Notes from Your Correspondent on the Ground

Notes from Your Correspondent on the Ground

Around the Corner in Castiglione Messer Raimondo

The Journey: 

 I am heading back to Italy. Americans are not allowed in at this point. But I am an Italian citizen and officially registered as a resident in my little town. There is a house to care for. There is my soul to heal. I go. 

Curbside at HIA

Harrisburg

Wide open, empty space in an airport? I've rarely flown out of Harrisburg "International" so I can't say how different this is. All I can say is that I've never seen any airport I've been in so empty. 

The staff was so relaxed, friendly, and REAL (as in - like real people-to-people interaction not official veneer mode) - you almost felt like you were at a spa instead of an airport. Yes - that  surreal!

The plane was so empty the flight attendant actually said "Go ahead and sit wherever you want so you can maintain social distance." Everyone moved to optimize the space. Everyone wore a mask. 

And then.....

Dulles!

I thought having my second stop in a small-ish airport would also make this leg somewhat laid back. I thought I could ease my way gradually up to the larger airport that was my last layover in Frankfurt. 

But NO!

It was chaos. 

It felt like the airport and United staff were caught off guard with a renewed crush of travelers (or Europeans trying to get the heck out of Dodge) and they were making stuff up as they went along. There was a crowd of people going every which way, trying to determine which line they should be in. There were at least 4:

2 for boarding

1 for a "document check" for people holding American passports

1 (or so) for a document check for people holding non-American passports.

And some scattered milling about between all of them. 

It was hard to tell which line was which. You couldn't board without the "document check".  So even  if your seat number was called for boarding, if you got to the front of the boarding line without the stamp on your boarding pass that verified you'd been "checked", you were sent to the back of the "document check" line. 

Like me.

As a result, I was the VERY last one to board the plane.

The check-in guy turned to the gate attendant and said,

"We're good to go. Master-bruno is here."

"Mastr-oh-bwon-oh", I corrected him.

He was still looking at the gate attendant.

"Yeah. Master-bruno is the last one."

But I have to say, once we were high in the air and I looked out the window into the clouds, the joy of being airborne was delicious. 

The Plane

Full. Packed. No possible social distancing. The only thing about it that looked COVID-minded was that everyone was wearing masks. Most properly. 

Of course, United DID give me the option to re-book if this situation didn't suit my taste. 

Right. 

From one mess to another. 

United had already nearly sabotaged the trip by re-routing my return journey with an impossible connection. Without telling me. 

Anyone for a 10:20 AM flight out of Rome, with a connection in Brussels at 10:10 AM? 

i didn't realize I had booked time travel. 

I was not initially allowed to check in because of this impossibility. An unhappy Italian woman is not a pleasant Italian woman. The travel agent with whom I'd booked changed my return itinerary within an hour. 

So - I subjected myself to the sardine can that was UA flight 989 and sat in an aisle seat facing the aisle, creating as much breathing room as possible between me and my fellow passengers. 

I didn't eat or drink anything during the flight. I'd brought my own, thank you. I ate when no one else did, pulling up my mask just to put food in my mouth and then pulling it down to chew. When the rest of the passengers ate, all simultaneously with their faces uncovered, I tried to hold my breath for as long as possible between taking in air. Could they not have staggered the feeding so that 200+ people did not go naked faced in a small metal box all at once? 

In no time I stunk to high heaven of alcohol wipes and hand sanitizer. 

Shortly after the feeding ended, the flight attendants passed our forms we were required to fill out that asked for our names, destinations, contact information, and certifying that we had no COVID symptoms and hadn't had any for the past 14 days. Um. Shouldn't that have been asked BEFORE we boarded the plane? What if I said, "Yeah, I have a fever and chills and have had a dry cough for the past week."? What were they going to do? Issue me a parachute and oxygen mask and boot me out the door? 

Usually I nod off shortly after the plane reaches cruising altitude. Not this time. Difficult to sleep with a continuously screaming baby (how do they have the stamina to do that for 7 hours?) and an unhappy dog somewhere within 5 rows of mine. Plus, I didn't want to chance slumping over onto the giant man sitting next to me in the middle seat. He should have had his own plane, never mind his own row! He might have been a little peeved if I'd drooled on him in my sleep, as well.  I didn't want to chance it. My only choice was to lean away, into the din. I did finally fall into a deep sleep. Only to be nudged shortly after by this same man so his travel companion in the window seat could exit to go to the bathroom. Timing is everything. 

Frankfurt

Ahhhh....Europe. They've been dealing with this COVID thing longer and with more organization than the US. Everyone at the airport was masked, except those eating.Most even wore them properly - covering both mouth AND nose.Some people even wore both masks and face shields. I gave that piece of equipment a D-, though. I ditched them early on. They're ok if you enjoy the feeling of walking through thick fog, guessing what was a foot in front of you. 

Marks for standing 1 1/2 meters apart were everywhere. Seats sealed off so you could not sit directly next to anyone. 

Every 15 minutes or so there was an announcement about travel safety:

"We would like to remind you that it is obligatory to wear a covering over your nose and mouth at all times. And to remain 1.5 meters distant from other travelers. Thank you for your cooperation." 

No one pointed an automatic weapon at the loudspeaker and threatened to blow it to bits for taking away their liberty. How quaint. 

I allowed myself to purchase food and drink at an airport eatery. Then found a secluded place where I could eat. Airport food never tasted so scrumptious. I realized I had eaten only a plastic container of rice and broccoli and a few cherries since I'd left home 16 hours ago. 

I settled in to wait for my flight to Rome to board.

And waited. And waited. And waited. For 4 hours at Gate A62 - the departure gate listed on my boarding pass and all the departures boards throughout the airport. 

1:30 PM. local time. Boarding time for my 2 PM flight.

I listened for my group to be called. 

But,wait. They're giving boarding instructions in German and....not Italian. Some language I don't understand. ???? And there are too many numbers for this flight to match my flight number. I walk to the gate counter. The flight listed on the board above it is going to Warsaw, Poland.

Whaaaaaaaa..............???

Frantically, I try to open the United app I've just installed on my phone. It is taking forever to access flight information. So I hoist my backpack on aching shoulders, put the rolling suitcase wheels into 5th gear, and race to find the nearest flight departure board. And race. And race. Putting every bit of conditioning of thrice weekly, 3 1/2 mile runs to maximum use. Think it's hard shopping in a mask? Try running with a 15 -16 pound weight on your back pulling an equal or greater amount of weight behind you. And this gal ain't no spring chicken, honey. 

Finally -like the Lady of the Lake - a departure board appears ahead of me. My flight is listed -  leaving from Gate A1.

It is now 1:40. More running. But is it a straight line down the terminal to A1? Heck, no! There are at least 2 turn-offs into new, loooooong corridors. Speedier running. 

At 1:50 I finally see people gathered up ahead. Through the glasses which have now slipped down to my upper lip, I can barely make out the sign above the check-in counter. I think it says "A1". And I think the destination is Roma Fiumicino. 

Yes!

I scoot into the first line I see. It's raining like crazy outside. And gusty. Will we even take off?

Yes, again!

As soon as we do, I close my eyes. When I open them again, I look out the oval window to see it framing the red terracotta rooftops and ochre fields of the Italian countryside. 

I'm home!

When I enter my actual home 2 1/2 hours later, I unmask myself for the first time in over 24 hours. There are deep grooves behind my ears and red crescents under my eyes.I strip naked and throw my clothes into a plastic garbage bag, including my shoes. I never want to see them again. I shower, then march straight to the kitchen and gorge myself on the salami, cheese, and fresh tomatoes my property manager has left for me. After which I collapse in bed.

The next morning I part the shutters of the front bedroom to open the scene on the Gran Sasso Mountains glowing purple-grey in the new sun. Birds glide on the updrafts rising from the valley below them. Olive groves on their slopes shine silver-green in full leaf. 

The church bells start to ring.

My hungry soul begins to be sated.

I would walk through fire for this. 

The Gran Sasso Mountains (un photo-shopped) 

The Sense of Being

 We are making our way around the walled perimeter of town on our evening camminatata. Me, my Italian friend and neighbor, Carina, and my friend Kristen, another "Americana" who was smitten by this town and bought a house here. Four circumnavigations around the outer walls equals 5 k. We pump our arms and encourage each other, chatting in English amd Italian, falling to silence when the hills demand all our lung power. As we move through a narrow alley lined with terraced houses, Kristen exclaims, "There are so many smells!"
So there are! We start to identify each: coffee, begun now for the post-dinner accompaniment to i dolci, fried pepper aroma left over from the main dish, bread which has begun baking at il forno, which is what the locals still call the grocery store, even though it is now more than its original  incarnation of the town bakery. The bread will be fresh and ready for sale tomorrow morning. I make a mental note to get up early. There is an array of other smells I can't identify, but they linger as we motor past their sources, strong and distinct, giving us an extra dash of pleasure and pep. They form a sensory collage of life in this village.

  

 It occurs to me then how much your senses are heightened and fully engaged here. Sound bounces off of stone walls with sharp clarity and echoes in the dips between the hills. There is a seeming closeness and immediacy to conversations going on around you, even outside of the separating walls of your house. One friend told me from the loggia of his home in the country he can hear folks talking in the town a few kilometers away. When I eat dinner on my terrazzo I can hear the young voices and guitar accompaniment of evening mass happening below and around the corner. It's like having my own private house concert.

 All the sounds are clear and sharp. Their vibrations tingle in the air. There is little motorized sound to overpower it. No traffic buzzes by incessantly, producing a constant drone. If you are up early enough, you might catch the creak and rattle of a tractor cutting hay. You might hear yourself gasp as you watch it turn sideways to change direction horizontal to the steep grade,feeling your heart pound as you marvel that it doesn't tip over. 

You might catch the occasional rumble of a construction vehicle straining up the road. Going god knows where it's possible to go on roads that grow narrower and narrower as they go higher and higher. 

You can gauge life by your senses here. The screech of a rolling metal door means Alessandro is opening his tabacchi shop. It mist be 8:30 AM. The smell of garlic browning with a chaser of aroma of hot passata  means it's nearing 11. Pranzo is being prepared. A bit of smoke in the air means the pizzeria is heating up the wood ovens.   Must be 7 PM. And the sizzle and aroma of meat coming from several places around town means arrosticini is cooking. Lots of it. There must be a big soccer match on TV.  Expect a raucous night.

It is as if your senses are being played like a fine, masterfully crafted instrument. A string plucked here, a key pressed there.  Becoming a part of a symphony of sensory enlivenment. The sounds,sights,smells, tastes, touch are a rhapsody of life. Experiencing it, you thrum, you buzz, you hum with life yourself. You cannot escape feeling fully alive. But then, why would you want to? 

Tonight the pizza smells so good,the laughter at tables below me on the bellevedere is so sparkling, I'm going down to share in it. I can already taste the "salume piccante" on my classic pie! 

Bells are Telling

In my mind I call him a little  old farmer guy, although he may not be much older than I am. His grey/white hair is cropped so close to his head you can see his sunburned scalp. He sits in a boxy Fiat Panda, green paint faded, seats leaking batting everywhere, rust dotting the open druver’s side door. A song crackles in and out from a tinny radio, but he seems not to hear it. He is hunched over a sheet of lottery tickets, scratching away. I wonder what he is wishing for. I see him every day I go for a run down the country road that leads to the surrounding farms. I pass him driving towards town on my way out and see him sitting there on my way back. We have never spoken, but recognize each other because of our rituals and always raise a hand in a salute of acknowledgment.
My ritual is temporary, though. After three months of pounding down and huffing up the dusty, rutted dirt road, I will return to my brightly lit, air conditioned gym with the smooth sprung floors and state of the art workout machines. I will grunt and stretch alongside men and women in stylish technical workout wear. Little old farmer guy will continue to sit in his car in his sleeveless white T-shirt or plaid cotton shirt and work jeans, scratching off his tickets.
I will leave the women sitting on a bench across from the church steps, sides touching, slightly leaning into each other, like young girls waiting to be asked to dance. They are actually waiting for the statue of the Virgin Mary to emerge from the church door, carried on sturdy shoulders of volunteers to be transported through narrow alleys for one of the regular  feast days. They may have left votive candles with pictures of saints on them burning on windowsills.
I will leave the town to the echoes of the music of Danilo’s fish truck. It announces his arrival every Tuesday and Thursday at 8:30. Or 9. Or 10:30. You never know.But he always arrives.
I will leave the town to views of newly cut hay lying in curving lines arranged as artfully as any painting. I’ll leave the regular wait in the post office that is filled with talk of why the air conditioner isn’t cooling the room off or with updates on a mamma’s illness.
I will leave the town to its ongoing life, to its steady pulse.
It is a quiet Sunday afternoon as I write this. It is hot, so people are either indoors or at “il mare “  cooling off in the water. Only the pigeons are taking advantage of free water in the town fountain below - bobbing for a drink or fluttering for a bath. Here on my little terrazzo it is just me and the bells above in the church bell tower.
The bells! They are calm now. But earlier they were rambunctious- swinging, booming, insistent in their jubilant announcement of ALMOST mass, START of mass, communion, END of mass. When they have fulfilled their duty to the faith, they continue their duty to time- sounding it out in regular intervals.
When I first opened Casa da Carmine to guests I was terrified the bells regular rolling would send them running. I went to the commune to see about silencing them at night. Or dampening them on Sunday mornings. I wrote a letter to the mayor pleading my case. I lined the bedroom windows with noise-dampening curtains. On the audio program on my laptop I checked and rechecked the ambient noise levels against acceptable standards.
I went to the priest. He listened sympathetically then said I must go to the commune. I wrote another letter. I waited. I fretted. Even after glowing reviews came in. I waited for the other shoe to drop or bell clapper to wallop me upside the head. If only the bells could be silenced! What the heck- don’t people have clocks! Why do they need the damn bells!
A few weeks after this summer’s arrival I stood with my neighbor Fernando at the bellevedere across from the bell tower. The bells began to peal, robust and sonorous, swinging with mesmerizing grace despite their massive size. I threw my arms our towards them.
“Ahhh! Quelle campagne!! [Those bells]
Fernando smiled up at them.
Ah, sì! Nostre campagne! Senza le campagne non si sta bene! [Ah, yes! Our bells! Without our bells we don’t do well!]
I recalled then one visit to the commune. I was talking to a police officer, who would ultimately have to give the safety okay for anyone to go up and adjust the bells. When I proposed a partial moratorium on their ringing, he chuckled.
“Well “, he said, “One time the bells were broken. The commune wasn’t going to fix them. But the old women of the town stormed over to the mayor and demanded they be fixed. We’ve never let them go silent since, But you can try.”
Now I thought of the ladies sitting on the bench, widows all. They wear lockets with their husband’s photos in them around their necks. I imagine them awakening in the middle of the night, alone in bed. Alone for who knows how many years? Sleepy.Wondering “Is it time to get up to start another day? Should I lie here?”
The bells cut the silence and answer “ No, it’s too early.” Or “Yes, go ahead. It’s okay.”
Their vibrations fill empty space like a heartbeat. The women can rise or rest, assured.
And I admit, they have saved me from missing a bus when the alarm didn’t go off, from
 baking bread when I was lost in Facebook. They have reminded me to get my rear in gear when running so I don’t miss a meeting with friends.
The bells, when I leave, will continue to be their bells, though. They are their bells, everyone’s bells in their town, the town where everyone lives while I’m gone. They live with the bells and all the town presents or withholds day after day. They live with their love of it, then sorrows, frustrations, memories, joys, celebrations, rituals. Their hopes for a lottery win. They open themselves and their town for me and my guests to see. They share all they are and all that have willingly, generously. All that is here. Including the bells.

Domestic Arts 101

 Domestic Arts 101

I don't do laundry. Not in the US. Usually. It's not that I've dug into some kind of fertile feminist planting ground. I'm not making a statement. My husband prefers to do the laundry. He is particular about how it is done. And he has heard the horror stories from my children about shrinkage and colorization of white underwear. I suppose even a person fully secure in their masculinity draws the line at pink underwear. But here in Italy I am my own laundress. 

Hanging the wash today on my tiny triangle of a terrazzo, I was reminded of all the domestic tricks my housekeeper, Giovanna, has taught me. She came to me 7 years ago, my second one here. She is a combination cultural,liason and big sister, even though she is much younger than me. Her Italian domestic experience greatly pre-dates mine. You may think "Laundry is laundry. How can it be so different? " Ahhhh....because it is! 

Italy's space is much more confined than in the US. It is a much smaller country - about the same square mileage as the state of Arizona. Given that, and the fact that so much of the developed areas are squeezed in between numerous mountain ranges (but aren't they beautiful!), you have limited space. We in the US are used to spreading out : lush lawns circumnavigating McMansions, warehouse sized SUV's, malls with parking lots spread eagle like a sultan on his harem bed. We are of the "gimme land lotsa land under starry skies above" mentality. But here (unless you are a church), you will most likely have to make due with a starry sky from a postcard sized balcony. So common tasks like hanging 3 sets of bedsheets on one 12-foot washline present a challenge. Nope, no dryer. Like most Italians. Why throw money away on expensive electricity when you have a sky-wide solar unit on the premises? 

My first year here I was confounded as to how to do a rapid turnover of guests with sonlittle drying space. I panicked and draped sheets, towels, dishclothes, rugs over every possible pendant surface in the house. 

Enter Giovanna in year two. 

My first week back, she poked her head out of the back door at a quizzical angle as I was wrestling sheets onto the line. 

"Teresa, che fai? she trilled [Teresa, what are you doing?]

I explained my exasperation with the lack of drying space as I spread my arms to indicate the amount the hanging sheets had already eaten up and then pointed to the remaining pile in the laundry bag.

"No,no,no,no!" she clucked as she came down the back stairs. 

She tore the sheets from the line in one quick, light move, then folded them in precise quarters and tossed them back on the line. No clothespins necessary. Their weight held them on the line. 

"Waste of time," she told me. 

She repeated this domestic ballet twice more with the other sheets. There were about 3 feet of remaining line space onto which she hung 6 towels by letting them sag in the middle and touch corner to corner, one clothespin per two tangential corners. Two hours later, from the combination of sun and warm breeze, everything was dry. There were plenty of fresh, clean linen and towels ready well befor the next guests arrived.

She has taught me other things/

The fastest setting on the washing machine to get the cleanest clothes using the least water.

How little time it takes for espresso to be ready.

That tomatoes taste best left unrefrigerated and eaten soon after buying. 

How to strategically open and close shutters and double paned windows to keep the house cool. Or  warm. Or breezy. Or however you like at the moment.

I’ve seen how much I can do with how little- space, time, energy (both my own and the kind I pay other people to provide), things. It seems much more relaxing, reassuring to live this way, without the anxiety of “Is there enough?”

It’s another welcome re-set for my psyche that being here provides.

Oh, but I still sometimes turn underwear pink.

Summer of Love...or Maybe Not So Much

Thia is the 50th anniversary of the "summer of love ". Bus companies are offering tours to Haight-Ashbury to aging ex- hippies and wannabe love children who see those years through Grace Slick's rose-colored glasses. I remember that summer. It was the start of my "California Dreamin' " era. So much credence was placed on that states' promise of perfect love, peace, and harmonious Aquarian age life that we self-mockingly referred to it as "miracle land". It was a place in which life would be eternally sweet and smooth, and heady - much like the memory of your first pina colada. As the '70's unfolded, the dream gradually faded. We realized that image of the perfect life was a kind of misguided magical thinking.
In the past 12 years or so, Italy in general and my little village of Castiglione Messer Raimondo in particular have become my grownup "miracle land ". I have never felt so attached to a place, so linked to one for its own sake, as I do to Castiglione Messer Raimondo. In the past, a place had only been a location from which to DO something: go to college. start a theater company, teach. But this place - this is home. And yet.
There comes a time with an "innamorato" when reality sets in. Seven years seems to be the standard time market, ad in "the seven year itch". It's when you begin to notice your beloved's annoying habits- like how he or she makes those noises when chewing- somewhere between grinding teeth and clucking tongue. Or when you have to admit "Yeah, my best friend really does interrupt me all the time to talk about herself". Then some little nerve at the base of your skull is set abuzz- squirming like a bug exposed under an overturned rock. You can no longer believe in their perfection. You cannot unsee the sight of that unruly nose hair.
Castiglione was like that for me this summer - my seventh there. I found myself, for the first time ever, becoming annoyed, frustrated, even angry to the point of wanting to leave. Why can't I simply fix a tiny piece of land to help stop damage to my neighbors property below? Why do I have to jump through so many hoops? Why aren't municipal offices open past noon? Why don't handymen return my phone calls? Why does it take 21 days for a check from my American bank to clear the Italian account? At times my internal chatter replicated the bitch sessions I read on websites for ex-pats living in Italy - posts I'd hated and complained about. My heart sank. Being here is my yearly infusion of joy, of unadulterated love, of rejuvenation. It resets me and adjusts my attitude for the rest of the year. But this year, by the first week of July, my heart sank like a drowning person giving up and abandoning herself to hover lifelessly at some murky depth beyond the reach of sonar.
And then. My neighbor Amalia saves the flowers in front of mo house by watering them while I am away. The coleus is three feet high! I visit a winery during the "cantine aperte ( open cantinas) event and sample  the most extraordinarily fresh and smooth red I have ever had. It is being produced by a mailman in his "spare" time.
A guest finds a ceramic plate hand-painted in exquisite detail in a tiny shop near the house. She buys it as a celebration of her 38th wedding anniversary. The celebration of never-ending gastronomic delights at Mario's astounds even me, who thought I was used to it.
The Festival of San Donato, our patron saint, approaches. One morning, staggering home from a morning run, I notice a door along the town's promenade which has never been opened before. I peek inside. There are men inside two huge, cavernous, adjoining rooms. They are covered in fine tufa dust from the volcanic rock on which the town is built. One man notices me and ushers me in. He gives me a tour, explaining that this used to be one of 11 olive oil production facilities (frantoio) in the town. The men are cleaning up the space to create a display for the festival- an homage to the people who once worked there . He smiles through a mask of grime. Then he disappears into a red cloud of dust hanging in one of the caverns. It is 100 degrees out. But he lovingly continues the work.
The first night of the festival there is a talent show. I watch a 6-year old boy play his heart out with consummate skill and aplomb on the organetto, or " du bot", a traditional Abruzzese accordion. As he settles into his chair to position himself and the instrument, I notice his feet don't reach the stage floor. But he doesn't notice. He plays with love and passion. After a winter that has pummeled the Castiglionese with six feet of snow that knocked out electricity for ten days, and a subsequent earthquake that toppled buildings and destroyed so much of their livelihood, these folks find the resilience to celebrate the life this region offers.
One morning, shortly after the festival is over, Amalia approaches me quietly. Might I look at a house in the country that used to belong to her son? Maybe I know someone who wants to buy it? Her son is deceased and she had assumed the mortgage. She can no longer afford the payments. I follow her into the house and she shows me photos. I immediately recognize the house. It was owned Massimo, the owner of the Sampei, the pizzeria behind my guesthouse. I had no idea this was her son. He had provided my guests with innumerable thin- crunchy crust deliciously topped pies, soothing their travel weariness with nourishment and his exuberance. This continued right up until 4 weeks before he died of pancreatic cancer. I can still see him in his signature wrap- around shades, zipping through the narrow town streets on his motorcycle, his 10-
year old daughter seated in front of him, laughing and squealing.
I tell Amalia I will publicize the house on all social media I know. She touches my arm lightly with two fingers.
"Grazie," she says. "I can't bear to go there any more ."
Hey eyes fill with tears. She looks away.
"I'm sorry ", she says.
I'm sorry, too. Sorry for allowing the new view of the good and not- so -much sour me, even briefly, on the magic and charm this place holds. We can love someone, flaws and all, right? Perhaps we love them with a deeper, more profound love than before, seeing them for all they are.
Castiglione, the itch is soothed. You are firmly embedded in my heart like no other place on earth . Here's to another seven years- and more.

L' ultimo Giorno/The Last Day

"You've been gone a long time!"
So posted one of my Facebook friends.
3 months. At first it does seem long. 3 months. A quarter of a year. 3 months away from my dear husband. 3 months of being unable to communicate with neighbors in the instantaneously mind-to-mouth rapid-fire manner of my New Jersey roots. 3 months of living with strangers just beyond the kitchen door. 3 months of being at least 6,000 miles away from any possible hugs from my children. In this context, it DOES seem like a long time.
But here I sit on my last afternoon in Casa da Carmine, drinking a wonderfully wicked strong espresso and gazing across the Fino Valley. The sky is baby blanket blue, the light clear and crisp. The town of Montefino sits at the highest spot, silhouetted against the sky like a miniature in a museum display. Its stillness and perfect detail are simultaneously tranquil and imposing. I watch as rows of sheep undulate across a green field. Another to their left flows yellow. Several softly rounded hills further up are striated shades of brown, beige, ochre, and gold. In the clear air,the squeaky rattle of an old tractor navigating an astonishing steep path can be heard for several kilometers. Church bells ring. 12:45. 15 minutes until the start of pranzo - the mid-day meal. I smell simmering pasta sauce and sausages beginning to brown.
These are the things I cannot take home. These are the things that  make 3 months seem like a very short time. That make 6 months, a year, 10 years, a lifetime seem like they will never be enough. Not to satiate my love and yearning for all these things and more.
This summer was superb. I climbed mountains -even led friends up one. I kayaked an exquisitely
beautiful stretch of Adriatic coast. I indulged in my new-found love of SUP boarding. I ate with abandon - arrosticini, porchetta, crunchy, fresh "fritte miste di pesce (mixed fried fish)", and too
many different kinds of antipasti to describe. I ate ricotta made fresh that morning at the place from which I purchased it and used olive oil about which I not only knew the country of origin, but could point to the very trees from which the fruit came. I dance myself silly at Mario's restaurant. With friends and unknown men and women who whirled, twirled, stomped, and clapped us around to the ceaselessly energized music of "lu bott" - the miniatures accordions typical of Abruzzese music.
Casa da Carmine filled my life with guests who perhaps began as strangers behind a door, but quickly became a part of my revolving family here. There was the adventurous Norwegian woman who allowed me to lead her up a mountain trail in winds that nearly blew us off of it. She held my arm to keep us both anchored. There was the German family whose 7 and 11 year old boys exalted in
launching from ropes into fresh lake water.
"The water here is not as cold as in Germany!" They said.
There were dear friends from way, way back who gathered here for a family reunion of sorts. I was blessed to be able to watch the love pour out and between them as they laughed together, cooked
together, sang together, and relished every second of this togetherness with a joy so contagious it left the house ringing for days after their departure. That this place - not just this house, but the whole area -  can allow this to happen and that I am able to be witness to it all - how do you get enough of that?

The Gran Sasso Mountains

Sun setting on San Lorenzo Winery

Alla prossima estate!
To next summer!

I went to mass today. I haven't been a practicing Catholic in decades. But on this, my last day here, I felt drawn to go. I struggled to follow the readings and sermon in Italian. But, oh, the sound! Of spoken and sung words! The sound echoed deep inside and plucked familiar, resonant strings, some
long silent. At communion I observed the faces and walks of everyone returning from taking the sacrament. In them I saw aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors from my childhood. I felt swaddled in the kind of complete love and security I have known in only two places - at my grandmother's kitchen table and here.
When, at the end of mass, each person grasped another's hand to bestow them with "pace", I felt involuntary tears arise. From profound and often elusive joy and peace. All this is what I want to
offer my guests. The almost unbearably beautiful capacity for perfect harmony in our bodies, minds, and spirits. Although not all, and perhaps very few, have the connection to this culture that I do, this place still works magic. Its magic manages to permeate to the core. I want to share all of this with you. For as long as possible.
Alla prossima! To next year!

L' ultimo Giorno/The Last Day

"You've been gone a long time!"
So posted one of my Facebook friends.
3 months. At first it does seem long. 3 months. A quarter of a year. 3 months away from my dear husband. 3 months of being unable to communicate with neighbors in the instantaneously mind-to-mouth rapid-fire manner of my New Jersey roots. 3 months of living with strangers just beyond the kitchen door. 3 months of being at least 6,000 miles away from any possible hugs from my children. In this context, it DOES seem like a long time.
But here I sit on my last afternoon in Casa da Carmine, drinking a wonderfully wicked strong espresso and gazing across the Fino Valley. The sky is baby blanket blue, the light clear and crisp. The town of Montefino sits at the highest spot, silhouetted against the sky like a miniature in a museum display. Its stillness and perfect detail are simultaneously tranquil and imposing. I watch as rows of sheep undulate across a green field. Another to their left flows yellow. Several softly rounded hills further up are striated shades of brown, beige, ochre, and gold. In the clear air,the squeaky rattle of an old tractor navigating an astonishing steep path can be heard for several kilometers. Church bells ring. 12:45. 15 minutes until the start of pranzo - the mid-day meal. I smell simmering pasta sauce and sausages beginning to brown.
These are the things I cannot take home. These are the things that  make 3 months seem like a very short time. That make 6 months, a year, 10 years, a lifetime seem like they will never be enough. Not to satiate my love and yearning for all these things and more.
This summer was superb. I climbed mountains -even led friends up one. I kayaked an exquisitely
beautiful stretch of Adriatic coast. I indulged in my new-found love of SUP boarding. I ate with abandon - arrosticini, porchetta, crunchy, fresh "fritte miste di pesce (mixed fried fish)", and too
many different kinds of antipasti to describe. I ate ricotta made fresh that morning at the place from which I purchased it and used olive oil about which I not only knew the country of origin, but could point to the very trees from which the fruit came. I dance myself silly at Mario's restaurant. With friends and unknown men and women who whirled, twirled, stomped, and clapped us around to the ceaselessly energized music of "lu bott" - the miniatures accordions typical of Abruzzese music.
Casa da Carmine filled my life with guests who perhaps began as strangers behind a door, but quickly became a part of my revolving family here. There was the adventurous Norwegian woman who allowed me to lead her up a mountain trail in winds that nearly blew us off of it. She held my arm to keep us both anchored. There was the German family whose 7 and 11 year old boys exalted in
launching from ropes into fresh lake water.
"The water here is not as cold as in Germany!" They said.
There were dear friends from way, way back who gathered here for a family reunion of sorts. I was blessed to be able to watch the love pour out and between them as they laughed together, cooked
together, sang together, and relished every second of this togetherness with a joy so contagious it left the house ringing for days after their departure. That this place - not just this house, but the whole area -  can allow this to happen and that I am able to be witness to it all - how do you get enough of that?

The Gran Sasso Mountains

Sun setting on San Lorenzo Winery

Alla prossima estate!
To next summer!

I went to mass today. I haven't been a practicing Catholic in decades. But on this, my last day here, I felt drawn to go. I struggled to follow the readings and sermon in Italian. But, oh, the sound! Of spoken and sung words! The sound echoed deep inside and plucked familiar, resonant strings, some
long silent. At communion I observed the faces and walks of everyone returning from taking the sacrament. In them I saw aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors from my childhood. I felt swaddled in the kind of complete love and security I have known in only two places - at my grandmother's kitchen table and here.
When, at the end of mass, each person grasped another's hand to bestow them with "pace", I felt involuntary tears arise. From profound and often elusive joy and peace. All this is what I want to
offer my guests. The almost unbearably beautiful capacity for perfect harmony in our bodies, minds, and spirits. Although not all, and perhaps very few, have the connection to this culture that I do, this place still works magic. Its magic manages to permeate to the core. I want to share all of this with you. For as long as possible.
Alla prossima! To next year!