with a magnum force - this is the reason I am here, to go back and exist in the only extended time in my life when I have felt completely safe, happy, and loved. Completely immersed in the comforting sphere of cultural identity. To know I belong.

The Butcher Lady
Gran Sasso Sausage is the best!

Sandro
I have written of him before. Although he is from Bisenti, not CMR, his nature is indicative of the Abruzzesi. Especially here in the Fino Valley. He has been a vital source of car advice and help all summer. Indeed, he has saved me, automechanically speaking.
I had to suspend my insurance before leaving in order to avoid paying for coverage I don't need for 9 months. Sandro has reminded me at least half a dozen times NOT to forget to suspend it! However, it's August! Everyone is on vacation. That means not just one or two people from an office, but the entire office itself! The insurance people will not be back until August 26, 5 days after I return to the states. So Sandro found a way to take care of it for me. While I was there finishing up this business, he cautioned me NOT to leave the technically uninsured car in a public place, as I was planning to do. It is illegal and if something were to happen, I could be fined, or worse, the whole darn car could be yanked from me. He suggested I leave it with a friend who lives about 5 km from CMR. He saw my hesitancy to take this advice, so I explained that I was worried about finding a ride back home after dropping off the car.
"Find a friend to help you, " he said. "Someone will take you back to your house. We're used to doing that here. We understand that sometimes we need to help each other. I live in Bisenti; you live in Castiglione; you need to get home. It happens. We understand and so we help." Then he offered, "I will be at the beach with my family on Sunday, but I'll be back by 8. If you need a ride, call me. I'll come get you."
He probably read the incredulity in my eyes. His tone was gentle, but slightly chastising. "It's not a problem," he said. "That's the way it is here. This is not America."
Indeed.

WC Follies

July 30, 2012
At the Rifugio Franchetti high in the Gran Sasso mountains. Have finally gotten up here with the Bear Man, although not as high as we had hoped. The way up to the highest peak in these here hills, the Corno Grande, at nearly 3,000 meters, was not clearly signed. So, we got only part way to the summit. Greg further than me. I chickened out when I saw the trail narrow down to a tightrope of adjoining stones with a sheer drop-off on one side and a vertical wall on the other.
Interesting rifugio. Much different than the ones we stayed at in the Dolomites. Sleeping is entirely dormitory-style, with low rows of bunk space, like a ship's quarters. 11 people to a room. 4 mattresses side-by-side on the upper bunk platform, and 4 on the bottom. One single bed and one two-tiered single bunk. Greg and I had to sleep in the upper bunk, cheek-to-cheek with other hikers. I made Greg sleep so I was between him and the wall. I didn't want to sleep next to a stranger again. Last time I did that my purse was stolen. Greg, as it turned out, was stuffed between me and a very attractive blonde. So much for my comfort level.
But the best part of the night was figuring out the logistics for my nightly bathroom run. See, the only "indoor" facilities are a "WC"- essentially an outhouse perched on top of a precipice. To reach it, you much wend your way down a rocky, uneven, scree-laden path that runs beside a sheer drop. Not exactly the most secure way to take a midnight pee. I needed a plan. One that did not require going all the way down the path in the dark guided only by a narrow headlamp beam, stumbling with sleepiness, and slipping in oversized crocs. Especially not after consuming 1/2 a liter of wine at dinner. So the pee plan evolved. During my last "WC" visit before turning in, I squirreled away several sheets of toilet paper in the pocket of my nightshirt. Then, I identified the most wind-less spot [oh - did I mention that the wind was so strong they had to close down the cable car leading from the valley to the trail up here? Plenty of breeze to blow a 125-pound hiker off a mountain.] So, wobbling toward the lee side of the building was essential. Once in my safe place, I could simple hunker down and...let go. When awakened in the dark several hours after hatching the plan -- it worked! No one saw me or heard me or found me 1,000 feet down the mountain or at the bottom of the stairs [oh - did I mention the stairway down from the bunk rooms is 1 foot wide, nearly vertical, with only a loose rope for a handrail?] Anyway, the whole process was completed before I even had a chance to become fully conscious. I fell right back to sleep, assured of a safe night's rest. The blonde notwithstanding. Then - nature called me awake again. To a more involved necessity. One that absolutely required a trip to the ill-positioned "WC". "NOT GOING!" my mind shouted to my body. "NOT GOING! NOT GOING! GO BACK TO SLEEP!".

The Indoor Facilities (with panoramic view in background)

An hour later, I squeezed out of the bunk. I slipped on a fleece top [oh- did I mention the temperature drops to about 38 degrees at night?], pulled on crocs and a headlamp. I felt my way down the pitch dark stairs without a light so as not to awaken other hikers, navigated through the dining room without shearing a shin on a table leg, and pushed open the front door against the howling wind. Trembling, picking my way along the front of the building within the headlamp's narrow beam, I inched towards the path. I turned the corner around the side of the building, and was startled by the most spectacular sunrise I have ever seen. The sky extended endlessly in glowing pink, gold, and dark blue bands above a vast, sparkling plain that stretched all the way to the Adriatic. The sea itself glowed silvery blue in the soft new light. I stopped and gaped at this unexpected gift. I stood for several minutes, oblivious to any real or perceived danger or to the chill wind shipping at bare legs under my nightshirt. In time, I was able to tear myself from this marvel and continue the outhouse journey. Now the precipice was less foreboding. Its sheer, terrible height had afforded me the opportunity to enjoy the world as I had never seen it. It turned fear inside-out into beauty.

The Drop (with this toilette, there really are consequences if you miss)

Greg in relation to the "facilities"

We've decided to approach the Corno Grande again. From a different side. Perhaps the next attempt will turn disappointment from the failed first attempt into wonder. Perhaps mountain jitters will transform into the same kind of treasure. If not on Corno Grande, on the summit of some other physical of psychological terror.

Seven Days Sans Transit: Are We There, Yet?

[Note to reader: this blog is a 3-parter. To begin the adventure at day 1, go two blogs back to "Seven Days Sans Transit.]


Day 6
Guests were kind enough not to arrive while I was doing my Navy Seal operation yesterday. Phone was kind enough not to run out of minutes until I returned home from said operation. Otherwise the entire mission would have been severely compromised. I guess the angels are hovering despite all the seemingly non-angel -like hassle.

Day 7
Up early. Out eating breakfast at 7:15 according to church bells. Not lying in sun. I want to stay fresh for the car pick-up. Feels like a wedding day. I am agog with anticipation. Seems to be new growth on the jasmine, too. Tomatoes going great guns. Need some propping up. I think I'll run down to Febo Garden today, then, SINCE I'LL HAVE A CAR!! It's hot. 15 minutes and my pits are soaked. So much for a fresh appearance to Bruno the elettrauto. Although something tells me it would take more than freshness to erase the idiot stamp he sees on my forehead as a result of all this. My guests have kingly offered to drive me to m savior Bruno. Laura has described how to get there. Easy. Along the road to Bisenti. All I have to do is wait until after 9 when Bruno is (supposedly) open for business so I can call and check on what I owe him and then milk the bank a bit more. But please, dear god, let the time go quickly!!

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So much for directions. Guests and I spent a good 45 minutes looking for the elusive Bruno. Up and down the road to Bisenti. Ran into my friend Camillo on one pass, who clarified the way. "No, no. Not on the way to Bisenti. Towards Bisenti but then up the hill to Appignano. You can't miss it along this road. It's on the right."
Off we went, but "up the hill to Appignano" we saw nothing resembling an automechanic shop. So stopped at a bar to ask if we were on the right track. This time it was my friend Carlo who did guide duty. He just happened to be among the perennial bar guys at this particular one. He took me across the street to the "shop": a house with a long, steep driveway leading to the back. Carlo rang Bruno's bell. No answer. "Odd", he mused. "His key is in the door. He must be here." Sure enough, a house key was dangling from the doorknob. For anyone to turn and enter. Carlo didn't give it a second thought, as thought leaving keys in your door was commonplace. Indeed, I have often seen keys ahnging from knobs all over Castiglione. I just assumed it was a forgetful population. But perhaps it's a custom that lets neighbors know you are home.
Carlo led me down the steep drive. There, hidden under the house, was a garage bay. In it way my lovely blue dolphin. Bruno greeted us. He was a pale, timid-looking, bespectacled man with a stutter. He asked for 300 euro. No receipt allowed. Fine. As long as I have a key, I don't need the tax deduction and Bruno doesn't need to do....whatever giving a receipt would require him to do. I jumped in the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition, turned it, and....my little darlin' came alive!
Bruno shook his finger. "But that is the only key",  he said. "you will have to get another. Sandro will explain ."  Fortunate, because a stutter and my ear fo Italian do not make for 100% comprehension.

When I called Sandro later, he said I would have to go to a Lancia dealer for a second key. A key made at any old key duplication place would open only the doors. It would not start the ignition.
"Well, maybe I'll just get a few door keys and keep the ignition key hidden in the car." I said. I wanted this car journey to end. "At least then I'd always have a way in and always know where the ignition key was."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. "Teresa," Sando said slowly, "Get another key."
"Okay", I said.
But it was Saturday afternoon. Nothing would be open, right? I made a beeline for the beach, single key in hand.

Car KEYS (Note the plural!!)

Seven Days Sans Transit: Days 2 - 5

Day 2
As soon as office hours arrive, I call Sandro, the mechanic who sold me the car, to ask what to do about   the keys. His first question is: "Where is the spare?"
I pause. "In the stolen purse."
I can hear his head shake as he exhales "Ahhhhhh...."
He says he will call the Lancia dealer tomorrow and let me know what they say. In the meantime, my kind Scotts friend Shiela, one of the many who received a frantic text last night, offers to drive me to the ladies luncheon tomorrow. At least I can socialize.

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Day 3
No word from Sandro. My car remains abandoned in the parking lot of the Pescara airport. Racking up the meter at 11 euro per day. Note: Call Sandro first thing tomorrow!

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Day 4
Sandro has explained what the Lancia dealer told him. But I don't understand and after asking him to repeat himself 80 times, so I can follow both the Italian and the mechanics, he becomes frustrated. We agree to call in language re-enforcement later in the form of my intrepid property manager, Laura. She has just returned from a vacation in Venice and has no idea of the imbroglio triggered by my being on my own in absence.

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Day 5
Standing in the blazing heat of the Pescara Airport parking lot. Waiting for my American friend Richard to circle back and find me to take me home. The complex chain of timing a communication required to arrange the towing of my car felt like a top-secret military operation. Laura calling Sandro who had to call Paolo the Tow Guy and the "elettrauto" to which the car would be towed who had to then call each other back an forth and then my having to call Richard several times because the rondevous time for the tow kept changing. Then once I was deposited at the airport, having to maintain contact with Richard to update time on the continually revise arrival times of the tow truck so he could pick me up and then alternating those calls with calls to Sandro to let him know that all phases of Operation Macchina da Teresa were being implemented. Are you following all this? Me, neither.
Now watching my car become a blue spec as it bobs away atop the flaming yellow tow truck. Just paid some guy I've never met 150 euro cash to take it away. To another guy I've never met and whose whereabouts are still uncertain to me but who Sandro has said it eh "elettraluto" who will reprogram the ignition system so a new key can be made in 1/4 of the time and at half the price quoted by the Lancia dealer. Without understanding either electronics nor auto mechanics, I am taking it on faith that Sandro has set me on the right path. Apparently, as Laura translated while I tried to catch it over the speaker function of my cell phone, this method is an alternative to taking 20 days for the Lancia dealer to create a duplicate key from the existing ignition for 500 - 800 euro while the car remains in the airport parking lot at the stated 11 euro per day. Either Sandro is doing me a huge favor with some creative problem-solving, or all three guys are part of an Abruzzese wing of the mafia and I've just paid someone the equivalent of $200 to steal my car and take it to a guy named Bruno the Alleged Elettrauto.

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Evening of Day 5
Spent about an hour online trying to find Mr. Bruno the Alleged Elettrauto via the "pagine bianche". Panic and doubt level reached epic proportions. Not only not feeling like a "real" Italian, but feeling like a "real" idiot. Finally contacted Mr. Paolo the Tow Guy. He gave me Mr. Bruno's cell number. A live voice allegedly belonging to the Alleged Bruno responded to my call. Car will be ready on Saturday morning. Come pick it up. No definite time. Vague indication of the location of the shop. And the hours. And the cost.  Too hard to understand over the muffled static of cell phones. Wait until Saturday and sort it out in person. And hope.

to be continued.....


Through it all, being mindful of returning to the house in time to check in new guests.

Seven Days Sans Transit

Day 1

Wait. This cannot happen to me. This is relegated to the realm of the naive tourist. I'm a real Italian! I look Italian. I speak (some) Italian. I am an Italian citizen with a tax number and an identity card, and a passport and I've even bought a car! I have an Italian car, damn it, with an Italian license plate. A real car of my own and not on on (expensive) loan from a rental company. My badge of authenticity. Maybe that's why I brought BOTH keys on this trip. I was just so darn tickled with having my very own set that I wanted them with me. To feel, to jingle and hear a musical accompaniment to my real Italian self: the "La macchina di Teresa Mastrobuono" aria. But my real Italian car is sitting about 18 km away waiting for me to drive it home. Except I can't do that now. The car keys - the original and the spare are in the purse. And, I've just discovered, the purse is gone. Stolen, apparently, from my tote bag on the train somewhere between Bologna and Pescara. Stolen purse. It was true. Although I couldn't believe it, I knew it was true. Now what? After a 7-hour train trip, 5 of them next to a fat man with hairy arms that kept brushing against mine in the sweltering train car, so that I could feel his sweat and the scratchiness of the synthetic fabric of his shirt, all I wanted to do was get home. But home was 40 km away from my present location at the Pescara train station. And, right, I have no car. Luckily, I have a phone. And as an Italian who owns her own Italian house, I have friends here. I called every single one in the contact list - Italian, American, British, Scottish. No one was roused. It was a Sunday afternoon. When all "real" Italians of any national origin or sense were either with their families or at the beach. Not me. My authentic ass was in a sling. And since the validity of my national identity was doing me no good, I switched to tourist mode. Where would someone with no ties at all to this country begin? Right. The police. And off I went, carting what was left of my luggage with me.

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Day 1 into 2

The police at Pescara Centrale station were nice enough to teach me the word for "robbery" ("furto"). And to let me know they could do little else but take a report. Even though I played the poor stranded femme fatale role to the hilt to try and jockey a ride home, I ended up returning home via a 65 euro taxi ride. My cleaning lady lady let me in to my house with her spare key. My house keys were keeping the car keys company. The cab driver was not inclines to stop at the big IPER grocery store, the only one open on Sunday, to pick up food for dinner, as I had planned to do if I'd had my real Italian car. I resigned myself to making do with the lump of warm cheese and 4 bottles of wine the considerate thief had left behind.  By some grace or pity of some higher force, my previous guests had left behind some great homemade ravioli and a jar of sauce canned by one of the local ladies. I feasted. I did break open the wine. Only one bottle. And fell right to sleep after dinner.

to be continued....

Necessary Angels

Confession: I have this thing about angels. Not a smarmy kind of thing. Okay. Maybe a bit. I think/feel/believe in angels. Or the force. Or serendipity. Or intuition. Or your own friggin' genius brain, oh yeah. Or whatever word you want to assign to an inexplicable act of guidance in the right direction.
On my departure from my little small town safe house to lead the latest tour of Tuscany, I was taught that angels come in all forms.
Nudged awake at 5 AM on the day of departure, I realized that something seemed amiss with the hotel reservations I'd made in Florence for myself and an early-arriving guest. Something entered my brain that said "Um, check the reservation dates. I don't think you reserved the right days." That gave me enough time before leaving to jump on the internet (the internet angels were there, as well. The damn thing was working!), and confirm, YUP, I'd reserved one night too few. It also gave me time to alert the hotel of the need for another room. And, YUP, we got one.
Now driving to the Pescara airport sleepy and sans coffee, I am given another nudge that makes me veer left at an unfamiliar fork in the road and straight to the airport entrance. Instead of taking the right fork, which would have taken me off to god knows where for god knows how long before I found a way to turn around and then figure out how to get back on tract.
Once at the airport, after circling round and round the parking lot, once asking directions and being directed the wrong way down a one-way lane, once having a finger wagged at me for nearly crashing the gate at the entrance to the "employees only" parking lot in search of the "lunga sosta [long term]" lot, I ultimately "accidently" encounter a parking attendant angel on her way to the ticket office. She is remarkably unsurly for an Italian working so early and even manages to look trim and stylish in her uniform: a crisp white blouse, blue pencil skirt and matching heels that are just high enough to show off some pretty well-muscled calves.  It could easily be an angel uniform. She escorts me  to the correct lot so I don't end up paying 4 euro per hour for my 298 hour stay. She even tells me how to receive a discount on the cost. This will be very important upon my return for reasons which will become evident further down the blog. (Hoho! Got your attention?)
There were several other angels along the way. But my favorite was on the platform in Pescara awaiting the arrival of the train to Florence. At first I ignore him. He is a tiny man; his clothes, although seemingly carefully chosen, are wrinkly. Prickly stubble covers his chin and he mushes his words through spaces where his teeth should have been as he approaches me. He is thrusting his ticket at me, waving it in the air as he slushes a question. Usually, my reaction would be to recoil in distrust. This is just the kind of ruse used all the time by thieves and pick-pockets. The old "help me out here while I rifle through everything you own" routine. But something in this man also triggers a stubborn, lingering naivete about the goodness of the human race that somehow has remained intact despite years of being shown evidence to the contrary. I said "Cosa? [What?]
The little man jerks his ticket around, as if poking it into something, and the only clear words I hear are "Dov'e' something something something [where is the something something something].  But in the time it took to perform this mime, the Italian congeals in my brain. I realize he is saying "Dov' e' la macchina per convalidare il bigletto? [Where is the ticket validating machine?]. And my mind is catapulted back to my daughter Aeriel and I on the train to Venice. The amused smile on the conductor's face as he handed us the "multa [ticket]" for failing to stamp our tickets before we boarded. And the chuckle he involuntarily emitted as I handed him what amounted to a $75 dollar fine for the oversight.
I jump up and gesture.
"Vieni con me [come with me]" I tell the withered little angel, as I race towards a blur of orange signifying some sanctioned train official.
"Dove si trova la macchina.... [where do you find the machine...]?" I shout over the swoosh and sweep of the cleaning machine he is operating.
Mr. Pumpkin suit points to two little yellow boxes, one on each side of the elevator in the middle of the platform. I guide the angel's gaze towards them and say, "Vedi. Di la. [Look. Over there]."
He thanks me profusely. Then disappears on the far side of the elevator.
"No, thank YOU", I think.

Now that I am safely back at my house, I'm reflecting on angels. Okay. Maybe they don't work 24/7. For example - where were they when someone stole my purse on the train back here? The purse that contained my house keys and the only keys to the car that would have gotten me from that discount parking situation to my house without having to futilely search for 3 hours through all the Italian, American, English, and Scottish friends in my phone's contact list before giving up and spending 65 euro on a taxi.  And where were they when I decided to put BOTH sets of car keys in the purloined purse - the original AND the spare, so that now I am without transportation until the mechanic can find a way to get me a new key?
But then, was it they who dinged me upside the head at the last minute with the decision to put both my phones in the laptop case? And both passports? And my wallet with all my cash and credit cards? Could it have been them who had me leave the spare key to my house with the cleaning woman? And let her be the one person here who was available to come to my aid?

When I finally entered the house, I dragged myself to the kitchen and fell into a chair. Tired. A bit disheartened. Angry with myself. And starving. Tough luck, kid. No money. No food in the house. I filled a water bottle and stuck it in the refrigerator. At least I could hydrate myself before bed.
Angel alert: my previous guests had left eggs, a jar of homemade pasta sauce one of my neighbors had given them, and a ton of pasta in the freezer. I feasted. I heard the little girls playing, squealing, laughing outside. Little girls who just before my departure, for the Festa della Madonna, had been dressed up as angels.

The Madonna during her Procession, during which the faithful repeatedly ask for her protection. 

Gaggle of local Angels

I want this angel on my side

My Italian Workout

[Warning: May contain graphic details of relationship with husband or other current spouse of the male species.]
 My husband is a workout kind of guy. He bikes, hikes, lifts, paddles, skis, glides on a nordic track for  at least 2 1/2 hours a day. Every day. Mind you, I don't mind. He's beautiful. Muscular, well-toned, strong: the kind of alpha guy a gal like me, described by a one of my gay amica's as "the most heterosexual woman I know" , can appreciate. And he appreciates me with equal admiration of the way I've been able to stay in pretty good physical shape for an old broad. He'd like me to stay that way. He encourages me to work out. Yesterday he emailed me, from America, a link to a new workout program he discovered. It's called Tabata. I checked it out and it's, well, work. So I've designed my very own, integrated, every day maintenance regime. To whit:

The Mastrobuono Method for a Totally Toned Italianate Body in 90 Days or Less

Warm-up: Stairs. Run down steep, non-made-to-code spiral staircase to terrace below house to eat           breakfast and write. Forget glasses. Run back up. Run down. Hear cell phone ring. Run up. Run back down. Have to pee. Run up. Run back down. Repeat several times until it's too late to eat breakfast before the fish guy comes. Gulp down espresso.[Note: weight loss is extra bonus] Run down back stairs (also not made to code: each step is 6 feet high) to front door. Forget key. Run back up back stairs. Run down and out door.

Steep Spiral Staircase

Cardio: Hear cheesy Italian music fish guy plays from tinny speakers on his truck fade as he pulls away. Sprint half a kilometer to the other side of town to catch him. Pause to buy calamari. Hear church bells chime 8:30 and realize your guests are now up and you haven't yet made coffee. Sprint back to house, now with calamari as weights.

Steep stairs

Recovery: See guests headed out of town for the day. Notice mountains are in clear view this morning. Stop at bar on the way back to house to take them in with a capuccino.

Steep street

Lifting: Schlep three, 15-pound bags of potting soil from the blue dolphin (pet name for the car. It's really, really blue!) parked at bottom of long hill to house. Carry them up back stairs and then down spiral staircase. Do two reps.

Heft 5-liter wine jugs of water from bathroom down spiral staircase to newly planted shrubs on terrace because outside faucet seems blocked. (Note to self: include call to plumber in cool down.) Do four more reps.

Cool-Down: Fire up internet and look at Tabata site lovingly sent by spousal until. Eat.

Spousal Unit of the Alpha Male Variety (One friend of mine said he is built like and action-hero figure)

It's the Journey, Stupid!

Well, I'm home. Sono tornata alla mia casa Italian. I've returned to my Italian house. It was quite a journey to get here. A car. A train. A train. A plane. A tram. A plane. A tram. A bus. and another bus. It seemed interminable and tiring, and, well, yes, even questionable. Usually I can sleep on a transatlantic flight. I just pop a sleep aid in the mouth (Note to censor: These are legal, over-the-counter wimpy knock-offs of their more potent prescription cousins). My husband takes enough of them every night to sedate and secretly invade Uzbekistan and they don't do a darn thing to him. I, on the other hand, pass one under my nose and immediately zonk out on the very ground on which I am standing and can be roused only if a nuclear warhead lands beside my right ear. But on this particular flight, I decided to ingest TWO pills to put me out extra fast because it was a short flight. The problem was my timing. I figured I could take the stuff and use the time it takes to work to go pee before I hit dreamland. But wait! The flight attendant is serving drinks! The nice Polish couple sitting on the aisleside of my window seat order. She: TWO cokes. He: A small bottle of wine. Now these guys are European. They don't gulp drinks like Americans do. They sip. They savor. They take their TIME. In the meantime, both my bladder and my lids are becoming quite heavy. But there is no way I can squeeze past the barrier of their non-upright tray tables. I wait. Finally, the woman finishes her second can of coke. And hands the "rubbish" (it's not "garbage" mind you, because we are on a British Airways flight.) to the flight attendant. I'm so close! But the man lingers over his wine. And lingers. And lingers. Right up until the onboard meal is served.
"Curried chicken or vegetarian pasta?" chirps the eerily cheerful attendant.
"LOO!" I want to scream (because, mind you, we are on a British Airways flight).
But I'm hungry. The two hard-boiled eggs I'd brought along and eaten at 4 PM to tide me over until we landed 9 hours later weren't cutting it. I wolf down the curried chicken.
The man and woman BOTH have wine. She: white. He: red. And after eating, since they are European, the order coffee. Two cups each. Consecutively. My chin is bobbing repeatedly towards my chest and I remain conscious only because it awakens me each time it smacks against my sternum and because of the excruciating pain in my bladder. But the Polish couple's tray tables are still down, allowing them to pick at their dessert (chocolate cheesecake. I had no room for it because my swelling bladder had reduced my stomach to the size of an olive pit.) Meantime, the "time to destination" clock on my seatback screen ticked down the minutes and hours until our landing: 5:28, 5:08, 4:50, 4:32. At 4:15 to go, the angel of an attendant removed all our trays and I fled beyond the aisle barriers to the restroom. At about 4:03 until arrival, I finally allowed my eyes to shut. Let the nukes begin! HAHA! But less than 3 hours later it wasn't the nukes that pulled me back to this world, it was the smell of coffee triggering minor tremors in my stomach. I was hungry again. I slipped of my eye mask and earplugs and accepted that there would be no bragging rights about my sleeping prowess generated by this flight.
Sleep deprivation is not my strong suite.
London's Heathrow airport is a vast shopping mall with occasional nods to the world of flying. [Sign: Be sure to allow enough time to board your flight. Travel time to Terminal C - 15 minutes by tram]. I may as well have been walking to Rome. The two bowling balls strapped to my body disguised as a laptop and messenger bag respectively slowed my movements to a crawl. I forgot that an escalator is a set of MOVING stairs and was nearly propelled face-first down them. I dropped a book I had bought at Philly International on the "off" chance I's have non-sleep time on the flight. By the time I realized it was gone, I had to back track through the security line and re-enter it. When I bent over to retrieve it, one of the aforementioned bowling balls whacked me in the nose. Red-nosed and bleary-eyed, I saw a security guy  eyeball me warily. I wanted to ask him to let me curl up in one of the trays. And I still had a plane, a tram, a bus, and a bus to go. Fortunately, sandwiched between brief required waking periods, there was some sleep on those modes of carriage. But by the time I arrived at my front door, lugging the bowling balls and a "rolling" (dragging!) duffle, I was paid a sharp visit by the Angel of Doubt. Is this trip REALLY necessary? Please just make it end!
I reached the house. It looked so ordinary. Nothing like the "piccolo miracolo, little miracle" it had felt like the last time I arrived. Wearily, I pulled out the house key, yanking my toothbrush and a half-eaten energy bar with it. They clattered to the cobblestone and I emitted an involuntary groan. At that, the shutters to the house above me flew open.
"Teresa! Cara! Ben tornata!" [Dear one! Happy homecoming - loosely translated], I heard my neighbor Manola shout. "Vuoi cenare alla casa mia stasera? [Want to eat dinner at my house tonight?].
"I'm too tired", I thought. "No way can I sit and comprehend and speak Italian tonight."
I opened my mouth to reply as I opened the door to the house. The smell of lemon oil greeted me. Giovanna had cleaned the house extra well for my arrival. The newly painted walls, freshened by my Brit friend Duncan's touch, glowed with the warmth of il sole italiano. The church bells softly pealed. A breeze nudged me further inside.
"Si, certo, Manola! Grazied. Arrivo subito!" ["Yes, of course, Manola! Thank you! I'll be right there!"]

                                           Me Among Sunflowers

I smiled for the first time in half a day. The journey was just beginning.

A Simple Town

My dear little town of Castiglione Messer Raimondo.  You are a sneaky devil. But I'm wise to your wiley ways now. I see the pattern! I'm calling you out on it. I see this is how you work:
Unsuspecting travelers arrive in Rome. Not Pescara. Oh, no. That's too close. Only a 40-minute drive away. It would be too easy. Rome. Yeah, that's it. Have them arrive there after an overnight flight in which they've barely slept. Then they rent a car. At the airport office where the laconic desk clerk rolls his eyes at every question and speeds through the fine print in heavily accented English in order to not miss a millisecond of the conversation with his Italian colleague that was interrupted.  Then they exit the airport, trying to navigate the roads, the signs ("What! They're in ITALIAN!"), and the maniac drivers simultaneously. When their bleary eyes finally alight on a recognizable road number, the A25, it's buried in the following: A24/25E80Naples/L'Aquila/Rome/Pescara. Whoa! "Is that the exit?" Quick cut to the right, barely missing the Cinquecento that suddenly appeared to pass them on the right. The driver yells at the poor travelers as he tacks to the left and disappears down the straigtaway.
30 minutes later, they are out of Rome and breathing a sigh of relief.
10 minutes later, they are in massive, grey, lonesome-looking mountains with isloated towns perched precariously in the distance, miles from any obvious road. The travelers nervously keep their eyes peeled for vultures circling above them. And search for a rest stop that assures them they've not permanently left civilization. And search. And search. And search. And narrowly miss the entrance to one because they've misjusdged the distance to get there because all the signs give distances in KILOMETERS!
No matter. There's the exit - remarkably reading just as they were told it would: Pescara Nord/Citta' Sant'Angelo. Saved!
Maybe.
There are two kinds of native drivers on Italian mountain roads: those who drive very slow, and those who drive very fast. The ones that drive very fast ride the newbies' tailpipe until they zoom past them and narrowly miss the front bumper as they zip back into the lane to avoid the freight truck barelling down the mountain in the other direction. The slow drivers trap the newbies behind them, causing the fast drivers to pass both of them (or three or four other cars) at once resulting in the same scenario as above.
The entrance to Castiglione Messer Raimondo is marked by a concave mirror which allows cars negotiating the sharp turn out of the main road to see the fast drivers as they come up a blind curve. This is the traveler's landmark to turn left - a sudden, sharp left into town. 3 1/2 hours after picking up the rental car, the traveler has arrived in Castiglione Messer Raimondo. Parking and leaving a vehicle never felt so good.
By now the weary traveler is so frazzled, tired, and disoriented, that he and/or she looks around to try ground themself in THE REASON. Where is THE REASON for the trip? There is no Colloseum begging entrance, no ornate Duomo commanding a photo session, no glistening canals eliciting romantic sighs, no bustling street vendors capitalizing on the oggling crowds to sell them memories in 4 X 6 cardboard photos. There's just the Chiesa di San Donato Martiro at first, its tall rotunda topped by a giant iron cross. Its bells may ring for mass. And the traveler gets his or her first glimpse of the people of Castiglione Messer Raimondo filing up the steps: the old women with their black sweaters shuffling up sideways to save their knees, the slighlty tired looking housewives nonetheless well-dressed and coiffed, the little boys and girls in hair tamed with oil or ribbons. And that's when the sneaky magic begins. The traveler is drawn to the people. Curious. Fascinated as they recognize a fantasy of Italy recalled from images 50 years old, or

see now in front of them an exact replica of a childhood neighbor or aunt, or hear a sound that sets into motion heartstrings long dormant. And then it begins. The Castiglione witchcraft. The insidious charm that starts to permeate the travelers weary, unguarded bones.
In a few days, Teresa will have motioned one over to point out the best loaf of bread in the bread wagon. Manola will have given one the best haircut ever - for 35 euro. The bar owner will have sat one down for a complimentary beer. A shop owner will have invited one to his accordian and mandolin concert later that night. The little auntie look-alike waves enthusiastically the fourth time she passes the house on her way to mass, shouting "Tutto aposto?" (Everything in order?). And then the traveler will know why they've come. They will have recognized THE REASON. They came not to see what Italy is famous for, but to see Italy. To be Italy. To participate in the life of Italy. They will know that they have come home. Whatever their idea of home was.

 Italian Mama teaching guest to make traditional Abruzzese pasta:

Macherroni all Ghitarra

 The "Ghitarra" for cutting the pasta

 Guest offered a sample of the ragu'

 A Guest got creative with statues at the church in front of the house



The Culprit!



 Peering at Mass goers

 Ceramic Artist

Guests celebrating their arrival