Ciao, Berlusconi But You're Not the One and Only

Italy has been in the news a lot lately. Unfortunately, often coupled with Greece and the two countries' impact on the world's impending financial demise. So much hand-wringing on Wall Street: What to do? What to do? What to do? The money brokers were offered a brief glimmer of hope when Silvio Berlusconi resigned a week ago. They expressed themselves with more points on the NASDAQ. Never ones to be outdone in the emotional expression department, Italians in Rome and other cities jumped for joy in the streets and waved signs with various exit wishes for their former leader. I asked my Italian friends how they felt about this. Most said "Mi sento contentissimo!" [I feel very happy!]. But more than one tempered the joy with the understanding that there are still a bazillion politicians in power with the same self-centered mindset as Berlusconi. Politicians who suck up funds and bleed the resources of their country for no other purpose than to buy more villas in Sardinia, Lake Como, or the islands off the coast of Sicily. When I asked one of my friends, "How can these politicians do this?" she ramped up her passion by degrees as she shared her thoughts, emitting a shower of hot emotional sparks as she went. "They are blind!" she said, "They don't see what there is in Italy. How can they line their pockets when there are good Italian people out of work? How can they take free train and plane rides when opera houses are closing for lack of money? How can they put more and more friends and cronies on the payroll when historic landmarks are in need of repair!"
How can they (or not), indeed. How can they not see the treasure we who have not lived there all our lives have come to fall in love with? We who dream and save to see, touch, taste, smell, and experience the tantamount aspect of Italian sensibility FEEL what one travel book described "the land of your most ancient dreams".  Yes! They are our most ancient dreams because they come from our most ancient foundations: Italy's past is the bedrock of modern western civilization. Civilization that goes back beyond its contribution of the Renaissance, that gave us the locations of the Odyssy and Persephone's island. Thousands of years later the winds that blew Odysseus back to the Aeolian islands are still producing whitecaps in the Straits of Messina.  A land that gave us mysteries and miracles and a real sense of the sacred:  the supposed sighting of Michael the Archangel on the Garfano promontory inspired a pilgrimage site that, upon entering, moved both myself and my Jewish friend to tears.  Italy gave us salt from Venice, the name "Vulcano" from the ancient island where the homonymous blackmith to the gods was based, and thousands of uses for olive oil. It gave us the arch, the dome, the stadium, the acquaduct, and the race track. It gave us the Commedia dell'arte and its characters and plots for Shakespeare's inspiration. How can a culture of "bunga bunga" supplant the preservation of thousands of years of cultural contributions for anyone connected with Italy? Is there no pride left?
My friend says the lack of appreciation for what we have in Italy, and where we come from stems from "egoismo".  More than "ego", the translation rolls the toxic combination of sefishness and arrogance into one concept.

 Piazza della Signoria Florence

 Grazing in a Vineyard, Loreto Aprutino, Abruzzo

 For a few days now, I've been in a funk trying to figure out how to counter such a mindset. If so many politicians still in office have the same attitude, what will become of the beloved country of my father and grandfather? What is the antidote to the toxin "egoismo"? Just now it occured to me: Love. Simple love. I'll play matchmaker. I'll  bring those who love and appreciate what Italy has to offer together with Italy itself. One visit at a time. One summer at a time. I've already seen what appreciation of their little town does to the hearts and souls of my friends and neighbors in Castiglione Messer Raimondo. It sends them soaring. There doesn't need to be big bang of immediate political and financial change. Just a steady glow of appreciation from admirers. I'd like to think that eventually it will sweep all the egotists away into Homer's dark, Mediterranean sea. To be replaced by those who will maintain Italy's history and dignity. Who will coninue to support the selfless people I've come to know in Abruzzo and elsewhere who will run out of their houses and hand a stranger a bottle of home-made wine as you stumble along a dusty hiking trail. A gesture, to again quote the travel book "that is a million years old, far beyond courtesy, rooted in ancient communion."

Guests  Jerry and Susan at Vineyard

Ancient Alleyway in Castiglione Messer Raimondo

Confession

Today, Saturday, October 1st, 2011, it has been about one and half months since my return from Castiglione Messer Raimondo. 46 days, 7 hours to be more exact. I said the previous post would be my last, reasoning that since I would no longer be at Casa da Carmine there would be no more material to draw from for further writing. SIGH. In some ways I wish that was true. Then perhaps there would not be such a yearning, burning, feeling inside me. I knew the re-entry into American life would be tough. But I'd get over it. I thought. Then came the earthquake, Hurricane Irene. Made life a bit interesting. Provided some distraction. These were followed by flooding, rain, and grey, grey, grey. Now the air  has turned cold to boot. The bite of fall with an aftertaste of winter in the wind. Many leaves have given up on turning color and have gone straight to brown and dry. I'm giving up, too. Giving up telling myself that I don't miss Abruzzo in general and the little guesthouse in the simple town of Castiglione, in particular, to the achingly acute degree I do.
I tried to replicate some aspects of the Italian life I'd led in CMR: I regularly stop at Amish roadside stands to buy locally grown fruit and vegetables; I prowl the aisles of Amish stores to find the best homemade bread and cheese; I cook with only extra virgin olive oil; I walk to the gym to savor the quaintness of our little town of Lititz. But it's time to confess: It ain't doin' the trick. Something huge is missing inside. I told Greg I feel like a sticky grey film has wrapped itself around my mind, my heart, my soul. And I just can't figure out why. I can't figure out what it is that is missing.
Yesterday I sat with Olga, my friend from Naples and Italian teacher. We were commiserating over our yearning for Italy as only those who have the same malaise can.
"What is it?" I said. "I have a good life. I love my work here. I have a great group of students this semester. I love having such easy access to my children. I'm so happy to be able to hug Greg every day. What's the deal?"
She gestured to the large picture window in her kitchen.
"Look outside", she said.
I did. I saw neat, green, similarly ordered, rectangular lawns. They encirlced pristine townhouses whose paint was uniformly lacking in scratches, peeling, or chipping. Flower pots sat perfectly coiffed in their blooms. Late make cars shone in what little light the late afternoon held. We stood and gazed for several seconds. In absolute silence. There was not a soul out and about to acessorize any of it.
"Where is the life?" Olga asked. "Where is the source of life? Where are the people connecting to each other and to life?"

Haggling at the Saturday Market

Singer at Montefino Music Festival

Me and Teresa of Cinotto fame!

Dog Guarding Sheep on the Way to

Campo  Imperatore

My friend Vincenzo took a Sunday off so I could see the mountains up close.

Friend Camillo showing me Pontius Pilates' birthplace

Readying Myself for the Giro d'Italia!

That's when I was aware of what ails me: What I miss is something I, or any person, cannot create here -
the aggregation of human spirit. Expressed in daily, ongoing social interaction. It happens spontaneously, joyously, boistrously, chaotically. With this realization, the sensation of all I missed came surging into me: the sight of women filing past my window on their way to mass, the honey richness of their voices thickening the air; the mass of children chasing each other in the bellevedere, chins drippping with remnants of stracciatella, ciocolatta, fior di latte, or bacci gelatto, their parents standing, strolling, or strutting near them, gesturing, laughing and puncturing sentences with the ratta-tat-tat of Italian excamations, the smell of slightly burnt pizza dough floating up from the pizzeria behind the house, Pasquale ringing the doorbell to warn me "La macchina e' aperta! (my car windows are open), the bread man beeping as he bops through the narrow streets in his van on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, the light drenching the Gran Sasso mountains with contour and shadows that make them seem oh, so very THERE! The unapolgetic cling of fabric to the male and female form. And the bells. Yes, even the bells of the Santuario di San Donato, that used to worry me to death because they'd ring every 15 minutes, 24 hours a day and make me think "Dear God, how will guests ever survive here!" They ring only for mass these days, first in a pattern that warns of the impending event, then in a torrent of random pealing that tumbles from the campanile and explodes out over the town. The bells. My morning wake-up call. To all that the new day in Castiglione holds. All its promise and surprises and frustrations and beauty. And all the life of its people spilling out around me to see, to share, to taste, to hold, to touch, to smell, to lose myself in until I tumble into bed lulled by the swoosh of breezes over the valley and the occaisional mewling cat. It is this river of life that feeds my soul that I so sorely miss. With each passing day, the level of life force it has given me dips a bit lower. My being droops a bit more.
I've just accepted the first guests' booking for summer, 2012. Return is imminent. Only about 230 days left to go. I'll keep you posted on how they go.

"Viccolo" or little alley in the town of Castiglione

Arrivederci!

Uncinetto and the Unskilled Hands

 Meet Teresa. You can't see her face clearly here. She's beautiful. I couldn't upload the photo of us standing together in the square outside my house. Not skilled. Very fitting. Teresa taught me quite a lesson in skill and patience.
Teresa is one of the first people I met in Castiglione. She is 80-something and was a tenant in my house for the first few months I owned it. As I toured it for the first time, she sidled up to me and said "If you need someone to clean it, hire me. I'm good." It was less a request than an order, said with such aplomb I'd have agreed on the spot if I could have overcome the guilt of putting what felt like my own grandmother into servitude.
Teresa doesn't hear well, but her shining steely eyes miss nothing. Her voice is an unmistakable trumpet (albeit one played by Louis Armstrong) that heralds her presence everywhere. Like other older women of the town, she walks uphill to church every day and wears a photo of her dead husband on a delicate gold chain around her neck. Right from the start we delighted in the fact that our names are the same and our families are both from further south -- mine from Campania; hers from Calabria. I fell instantly in love with her.

Like many people of Castiglione MR, she invited me to visit. I took her up on it. Several times. Once, while sitting in front of the TV, a healthy fire she had made herself warming the sitting room, she railed against Berlusconi's image. I noticed it made her fingers fly faster through the work she was doing. She was making a coverlet for  a new baby.

The work is called "uncinetto" she told me: tiny, delicate crochet stitches  that add up to doilies, blankets, hats, baby shoes, even an intricate rosary. I watched her needle dart in and out of nearly imperceptible holes, combining to magically weave flower or bird designs into the work. I knew I had to learn this craft.
So, on my next visit, I bounced through Teresa's door with a bag containing two balls of thin white thread and a crochet hook whose end I could barely see.
"Will you teach me?" I asked.
Teresa instantly stopped, looked at me as though I'd just proposed going to the moon, then threw her head back into her signature laugh that is both cackle and girlish giggle. Then the lesson began.
Teresa made a chain. Wrap and pull. Wrap and pull. When it was about 4 inches long, she handed it to me.
"Come back when you have this much." Her hands were spread to about a foot apart - another 8 inches for me to create.

At home, I tried to replicate her moves and rhythm. Wrap and pull. Wrap and pull. Easy. I remembered this from my crochet and macrame' hippie days. The problem was the tension. My chain wasn't lacy and consistent like hers. Some rows were big, loose, loops, and others tight knots. 

Italians have a saying "Fare e disfare e' l'arte d'imparare" (To do and undo is the art of learning.) Ho fatto io quest' arte tantissimo! I did a lot of the art of doing and undoing. Moreso than I was able to DO the actual art of uncinetto.
After two days, I had my chain. Ran down the hill to Teresa's house, pleased as punch to know I'd be initiated into phase two of "fare".
Slogged back up to my house two hours later. Phase two consisted of inserting the hook through holes invisible to my eye, wrapping the thread several times around it, and pulling the enlarged mass back through several microscopic openings.

 I fumbled. Lost the thread. Got the hook stuck halfway through the holes. Dropped everything on the floor several times. My hand position was wrong, fingers ill positioned. Teresa took them and bent them into place, putting the work into the proper position relative to hands and fingers. OW! I felt like I was being tutored by a master prestidigitator: one finger here, another several awkward inches away, knuckles up, knuckles down, one digit moving in opposition to another, wrists tilted at a strange angle. After 45 minutes of contorting my hands, Teresa took the uncinetto into her own, 80-ish, arthritic ones.
"Faccio io. E poi, lo provi. Guarda!"
[I'll do it and then you try. Watch!]
Then her fingers were off to the races. Even my brain couldn't keep up. Did she do two stitches or five before inserting the needle? How did she make the little chain that links the rows at even intervals to form the lovely windowpane pattern characteristic of uncinetto? But most of all, how the hell did she see??? Row after row formed in a flash, then woosh, she handed the work to me.
"Prova!" she said, grinning. [Try]

I did. Marveling at my clumsiness as Teresa side-coached.
"Stringi!" [Pull!]
"Troppo lento!" [Too loose.]
"Troppo stretto!" [Too tight!]
"Giri. Tiri.  Metti in bucca." [Turn. Pull. Put in the hole.]
Every three attempts, she would shoo my hands aside and pull out the stitches. Disfare. [Undo] Nooooooo!
Fare. [Do]
Giro. Tiro. Metto in bucca. [I turn. I pull. I put in the hole.]
Fare.
Disfare.
Fare.
Disfare.
Over an hour later I heaved a huge sigh. The work hadn't progressed one iota!
Teresa eyed me with a mix of curiosity, incredulity, and concern.
"Sei stanca? she asked. [Are you tired?]
Body, no, I explained. Brain, yes.
"Allora. Fai una pausa. Lo provi alla casa tranquilamente. E poi torni domani o doppodomani. Vedro' il tuo lavoro e continuiamo. Cafe?" [Allora (my favorite Italian word, which has no literal translation, but begins just about every Italian's sentence. Something like "Okay, then..."). Take a break. Try it at home. I'll look at your work and then we'll continue. Coffee?]
I accepted it gratefully. Along with biscotti and fruit.
For three days now I've been struggling to duplicate Teresa's handiwork. My hands have gone numb. My wrists ache. The slender thread is so kinked from repeatedly "disfar- ing" that the work sproings all over when I try to add to it and keeps jerking out of my hands every 5 seconds. I've been near to tears several times.
"What the heck!" I think. "This is little old lady stuff! How hard can it be?"
But it is. My hands do not want to stay in position, the needle gets stuck in the tiny holes or slips out just as I've gotten it through after 30 attempts, my sweaty hands are turning the pristine white thread gray, and my eyes are so squinted up they've nearly disappeared into my head. I set aside the needle, ball of thread, and tiny patch of work. This is stupid. I'm not cut cut out for this. How presumptuous! This is a tradition learned over decades. Teresa said she began when her 40+ year old sons were babies (oh, yeah, how do you have time to focus on this stuff with BABIES!). Clearly I am made of lesser cloth. I'm kidding myself, a wanna-be Abruzzese Nonna in training. I put the work back in the bag.
Two days later, I pick it up. I saw the owner of the local stationary store sitting outside the shop door needling away. When I remarked how difficult the craft is, she smiled and shook her head.
"No, no! E' facile. Ma ci vuole tempo. Piano, piano." [No- it's easy. But it takes time. Slowly, slowly]
Piano, piano. Those are words I've heard repeatedly here. In response to everything from work I said I wanted to do on the house to having my family come visit, to being served continuous waves of food. Piano, piano. I'm not a piano, piano kind of gal. More like a get-it-done-Mario-Andretti-style type. This will be a good lesson for me. I resume the work. Piano, piano. Even though I forget how many stitiches Teresa told me to chain each time. Piano, piano. Even thought the rows' lengths are all uneven. Piano, piano. Even though my window panes are large, loose, loopy arcs compared to Teresa's tight rectangles.
Three days later, I've done enough fare e disfare to show her. She studies the piece.
"Non e' male", she says. [Not bad] I grin.
Then she pulls everything -- EVERYTHING -- out! I have to restrain a little bleat of pain.
But now Teresa really gets to work.

She orders me to sit right up next to her. Watch. Count. Pass the needle. Loosen. Tighten. A row forms in a flash. turn In. Out. 2X. Loop. Through 3 loops. Thread over index finger, work beneath. Stretch the completed part in your right hand between the middle finger and thumb.
"Guarda! Guarda! Cosi'!" [Watch! Watch! Like this!]
Then it's my turn. Uncross your legs, she barks. You need room! Stringi! Pull! No-no! Troppo! Too much! Ecco. There. Uno. Due. E passa. One, two, and pass through. We do and undo. I work piano, piano. After an hour, out of about 30 window panes, I have successfully completed 5. She points to each one. She smiles. "Brava!" she says. I float home.
Over the next few days I work piano piano on several rows. They're still not as neat as Teresa's, but they are becoming more similar. I take her a large piece of completed work. She nods approval. Work until this is easy, she says. Then I'll show you how to make designs. I tell her I can't wait! I'm leaving soon. I'll have 9 whole months of fare and disfare.
I stopped by Teresa's house this morning for an "arrivederci" before departing for the US. "Alla prossima", I say [Until next time]
"E l'uncinetto?", she asks.
"I'm working on it piano piano", I reply. "Maybe when I return I'll be as good as you!"
She laughs her girlish cackle as we hug. As we step apart, I realize both sets of eyes are glistening.

Teresa's work

Teresa's work

My work!

No foto!

Alas, gentle reader. there are no photos available for this post. You will have to turn inward and use your imaginations to see images of this extraordinary house in Penne, a town just 25 minutes from Casa da Carmine.
There could have been photos. One of my current guests is a photographer. She teaches is at Penn Manor High School. She has a fancy-scmanzy camera and has taken at least 700 outstanding photos since her arrival in Abruzzo on July 18. Her camera was slung around her shoulder when we entered the home. But Ken, one of the owners said, "We wanted a monastery. I couldn't find one, so this will have to do."  As monitors inside many of Italy's chief religious halls, such as the Sistine Chapel, caution, out of deference to this hallowed space, there was No Foto! So reader, you will have to, for the most part, make your own pictures.
Picture this:
Seven people gather at the outdoor dining area of  Giumpy's, a restaurant in Penne accessed via a steep, cobblestoned incline. The view over the city is, of course, breathtaking. The sun is beginning to set and in the midst of houses silhouetted by shadows cast in its wake, one bright, yellow structure is illuminated. It is as if something holy is being highlighted. We seven turn to comment on this sight, when, from behind us, spirited voices adorned with refined British accents capture our attention. I turn. Entering into our midst is a stately man resembling a thinner and fitter Winston Churchill, and his partner, Ken. Our own Winston Churchill, John, is fascinating enough, his gentle yet stern voice admonishing the Cairn Terrier he has on a leash to leave off trying to attack a cat. But Ken...Ken is riveting.
Picture this:
He is dressed all in white: linen suit, silk shirt open to reveal a perfectly tanned chest discreetly adorned with a gold cross on a chain, a triangle of white handkerchief poking out of his jacket pocket, shoulder-length grey-white hair, and ice-blue eyes that nonetheless sparkle with warmth and life. He claps those eyes on you, and you cannot turn away. He is a ringer for Peter O'Toole in "The Ruling Class". As he launches into a lively explanation of the origin of the name of the Cairn Terrier breed, I am suddenly at Westminster with an urgent need for this information. When we finally are seated for dinner, not surprisingly, he is at the head of one end of the table; John is at the other.
Ken is an artist. John an engineer.  They are friends of Gerry and Shirley, two friends from Penne who invited me and my houseguests to dinner. John and Ken are from London. They have lived and adventured together for nearly 50 years, two of them in their house in Penne. Ken is a mural painter. He gained notoriety years ago when he was sought out  to decorate Harrod's department store in London. He has been an honored guest on the QE2, where he was forced to exit the ship through the galley to avoid hoards of admirers and reporters who would not have let him pass without waylaying him to seek his attention.
Dinner is peppered with wine, accounts of their travels, their move from their house in the south of France to Italy, and lots of laughter in which Ken's blue eyes ignite and infect us all. Afterwards, we are invited to their house for digestivi.
Picture this:
The entrance door is a high wooden arch, at least 30 feet in length and broad as a cathedral door. It opens into a courtyard, exposed to the night sky, in which a fountain gurgles a gentle welcome.
I'd ordered a pizza for dinner, which I only half consumed. It is clutched to my chest in an indecorous cardboard box. Ken invites me to leave it on the white iron table sitting next to the fountain. It seems sacreligious to do so, so I freeze in place. Ken gently takes the box from me and casually plunks it on the table.
"Come in", he says, sweeping a thin arm in the direction of an open arch beyond the table. "I'm somewhat of a Jesus freak, you see. I wanted a monastery, so I'm making one." And there's the sparkling laugh that again lights up the eyes. So I move in the direction of the line of his arm.
Picture this:
The room extends upward to a vaulted ceiling which could easily be the nave of a church. The first sketch that catches one's eye is a floor-to-tip of vault rendering of the holy ghost with an olive branch. Next to it stands a full-color replication of one-third of a triptich of the Virgin Mary, replete with blue robe trimmed in gold. "This one was ordered by the King of Malta, you see", Ken says completely devoid of braggadoccio. "It's my own style, but it follows the rules of what the icon must have. You see - the three folds on her right shoulder? Without those, it would not be a true icon." And he proceeds to explain the other details needed in order to capture true icon status. "We can do them in our own style, you see. But they must contain the requisites." I'm awed and fixated.
Picture this:
On the far wall of this room, there is scaffolding set up, Michelangelo style, for Ken's current work: Another huge mural that covers the surface wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling. It is the Sacred Heart of Jesus. His eyes are drawn so that no matter where you move, they follow you. You are held in the holy time and space of that gaze no matter where you go. Studies and sketches for this mural are strewn throughout the room. Paintings of more icons rest against every surface. He brushes them aside when asked about them. "Just some small things." He is more interested in throwing open the shuttered doors that lead out to the balcony. John steps in. "Oh, these clouds! If it were clear we could see the Gran Sasso. And on pristine days, you can see almost to Rome. 150 miles." "Miles?" I think. But then Ken is beside me independently corroborating the fact.
Picture this:
We are now invited into the sitting room. Above one long, suede couch is a giant mirror in a gold frame. Giant as in, Harrod's probably has store windows smaller than this. "That's an interesting frame", says Gerry. "Tell us about it."
"Oh", John says, "It looks carved, but it's not you know. It's hand-molded plaster painted with gold leaf. It's the only one in existence, really. We brought it from the house in France." He laughs. "If we get into a bind in our old age, we could sell it. It might keep us going a bit."
Ken enters the room. "Is this all your work?" Kim, my photographer guest, asks. "Yes", he replies, and smiles a childish, self-pleased grin, as if we have just pointed out drawings tacked with a magnet to a refrigerator door.
Picture this:
As I am gawking at the mirror and the chandelier above it, my eyes alight on a painting on a small wall next to the door leading out of the sitting room. It is tucked almost in a corner. It does not look like Ken's work, but the style is familiar. "Who is the artist?" I venture to inquire. John's voice is like a clap of thunder:
"Caravaggio."

                                                Not the Caravaggio in Ken and John's house, but close

Kim and I freeze, not daring to make eye contact or ask the obvious: "An ORIGINAL Caravaggio????"
But it becomes clear that this is exactly what it is. John recounts the story of contacting an art expert, an American, about the fact that he has this painting, a boy eating fruit against a very, very dark background. It seems this "expert" had not known of the existence of this painting and neglected to include it in his definitive book on Caravaggio. John's email to him, informing him of its existence was met with a reply the equivalent of "If you say so." Again John laughs. "If it's not authenticated it could be worth a half million pounds. If it is..." He shrugs. "Several million. Oh, but I'd sell the mirror before I would part with that, even if we're way too old and dottering to take care of ourselves."
Picture this:
Kim and I transfixed, eyes darting from Caravaggio, to mirror, to ivory carving in yet another gilt frame, to a five-foot high sculpture of a horse's head that looks like it was taken from Picasso's "Guernica", back to the Caravaggio. We are so silent it's like we're at a solemn mass. Ken's monastery. It's here.
Kim's camera hangs limp at her side. She cannot bring herself to use it. No foto!

Do ants have saints?

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
10 AM. New guests are arriving tomorrow. Must leave house at 5:30 AM and drive to Rome's Fiumicino Airport to pick them up.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Ok. Finish laundry by 11:30 AM. Clean bathrooms. Wash floors. Should take me to 3:30. Still time to zoom down to the Iper department store to get a lighter cover for the bed in the Valley View bedroom. Way too hot for the monster comforter on there now! Then home by 7 or so. Laundry will be dry. Make beds. Put on coffee pot for the morning wake-up. Should be able to be in bed by 9 and get plenty of sleep for the 3 1/2 hour drive through Rome during rush hour. I can do this!
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
3:00 laundry and floors are done. Wait! Gotta stop for groceries, too. Make list. Stop at bank for cash. On the way to Iper by 5. Okay. I can still do this.
Traffic.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
But, I am still able to get everything I need and return to the house by 8. Take bedspread out of package. Needs ironing. Okay. Shouldn't take to long. Still can be in bed by 9:30. Run to kitchen to get iron.  WHAAAAAT? Ants!! All over the kitchen table! Crawling over the honey jars, in the fruit bowl, down the table legs. Holey moley!!
Luckily, there's ant spray in the cabinet from a few weeks ago when they appeared in the downstairs kitchen. I had blithely thought I'd pick some wildflowers to artfully arrange in a large, old wine jug next to the fireplace. Unfortunately, along with the wild flowers came wild ants. But I sprayed the suckers, got rid of the flowers, and defeated the panthehon of nature. So I thought. I hadn't seen any others for a week, but now they'd returned with a vengence and invaded the kitchen. The kitchen, for crying out loud! How do you welcome people into your house with a tabletop full of ants!
I grab the spray. Remove everything from the tabletop. Throw out all the fruit. Put the honey jars to soak in hot water. And spray the heck out of the table top.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
While I let the poison work, I run to the sitting room with the iron. The bedspread is huge. Too huge for the ironing board. It has to be ironed in small sections and turned periodically. Very carefully. So as not to wrinkle the already ironed parts. And slowly.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
OUCH! In order to make as much room as possible for the bedspread, I must relegate the iron to a tiny piece of the ironing board. There is little room to work. I burn my arm. I run to the kitchen to throw cold water on it, even though I know this is not the optimum treatment for a burn.
A pool of dead ants lies at the bottom of one table leg. But others are scurrying up from underneath the table edge. From seemingly out of nowhere. What the heck? I open the silverware drawer. It is full of....ants! They swarm away as soon as light hits them.
I splash water on my arm, take the honey jars out of the hot water, rinse them, drain the water, and empty   the contents of the silverware drawer into a sinkful of more hot, soapy water. The ants are now pouring out of the drawer, down table legs, back onto the tabletop. I rip the drawer from the table. Spray like mad. Run out of spray. Shit! The iron is still on! Dash back to sitting room. Burn is throbbing and starting to blister. Wish I'd bought the aloe plant I was admiring in Bricco! Too bad.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
After 45 minutes or so, the bedspread is ironed. 9:30. Make the bed. Back to kitchen to wash down table and drawer, dry all silverware, clean off honey jars and wrap in plastic bags, put in 'fridge. Dead ants piling up on table, floor. Sweep them up, unceremoniously dump them in trash can, and clean surfaces.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Gah! Must check flight schedule to be sure plane will arrive on time, pull car rental info from files, check purse to be sure passport is there! Fire up laptop on top of table. Stray ants weaving in drunken curves towards me. Whap! Dead ant. Type type type. Whap! Dead ant! Whap! Whap! Whap! Type type type. They keep advancing. I keep slapping them dead with my hands. They are hearty little suckers. My hand begins to sting from the force of killing them. But they keep sending in reinforcements. Ok. This is war! Whap! Type. Whap! Type! With each blow there seem to be less advancing.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
10:30. I shut down the laptop. Grab espresso pot and fill with water and coffee. Place on stove at the ready. Open cabinet to get sugar bowl. Ants!!!  I am now out of ammunition! And getting very tired. Everything comes out of the cabinet: pasta, flour, cereal, jars of bruschetta and garllic spread, jelly, sugar,  cellophane bags of cantucci. What can be saved is sealed in plastic. What can't is tossed in the trash can.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
11:30. Can't leave the trash in the can. Pull it out and seal it. Dash to the front door to take it to the dumpster.
Now this is the metaphysical part. The nearest dumpster is just a few steps outside the door of one of three shrines in town. I mean, here is this sacred spot, with a pristine altar cloth, fresh flowers every day, and a lovingly preserved 16th century fresco on the back wall. A revered spot right next to a dumpster. This particular shrine is dedicated to Santa Lucia. As I pass quickly by the open door, light falls on her statue and I can't tell if she's smiling piteously at me or laughing at me. Because as soon as I lift the trash bag to toss it in the dumpster, I notice there is a hole in the bottom. I turn to look behind me and see I have left a trail of coffee grinds, greasy paper towels, cantalope rinds, and moldy bread in my wake. It goes all the way back to the front door. I ditch the trash bag, and make quick eye contact with the saint as I dash back to the house. "Okay, little missy. Can you help with this one? Is there a patron saint of the battle against ants? And are you she?" I follow the trail back to the house, past more saints, the ones that line the stairs up to the Church.  I'm told they are protectors. But whose side are they on? Mine or the ants? It's hard to tell, because as I enter the house, I see that the trail continues through the downstairs kitchen, up the stairs, and into the main kitchen, where there are still....ants!
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Midnight.
I grab broom, mop, bucket, and bleach. Surely bleach has got to be a little toxic to the critters I am battling. They have no weapons but their numbers and persistence. Surely I can overcome these! Sweep.  Wash. Wipe. Dry. Repeat. On floors. In cabinets. Every single one in the kitchen. In all the drawers. Pull everything out of the fireplace. Clean that, too. By now I'm so tired, my latent Catholicism is taking over and I'm praying to any saint I can think of to rid me of this scourge! But just when I think I have defeated them once and for all, I see another three or seven crawling out from somewhere I haven't cleaned yet. And I wonder...are THEY praying, too? Do ants have saints? Gawdamighty I hope not! I can't imagine a full-blown jihad with insects!
I continue cleaning, bleaching, wiping, wrapping everything in the kitchen in plastic.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
It is 1:30 AM when I believe I've seen the last of the ants.
I drop into bed, fully clothed, so I can sleep until 5:15.
Mwaaaap. Mwaaaaaap. Mwaaaaaap. Mwaaaaap.
The alarm goes off about three hours after I've finally stopped fretting about ants and have dropped off to sleep. I creep anxiously into the kitchen. No ants at the coffee pot site. No ants on the table. No ants in the silverware drawer. No ants in the cabinets.
But did you know ants are cannibals? At least these are! I see a knot gathered around the body of their fallen comrade, carrying him off. I can't help it. "Dear God, help me!" I say out loud as I stomp on them.
I quickly scoop up the bodies, and throw them out the front door right at the feet of the saints.
"There", I say, "Let it either be a lesson to all the ants' saints, or a sacrificial offering to mine."
Slam.
In the house, I grab car keys, purse, a few untainted cantucci, and head for the autostrada.
I don't know about you, but I'm not quite so religiously inclined as to trust only in saints. At the airport, while waiting to retrieve the new rental car I will share with the guests, I slip away from my them and text my property manager. "HELP! IF U HAVE KEY 2 HSE, PLS CK 4 ANTS B-4 I RETURN. TERRIFIED GUESTS WILL B GREETED BY INSECTS!"
Several minutes later, she texts me back, "HAVE SPRAYED HSE. FEW ANTS. HOPEFULLY WILL BE GONE BY UR RETURN."
During the ride back to the house, I try to make breezy conversation, pointing out the mountain ranges and naming hilltop towns. But inside my head I'm praying. "Please don't let there be ants. Please don't let there be ants. Please don't let there be ants."
We arrive. I park the car. Help them with luggage. Open front door.
Pound pound pound pound. My heart.
We enter the kitchen. One lone ant scurries away across the threshold. I covertly snuff him out. The guests love the kitchen. I exhale. I guess my saints won. My prayers were answered.

                                                                      My Saints

Ba-ba-ba Ba-ba-bra's Hand

"La vita e' l'arte d'incontro"
"Life is the art of meeting/connecting"  -- An Abruzzesi saying

Or, re-connecting, as the case may be.
Barbara, Gene, and his sister, Pam scored the winning bid for a week's stay a Casa da Carmine in a benefit auction for their local community theater. Gene and Barbara are theater friends from at least 20 years back. Their youngest son played 8-year old Thomas to my Sister Mary Igancious at above said theater. He's now grown, a veteran, with two children. THAT'S how long I've known them.
Our initial reconnection took place over their half-consumed cappucini in a snack bar at Pescara Centrale train station.We decided we'd better continue the process in the car while we could still make a run to it before a threatening squall lost its restraint. In the car, there was plenty of time for conversation.
Italians are inexorably drawn to tiny swimsuits, good restaurants (good food, in general), attractive people, and "saldi". These are the twice-yearly sales that herald the transition from winter-to-spring/summer fashion and vice-versa. They occur in January and July, when storefronts, community bulletin boards, and traveling adverts mounted on flatbed trucks are plastered with signs screaming "Saldi! Saldi! Saldi! Sconto fino a 70%!"
It was Saturday, July 2 - the first week-end day of the July saldi. To get to Casa da Carmine, we had to pass through every commercial area between Pescara and Castiglione Messer Raimondo. A 45-minute drive took 2 hours. Plenty of catch-up time.
It was astonishing to calculate how long it had been since we last saw each other -- 15 years! Eventful ones at that.
When we finally pulled up to the parking area behind the house, I became aware that it was difficult for Barbara to climb out of the back seat of our tiny, 2-door Fiat 500 after that long drive.
She saw me staring, uselessly and indelicately, and laughed. "It has been a long time!, she said. "You didn't know about my accident?"
I shook my head.
Here's the story she told me of how Barbara Got Run Over by an iPhone (user):
She was driving home from a job at Penn State, tooling along a stretch of route 322 that is mostly, but not entirely tree-lined. Going a respectable 65 MPH or so. In the passing lane a young man zipped by doing at least 80. Driving illegally with only a permit. Fiddling with his iPhone. As he passed, he clipped her driver's side ever so briefly. But enough to send her off the road at the only treeless point, where she rolled down an embankment, turning over 3 times before coming to rest at the bottom. Thankfully, right-side up. Barbara says all she remembers is wondering why there was nothing but white in front of her. The airbag. Which pinned her in her seat. Luckily. Her right leg was split vertically down the middle and if she had tried to get out of the car to walk, she would have injured it even more seriously. Within minutes she was air-lifted to Hershey Medical Center, where she spent several days in intensive care, had several surgeries, and was set up for several months of physical therapy, much of it while in a wheelchair.
That was about 4 years ago, but I could still see Gene's eyes glisten when he said "We're lucky to have her. You just never know."
Barbara broke into a big, loopy grin.
"And that's why I'm in Italy!" she said. 
During their stay, we reconnected over Adriatic beaches, olive farms run a handsome guy named Fabio, local gelatti, restaurants with breathtaking views, and a cooking lesson in my kitchen. 
Barbara's pasta turned out a little different than mine and Pam's. When she measured flour through cupped hands, it kept running out through a hole in her left one. She had lost a finger in the accident, too. Ironically, the middle one. No matter. While she was here, she was prone to giving gestures which did not require one. 

                                                    Barbara's Hand

Something Fishy This Way Comes

We in America tend to be sheltered from the source of our food. I recall a story that Greg's daughter, Kate, told of a young man in a summer camp in which she worked. It was a camp for inner city youth with limited "advantages", such as, I suppose, a local butcher. She explained to the young person that she wasn't eating the hot dogs offered for the free lunch because they were made of animal products. In fact, she had explained, hot dogs came from pigs. At which point said youth jumped up on a chair and shouted to the entire lunchroom: "Yo! Don't eat these hot dogs, man! Y'all are eating pig! Hot dogs is PIG!!"
It never occurred to me that the same veil of ignorance could be suddenly yanked from my own eyes with the delayed realization that "calamari", that exotic delicacy in which I delight in so many forms at home is, yes, actually.......squid.

Fishmonger Wagon

The fish man comes to Castiglione on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He pulls up his little van at about 10 AM just below the back of my house, across from the bellevedere, announcing his presence by playing Italian and Italianate music over a tinny loudspeaker. For a few weeks I had been thinking about how to immerse myself in local culture by striking up a conversation with this fixture of the town. What could I talk about? That I could actually have a conversation about fish did occur to me, and after a week of pondering and coming up with nothing more literarily imaginative and unique, I did just that. Thursday was as good a day as any to make pasta with fresh fish for pranzo, so when I heard the music (Rosemary Clooney's "Mambo Italiana, I kid you not) announce his arrival, I ran down to the wagon with my wallet. Too many of the fish looked too foreign, too far from the way they arrive on a plate to be viable. I was feeling overwhelmed and disoriented when he spread his arms wide over the selection of marine life in numerous baskets and plastic tubs and said "Prego" (Please...). I not only did not know the names of any of the fish in Italian, I didn't know them in English! The only familiar sea creature my mind could alight on was my quintessentially Italian favorite appetizer, calamari. So I said I'd take some. The fishmonger slapped several onto a scale. I said "Troppo. Sono da sola. (Too much; I'm by myself)". We went back and forth for a while about how much calamari  a person of my size requires, and then I got into the real conversation "Come prepararli? (How do you prepare them?). This precipitated a long explanation of what sort of dish you were going to use them in, or were they to be used for a sauce, as a main dish or accompaniment, etc, etc. Essentially, the basic Italian answer to most questions: "Depende". I told him I would be using them with pasta, and he shrugged and said, "Just cut them and put them in a pan" (I forget what this was in Italian.). So I ran back up to my kitchen and dumped them onto a cutting board. That's when I suddenly became cognizant of the source of this generic antipasto I'd enjoyed for years: It was an animal! With eyes! And guts! And a spine, for cryin' out loud! My automatic reaction was to look around for someone to deal with these guys. To get me off the hook. Too bad. It was up to me and me alone. If I wanted to eat that afternoon, I had to take on the transformation from life form to serving portion my very own self. I grabbed a knife and brought it down. Chop. There went the head. Chop. Off came the tentacles. Pause. Deep breath. My hand went all the way down into the body. Out came the guts. Snap. Lastly, the spine. It looked like a piece of transparent plastic, like you might see holding a zip-lock bag together. Chop chop chop chop down the body and finally there was something resembling the nondescript little rings you see underneath all the crispy breading in the red plastic basket at the local TGI Fridays. Now I was safe. Combined with olive oil, garlic, zucchini, and some fresh tomatoes several minutes later, I could almost forget that my food was once alive. Until next time.

Italian Lessons

A month in a new country can teach you a lot. Some things I've learned so far:
I.Words-"il fulmine" (lightening) as in "Il fulmine ha colpito mia casa (the lightening has struck my house)
             "caldaia" (water heater) as in "Adesso la caldaia non funzione" (now the water heater  doesn't work)
              "il technico della caldaia (the water heater technician) as in "Il technico ha riparato la caldaia (the            
                water heater technician has repaired the water heater).
   
Mountain storms can be wicked!

II. Routing: There is no such thing as a "short cut" in the Italian road system. Unless you want to find
                    yourself crawling up a steep, cobbled street that is only a fraction of an inch wider than
                    your tiny Italian car (with the mirrors pulled in), only to reach the top and have a concrete
                    cone block the way. Not wishing to repeat your journey backwards, you skirt around the
                    barrier by hopping the "curb", drive down the pedestrian walkway, turn onto a one-way
                    street going the wrong way, and finally make your way back to the main road. Believe
                    the nice Italian hardware store owner when he tells you to go "sempre dritto" (always
                    straight ahead)

III, Romanticizing character: I have found the people of Abruzzo to be the kindest, most open and
                    generous folk I have ever encountered. It is easy to lull oneself into a romantic notion
                    of a people based on what you have found to be the case most often. I take you, as an
                    instructional point to the Little Man:

My guest Joanna and I, both being theater people, were intrigued by the story of Alba Fucens. These are the ruins of a Roman town near the city of Avezzano. In about 300 BC, the Roman emperor decided that conquering the town was not enough. He wanted to send 3,000 legionnaires to populate it and make it really Roman. So the guys walked from Rome, with their families, and settled there. And 100 years later, bored with the locals, I guess, they erected a 2,000 seat amphitheater. This we had to see, so we set off.
After testing the acoustics in the theater (incredible - we could stand in the center and speak in normal tones and our voices carried to every part of the seating area!), we climbed to visit the Church of San Pietro ad Albens, which was built over an ancient temple to Apollo. It is not usually open to the public, but there was a family there from the area and they had phoned the caretaker who was coming to let them in. They invited us to come in with them. Although it was a hot enough day that I was regretting the weight of my jeans, the Little Man who was the caretaker arrived wearing long pants - the kind of dark green, mid-weight cotton associated with work trousers, and, in fact, which I remember my father wearing. He complimented these with a long-sleeved wool sweater, a little wool golf-style hat, and beat-up leather lace-up shoes. One knee was slightly more bent than the other and he moved very slowly, but with precision and authority, reaching up nearly beyond his grasp to insert the key in the lock, kneeling to remove a wooden plank to reveal the original floor beneath, or negotiating the steep, curved, stone stairs down to the crypt so he could point out and explain the symbols on it: a lamb with a cross, a large plain cross, and a large flower, symbols, he said, of the knights templar. When Little Man was done with his tour, Marco, the dad of the local family, dug into his wallet and gave him a tip. I did likewise. Little Man pocketed the tips with a "grazie", then shuffled us over to an worn former holy-water font. Always summoning us to follow with the same economical wave of his left hand, he reached into the font for two sheets of paper. Each had the history of the church written on it, one in English and one in Italian. He placed them in the hands belonging to the respective language's speaker. Then he asked us to pay for them. Said his daughter would kill him if he gave them away for nothing. I didn't catch what he had said; his accent and/or dialect was too thick. Marco gave him a coin, and then translated for me, saying "We just gave him over 20 euro and he still wants money for a piece of paper." Then he chuckled. I guess sometimes you have to make your "spizzi" any way you can.

And even in an area known for its generous spirit, there is the occasional hustler. You just don't expect it to be Little Man!

The House that Dad built

My daughter told me I should start a blog. Because I've been doing almost daily Facebook posts about my adventures running a guesthouse in Abruzzo, Italy. I never thought to blog about it. Didn't Frances Mayes do that already, although at that time it was called a book? I've never done a blog before. Unless that was the name of something in the 60's. Besides, blogging never sounded like something fun to do. Sounds kind of premenstrual. "What are you doing?" "I'm BLAH-GGGING!" "Oh, I'm so sorry." But, anyway, the younger generation rules, so I am following her advice.
My father gave me this house in Italy, although he doesn't know it. He is no longer earth-bound. My dad was a small man with an outrageous personality. He was uncontrollably frank and spontaneous in his verbal and physical expression. Once he lectured above mentioned daughter, very loudly, since he was nearly deaf at the time, and very publicly in a crowded restaurant, about the dangers of hickies. He was unabashed in everything he did. He was whole-heartedly in love with my mother for their entire marriage and displayed it physically until the day she could no longer stand touch because the pain from her combined lung and breast cancer was too great. He was devastated when she died. He could finally stand it no longer, and breaking down in sobs, shared with me his decision to move out of the house she had loved and tended so throughly for over 40 years. I can't remember how many times he asked "What do you think your mother would say about this?" "Do you think this is the right thing?" It was. He came to live in a retirement community near me and was having a blast. He even asked one of the activities coordinators out on a date! And when I cleaned out his apartment there about a year later, I found a box of condoms hidden in his sock and T-shirt drawer! But his new lease on life was short-lived. 8 months after he moved into the apartment, he was diagnosed with mesotheleoma. He'd gotten it working with asbestos as a fork-lift driver in a warehouse. I had no idea what the disease was. Still can't spell it. But I found out that one could sue the makers of asbestos if one had it. I asked if he'd like to do that and he said "Yeah...let's get the bastards!" He'd ask more and more often about details of my trips to Italy.  He even began to think in the native Italian he had spoken with his father and mother as a child.
 "Hey," he blurted one day, "Whatever happened to that Drinkwater girl?"
"Who?" I asked.
"You know, you know," he said, as though he was requesting an update about one of my children, "Your friend, the Drinkwater girl. She moved away when you were in high school. Ever hear from her?"
First of all, I was astonished that he'd remembered her. Our friendship occured about 40 years ago. Second, I realized he was referring to her married name "Bevelaqua" (Drinkwater" in Italian). As he faded from this world, he was going back in time.
He did not live to see the settlement, but during the whole legal process, as he deteriorated from a cane, to a walker, to a wheelchair holding his oxygen tank, he kept saying "After this is over, when I'm better, we'll go to Italy."
I took the settlement money to Italy and bought a house. I want to give as many people as possible the experience of this extraordinary area, Abruzzo, which is so much like the Italy he knew about and from which his father came. The experience he never had. I've named the house for him: Casa da Carmine.

Mille grazie, babo! XO