In Search of La Dolce Vita

Claudia Maria's garden

2011-05-17T05:33:00.000-07:00

Our flourishing springtime garden, courtesy of the efforts of my beautiful, hard-working wife, Claudia. (Click on the pictures to enlarge.)

Youth football ... Italian style

2011-05-17T00:25:00.000-07:00

Football is big in this country. In fact, it rivals the Pope in its popularity, perhaps even going a step further in being the only thing that has the pull to galvanize its citizens into something approaching unity when the national team plays. Take a look at the sports pages - 12 on football, one or two on other sports. It permeates the entire fabric of society, from the teflon caricature prime minister (whose Rossi Neri have just won Serie A) all the way to every schoolyard in the most remote reaches of its borders.

Julius (or HRH as he has been referred to previously on this blog) plays for a local youth team, Corridonia. They're quite good, having won every league game in the pre-Christmas league, and challenged for the leadership in the next-level, post-New Year league. Until one fateful Sunday in March, that is ...

The previous weekend in an away game they had been bludgeoned to defeat in something of an upset against a mediocre team, with several of the Corridonia team needing more than casual medical attention as a result of the home team's 'robust' approach. The referee took no action against several blatant acts of aggression, and quite naturally incurred the ire of coaches and parents. After the game I stood by intrigued as they (the parents & coaches from both sides) went at it hammer and tongs (verbally) arguing about the home team's physical approach. I thought it was all quite passionate, albeit not without foundation, given the strong support these teams enjoy. However, it was nothing compared to the following weekend ...

Corridonia returned to their home ground faced with the prospect of having to beat the league leaders in order to still have a sniff at the winning the league and graduating to the next (regional) level competition. They had lost the away leg rather convincingly, 4-0, their first loss - and one of only two - of the season. The ground - a rather unatmospheric place bordered one one side by a concrete parking lot and on the other a steep, ungainly tiered bank leading up to the main road - was as packed as I've seen it in Julius' 2 years of playing there. Having recently returned from injury, he was left on the bench, coming on as a second-half substitute.

That weekend one of my longest-standing friends (John) was visiting from South Africa, and he came along. A sports lover himself, he had taken to watching schoolboy rugby in his home town of Cape Town, but had stopped going due to the aggressive and at times ugly behaviour of the teams' passionate parents. Ten minutes into the game, which Corridonia was bossing, I turned to him and said: "Thank heavens the referee is reasonable, unlike last week's paluka."

I should have known better. My comment was the kiss of death, sparking a Jekyll-Hyde metamorphosis in him, almost as if he (the referee) had heard me and felt like being otherwise. What had been up until then a competent performance on his part, transformed itself into a veritable mockery of the football arbiter's trade. Herewith a selection of his decisions that followed:

- the award of a free kick outside the area to Corridonia instead of a penalty for a rugby tackle-like foul that happened at least 1-2 metres inside the big box
- the turnover of at least 2 obvious free kicks for Corridonia, in which at first he indicated in favour of Corridonia, and then changed his decision, pointing in the other direction
- the award of a penalty to the opposition for a mild bump in a 50-50 challenge, where the opponent didn't even go to ground (thankfully it was missed)
- the issue of multiple yellow cards to Corridonia players and none to the opponents, even though the physicality and remonstrations were equally passionate on both sides of the ball, and resulting in Corridonia being reduced to 9 players by the end of the game

Bear in mind that this is just a selection. Worse was to follow, however, as in the last minute of the game, with Corridonia leading 1-0, the opponents launched an attack in the home team's area. The local goalkeeper game out to collect a routine ball, and was promptly taken out with a shoulder charge. What happened next is hard to believe - the referee blew the whistle before the ball entered the goal, indicating a free kick for Corridonia, and then changed it to the award of a goal for their opponents as the ball nestled into the back of the net.

Following all the other injustices he had already inflicted on the home team, it was all too much for all the locals - players, coaches, and supporters alike. The place erupted into a cacophony of indignation, so passionate and gesticulative that it lasted several minutes until he blew up for the end of the game without another ball being kicked. In the process, he issued a second red card to a player previously sent off, who had charged on to the field to register his displeasure with the referee's latest decision. He was surrounded and jostled by the home team as he tried to make his way back to the change rooms, but he never made it there. In the meantime, the crowd, now a furious, seething mass, had swarmed around to the entrance to the changeroom area, baying for the blood of the young referee, prompting the managerial staff of the two teams to extricate him from the clutches of the home team players and escort him to the relative safety of the centre of the pitch, the field being fenced in apparently for precisely such circumstances. The local police were eventually called in to ensure the ref's safe passage from the ground.

While all this was happening, John and I stood rooted and open-mouthed, the only two spectators left on the tiered stand, watching the events unfold in disbelief. Finally we dragged ourselves away, collected a disgruntled and despondent Julius - who I'm proud to say abstained from the type of remonstration his teammates were engaging in - and headed home.

When I asked John how the whole display compared with the scenes he'd witnessed at the schoolboy rugby games in Cape Town, he responded - with no small measure of understatement - that the Italian version was perhaps "a bit more emotional". On reflection, it's probably as accurate and succinct a verdict as one could conjure - I've seen the ugly outbursts amongst South African rugby fans, and the spontaneous vein-popping reactions of some sports fans in the US, with outcomes that can be unpredictable and at times violent. In Italy, however - or at least in our small corner of it - it was just as John said: emotional. Sure it was bubbling, red-hot even, but you can also encounter this kind of emotion when discussing the best ragù recipe for tagliatelle (albeit without the anger). Punches, fisticuffs? Close, but not in this case - the most extreme I've seen - and while there is certainly football hooliganism in Italy, in general this kind of episode will see voices rather than fists raised. Who knows, maybe the two coaches shared a plate of vincisgrassi for lunch, although my suspicion is the referee dined alone ...

The gas man

2011-01-11T06:34:00.000-08:00

When the big black Audi pulled unannounced into the driveway, and the tall dark man who got out was wearing black shirt, black pants, black shoes, and black sunglasses, I knew I was in for an experience. When he announced - looking down at me from his higher vantage point and imaginary pedestal - that he is the regional manager of the gas company, I knew it wasn't going to be a particularly pleasurable experience.

You see, the gas company and us have something of a history - they screw up their bills to us, and we don't pay until they are sorted out. Franco had arrived to "sort it out" as clearly he (as regional manager) was capable of doing, and his bespectacled, subservient underling - who Franco treated as such - was not.

But first off, what made him believe that I would even be at home on a Tuesday afternoon? And even though I was, what made him think that I would drop everything and attend to him? Home-based as I am, and sucker to boot, Franco had guessd right on both counts, as people like him are apt to do and people like me are not.

His opening salvo was so clearly intended to soften me up that it almost had me openly chuckling: "I have good news for you. You know that long-outstanding bill for €678 you received and haven't paid yet?" Clearly a rhetorical question, I assumed. "Well, don't worry about it, it's taken care of." My deadpan reaction prompted a follow-up question: "Does this make you happy?" Naturally it did, although not from the perspective that he suspected - I was simply relieved that we would no longer be pestered for the money by the gas company for an error that their own field agents (now moved on) had clearly documented on multiple occasions.

But this wasn't the reason for him to come out all the way from wherever to share this news. It was for another unpaid bill, this one rather less, around €170. We had not paid it because it was so obviously another mistake that we wanted it sorted out first - a bill four times the normal, for a period that included a good chunk when we weren't even in Italy. Franco had come to "sort us out."

When I pointed out that such anomalous consumption levels could not be accurate, he claimed they were, and that we had clearly consumed the gas. When I pointed out that we only used gas for cooking, he didn't believe me, and told me that we must have used it for hot water. He even turned to his sidekick underling and asked him how much gas he used for cooking, aiming to demonstrate that our historic consumption levels - which I was able to demonstrate over a two-year period - were simply not possible. [As it turns out, they are, we are simply watchful and frugal.] When I showed him - physically - that there is simply no connection between the gas tank and the heating and hot water system, he said there was obviously another connection somewhere. Without dropping his bella figura for an isntant, he delivered his ultimatum (the details aren't important) and told me that customers like us were simply too much trouble for the gas company. [Naturally, this gave me pause - when a regional manager is spending his time trying to collect a €170 bill from its smallest customer, they must be in some kind of trouble.]

Once he'd done that, he did something that I couldn't believe he would think I'd take in, given the acrimonious atmosphere. He leaned forward conspiratorially, and in a lowered voice - we were in our house, alone, some 500m from the next house - told me that he was going to share something that he shouldn't, and in fact hadn't to anyone else. Uh-huh, no-one else, huh? But you'd open up to me, a guy you've just met who won't pay his bill, with an insider's secret.

He then proceeded to make such a ludicrous claim that it was almost as laughable as his opening gambit. He told me that water from solar panels are physically incapable of rising above 25°C from October to March in this area. This was early November. Amid the glorious sunshine we were having, the water from our soalr panels had reached 50°C the day before, and I'd had a long, luxurious, hot shower ... from the solar panels - other than ligthing a fire, we simply have no other source for hot water. I shared this with him. He told me it wasn't possible, and then proceeded to explain that the overflow tank for our solar panel water reservoir was actually an electric heater that warmed the water on its way to the house. This was so idiotic that I was simply silenced - how could such a man be a manager of anything? Worse still, how could the sidekick underling take him seriously, and treat him with such respect? I was dumbfounded.

From there he asked me what our electrical bills are - obviously hoping to demonstrate that the electrical water ehater was the cause of high monthly charges - and when I gave him the number, he couldn't believe that it was half of his and his sidekick's. Clearly, in his mind I was delusional - who could possibly live of so little electricity and so little gas? My tangible, healthy flesh and printed invoice evidence were clearly elements of a twisted, alternate world that he'd never encountered before.

When he left, insisting that he would follow through with his ultimatum, he blithely ignored my comment that it's such a shame that I, as a bona fide customer of his company's for over two years, did not appear to have a voice, and that he simply wouldn't listen to me. So when he left in his black clothes and black car, I was prompted into action, and did what I do well - an analysis.

I pulled all previous bills and consumption figures together, and was finally able to make a coherent and rock-solid case for my position - the company had screwed up the figures and the bills. I sent it to him in an email. He sent a reply saying that he would get back to me as soon as they had conducted their own analysis. That was two months ago, and I haven't heard from him since. No doubt he's still maintaining his bella figura, along with his clear conscience ...

Going postal ... again

2010-11-10T03:25:00.000-08:00

I started writing this post a couple of days ago, but I had to stop, because there was this loud ringing in my ears. It must have been my blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere with such speed that it rendered a high-pitched resonance, making rational thought a lost cause.

The ringing's now gone, and thinking has now lost the certifiable edge that prompted my early misgivings, so I can get on with it.

It's the Italian postal service. Again. Or perhaps more precisely, it's the misnamed mail/package delivery industry at large, this time in the (dis)guise of UPS, who, after this episode, I might take to referring to as UPyourS.

Now I never had a problem with UPS in the USA, but it seems once a piece of mail floats into Italian air space, it changes composition. Packages are condemned to dark corners because, well, I'm not really sure why, although this most recent episode did offer a hint.

To tell the truth, my envelope wasn't ignored, it was simply maltreated - one glance at the address, quite obviously out in the country, and it was labelled as undeliverable because it didn't have a valid street address. Now our big red letterbox with its official municipal plaque, not to mention the official cadastral record, would clearly beg to differ. But official records be damned, what did they do? Mark it for return to sender. They simply didn't want to have to drive all the way out to our place, a mere 10 minutes from the nearest town.

A desperate phone call to the HQ in Milan, and things were rectified. Our error (yes, ours)? No phone number on the address label. Now duly supplied, they called to get us to drive into town to pick it up. My wife (who took the call) refused: "This is your job. You are paid to deliver it to our door." Still they resisted: "It's out in the country." "So what? It's your job." Eventually - in the interests of actually getting our hands on said package - a compromise was reached: drop it off at the local store, about 1km from our home. In the end, the store owner, who we obviously know, brought it to our house, in spite of our protestations that we'd pick it up.

When you relate the story to locals, in a rising crescendo, all you get in response are sympathetic smiles, but no surprise: "This is how it is". We've been through it before: falsified delivery attempts ... mis-transcribed telephone numbers when they stick their own labels over the carefully-written number ... tracking numbers that change when they enter Italian postal space ... and parcels that disappear into the ether of post office neverland. And whenever we transgress the most important rule of Italian addresses, we get burned - there is only necessary piece of information necessary on an Italian address: the phone number.

But I still can't help myself, and I get upset. I know this is the ultimate test of integration into the culture here - accept it, it's not going to change, and because of this, it serves no purpose to get upset.

As almost every book on Italians written by Italians will tell you, there are no set rules in Italy - everyone has their own set, and they believe in them unquestioningly. Nothing is set in stone either - last week's rules are just that: last week's rules. This week things are different.

Things work the way they work, not the way you think they ought to. And if someone follows a different set of rules from your own, you need to change yours to accommodate them. In some perverse way, I guess this is why we came to this country - to become more tolerant, accepting, and calm about everything. If only we'd known...

Little guy

2010-10-19T02:45:00.000-07:00

One of the ubiquitous sights on the winding roads of the central Italian hills is of cats - hundreds, even thousands of them, scurrying off into the brush as you approach, crouching in apprehension as you pass, eyes glinting like lights in the night when they can see us and but for their eyes we wouldn't see them. Many of them are wild, living off whatever they can find in the small clutches of forest that separate their other larder, the ploughed fields. Others are domesticated, but not in the sense that I'm familiar - they're working cats, earning their keep by supplementing the meagre diet their owners allow them by hunting rodents, thereby serving a purpose. The locals don't impose any form of birth control - apart from the hassle of getting it done, the €80 cost to neuter/spay a cat most certainly plays a role in an area where incomes are low - and so the population runs unchecked.

It's a tough life, and I feel sorry for them. "Rescuing" our Luna from an existence as a contadino cat, where she would have had to scrap for every morsel she might come across, has been a telling experience. All you have to do is look at her, and the story tells itself - she's big, furry, and purry ... and at least twice the size of her mother, who still lives the contadino life a few km from here.

So when the little guy started sleeping in our unrestored shed, we took pity ... and started feeding him. Of course we knew the rule - feed a cat, you own it - but we took it on knowingly. Like most of the wild cats, he was small and under nourished, but with a beautiful, unusual striped-grey colouring that reminded me of a snow leopard. Timid to the point of being startled when we approached him, we eventually realized why - he was completely deaf. What a challenge for an animal that has to live by its wits. Not only that, but he had breathing problems, with a wheeze to his respiration that seemed something of a struggle. As we got to know him better, his paltry, pathetic meouw - like a strangled parrot at low volume - led me to better understand his precarious condition.

Over time he let me get closer, even allowing a gentle stroke when I gave him his food, and purring with a pleasure I'm sure these cats rarely have the opportunity to enjoy. One afternoon his constricted squeals drew us out of the house to find another, bigger male with his jaws around his throat - had we not arrived to drive the other cat away, it would have been curtains for him. He and Luna became friends of sorts, occasionally cavorting together in the garden, with Luna contracting a cold from interacting with him. He was kept outside to try and create a limit, but we often caught him sneaking in the back door to finish off the uneaten food in Luna's bowl.

Eventually, however, such became his dependence on his meals twice a day that he didn't live any kind of life of his own. When we got up in the morning, he was outside the back door, and he stayed there most of the day, croaking out his mews every time we left the house, hoping for a morsel (even if he'd just eaten). It even got to the point of being a nuisance as he practiced the cat habit of walking right in front of your feet, presenting a wonderful tripping opportunity.

For him, what we offered was a drug, and he became hooked, his life reduced to waiting for the next fix - a bowl of cat food. Perhaps he had a tapeworm and was constantly hungry, I don't know, or perhaps he knew something else. Maybe his constant meowing was a plea for something.

I had been meaning to write this blog entry for some time, and to take a photo of him to post with the article. But two days ago he disappeared, and he hasn't been back. After feeding him now for over six months, and having developed his dependency on our food, he most certainly hasn't made the decision to move on. I've searched garden and its surrounds, but I can't find him, and I suspect like all cats he took himself off to somewhere secluded to die.

A local told me that dying was a better option than living the way he did, with all his problems. I don't agree. For a few months he felt he belonged somewhere, and he had a protector. He even purred a few times. Suddenly, though, he's no longer around, and I'm sad that we couldn't do more for him. Sad that his little spirit had to struggle so through the brief period of his life. I hope I continue to remember him for all these things. If only I had taken that photo ...

This is why we're here - in pictures

2010-10-14T03:14:00.000-07:00

The photographic accompaniment to the textual version available here.

This is why we're here - in words

2010-10-14T00:03:00.000-07:00

So what does one do on a Sunday out here in the rolling hills of central Italy? If your son plays football - as in our case - you go and watch him. It's a pastime I get tremendous enjoyment from, even if the season lasts from September to May. But when a gap opens in the schedule - as it did this past weekend - we snatch at it and use the time to pursue one of our other passions: the mountains.

Now when I say "snatch", I guess I should qualify - given the six-day school week with 6:15am risings and Sundays with their early football wakeup calls, any day off that offers a bit of a sleep-in to a family that loves its shut-eye and doesn't aspire to "bright and cheery" labels (at least the pre-9 am ones) is "snatched at" with equal enthusiasm to the pull of the mountains. So we compromise ... and take advantage of the very reason we moved here - we sleep in, have an early(-ish) lunch, and take off for an afternoon hike.

This past weekend I chose Monte Rotondo, a 2,102-metre mountain we frequently see, but have never scaled (OK, walked up). This involves a drive up a rocky road of about 6km with some very steep slopes on its up- and down-sides, and that is likely soon to close for the winter. At the end of it - which is joined by another dirt road coming from the other side of the saddle - is a concrete monstrosity of a refugio, which serves meals to rocky road adventurers and offers beds to hikers in the summer (albeit only on the weekend except for August). It's also the trailhead for numerous great hikes up to the airy Sibillini ridges, including a short 40-minute climb to Monte Rotondo.

The day was crisp with a brisk breeze that blew the thick low-hanging mist over the surrounding peaks, creating constantly-changing vistas of white-out alternating with clear skies. Puffs of mist drifted through the air like sailing ships into the blue beyond, and cascaded over cliffs, magically dissolving as they fell down the sheer rock faces. On the way up we found a lone purple wildflower and the decomposing remains of two sheep - "I'm thinking wolf," reflected HRH, engaging his wild side. We also came across a plaque remembering two young Italians who lost their lives here in the winter of 2004, a day apart.

The views from the top were stupendous. Apart from the shifting scenes created by the armadas of mist, the central Apennine peaks stretched southward in a panorama unlike any other we've seen before on our many excursions on these ridges. To the west, the light refracted into a stark and surreal line, as if we were on the surface of the sea - below it, waves of mountains were tainted in a hazy blue, and above it the air was vividly clear. We had it all to ourselves - there wasn't another soul around.

On the way down, Maria picked some mushrooms which the owner-cooks of the refugio were surprisingly and disappointingly unable to identify, not only regarding their species, but whether or not they were edible. We reluctantly dragged ourselves away from what promised to be a sunset of banded colours and shifting red shades in order not to have to drive down the rocky road in the dark. On the way we filled our water bottles and slaked the bitterly cold mountain water rolling down from the peaks, and stopped to look over the sheer drop where a cyclist fell to his death on an April day two years ago when we started up the road on our own bicycles and turned back because of the deep snow.

Back home a hot soup warmed our satisfied souls as we reflected on our good fortune - a day like this one is always there for us, just an hour away whenever we might make a snap decision to head up there. And as we find every time we go up there, it's always different, there's always a surprise waiting to be uncovered for those who choose to look for it. Thankfully all three of us have the eyes to find the surprises, and to drink in the liberating sensations of this alpine world with its cleansing air, infinite views, and the unmistakable message that it always whispers - there is nothing else but the here and now.

(If you're interested, there are photographs of our excursion here.)

Of vegetarians and carnivores

2010-09-24T23:46:00.000-07:00

Of all the associations our synapses automatically fire off when someone mentions Italy, food is probably the one most often made. It's a sensuous thing (as most things Italian are), and I'm as much a victim of our preconditioning as anyone. Hearing the clattering symphony of plates making their way to the table in wrinkled hands as I stroll the cobbled alleys of a hilltop village at lunchtime never fails to conjure images of steaming pasta and the babble of multiple conversations around a table that is cosy, comforting, and convivial.

Pasta? Almost always, yes, not least in this neck of the woods, where this quintessential primo piatto is more often than not followed by pork (or some other meat). Which is what made La Coroncina so different last weekend. Now there are more opinions about the quality of restaurants in this area than there are culinary establishments, ranging from the romantically-inspired view that all the food here is good, to complaints about a lack of variation and overcooked meat. But regardless of your proclivity, there truly is only one word to describe La Coroncina, snuggled as it is amongst the hills of Italy's pork belt - unique.

It's unique for one primary reason - it's vegetarian. In and of itself, this is sufficient reason to get the permanent black marker out to score it from over 90% of locals' restaurant lists. Indeed, when our part-time Australian neighbours took their garden maintenance man and an Irish meat-and-potatoes friend there, they described it as "a religious experience", most likely heading home afterwards to scour the fridge, praying for a beastly chunk of salami.

Now I like my meat as much as the next carnivore, but I also appreciate good food for what it is, whether there is muscle in it or not. (My favourite restaurant in Columbus, Ohio, with its ample supply of quality steak houses, was indeed vegan.) And that's exactly what La Coroncina is - good. Very good, in fact. It's a real testament to imagination, with a variety of seasonal dishes that inspire curiosity with their originality and moans of pleasure at their medley of flavours - cream of yellow tomato soup with ricotta and basil, layered aubergine slices with pine nuts and mint, ...

The welcome is warm too - diminutive Melania with her shock of blond/white hair is friendly, attentive, and a constant smiling presence. We effectively had the run of the place too, with only one other dining couple (locals, somewhat to my surprise), in a beautifully restored farmhouse. The agriturismo is officially classified as organic - you can find more information (including the menu) on their web site: www.agriturismocoroncina.it.

That was Friday. Saturday threw my taste buds so far in the other direction as to give them culinary whiplash. With his mop of long, thick, graying hair and his dental discontinuities, our neighbour Sergio is a wiry local character that's always entertaining to be around. Aside from having done a marvellous job with our patio, he throws an end-of-summer party each year, to which we are typically invited. With the promise of a hearty, meaty menu, HRH - a marchigiano in the making, whose suspicion of a vegetarian restaurant prompted him to decline the invitation to La Coroncina the night before - readily sacrificed Saturday night out with his friends to join his old man up at the local church.

While it's hosted by Sergio, it seems that most of the work was done by the Mari family, who own the house he lives in and who produce a range of delectable honeys from their hives spread over the province. Husbands, wives, daughters and sons ferried trays piled high with the steaming contents of the most classic of marchigiano meals. Around the church hall tables and hard chairs, Sergio and his friends engaged in the most simple and amicable of pastimes - talking and eating, with each enjoying equal priority. Amid the clamorous echos of competing conversations, we flattened numerous platters of first tagliatelle al ragù di cinghiale (pasta with wild boar sauce) and then roast lamb with roast potatoes, all served on paper plates. Wine from Giuliano's vines on the hill next door flowed generously, his daughter capped it all with a delectable tiramsù, and Giuliano brought out his precious acqua miele (literally "honey water", an ancient distilled liquor made from honey, water, and grapes). We ate, drank, and chatted to satisfaction and beyond, until we just couldn't any more.

Simple. Delicious. Warm and friendly. In short, a classic marchigiano evening.

Life here may be difficult at times, but if I'm able - just every now and then - to enjoy a weekend of such delicious diversity, I'd say I'm a rather lucky man.

Camping in the mountains - Part 2

2010-08-24T03:12:00.000-07:00

If you're interested in reading about the event that these pictures portray, take a look at the Part 1 blog entry.

Camping in the mountains - Part 1

2010-08-23T01:17:00.000-07:00

For nature lovers, the Sibillini mountains are a dream - airy ridges, narrow gorges, forested valleys, alpine plains, and legends to fit their mystical feel. From spring to autumn, its most popular trails are busy with seasoned and sometime hikers, most often in large gregarious groups, lending the experience a distinctly sociable Italian flavour. However, often you can find a place all to yourself, and you can feel as if you're the only person in the world, with nothing but the wind, the river, and the birds complementing the stillness.

As an occasional but keen camper, I've often hankered after spending a night in such surrounds, and so after years of procrastination, we finally gave it a whirl. Now there are numerous campsites available, with designated sites, water and toilets, and the accompanying social buzz that characterizes any gathering of more than one person in this country. But our aim was solitude and the still night of the mountains, away from noise, light, and convenience, while still being accessible enough to be able to camp next to the supply-carrying car. We found it near Castelluccio in Umbria's alpine plain, the Piano Grande - a site tailor-made for our purposes, on the fringe of the forest with marvellous views of the mountains, totally out of sight of the town and the plain's organized and bustling campsites. It was as if the site had been conjured out of a description based on my wishful preferences. There was even a ring of stones for a fire, with a healthy stack of wood neatly piled next to it.

Sitting round a blazing campfire with meat sizzling on the grill and the crescent moon rising in the evening sky over the forest takes you about as far away from the daily grind as you could imagine, and when we stumbled upon the fact that it was our fifteenth wedding anniversary - we're not very good with such dates - it completed the scene. Marche's second highest peak (or Umbria's highest, depending on which map you reference), La Cima del Redentore (2,448m), was etched against the deepening blues of the heavens, prompting ambitious thoughts of the next day's walk to one of the central Apennines' premier destinations - Lago di Pilato.

Our ambition to do the full Redentore-Pilato loop ended up being tempered by the hot weather and our physical condition, since we hadn't done a long hike in quite some time. Even so, the direct Lago di Pilato round trip took us around 8 hours (with breaks, including at least an hour at the lake), covering about 18km. The resulting burnt foreheads and aching legs aside, it's a wonderful place, nestled in a bowl at 1,940m between Redentore and the central Apennine's highest point, Monte Vettore, the twin lakes glittering "like the glasses of a rattlesnake", according to local myth expert Giuseppe Santarelli.

The lake is named after Pontius Pilate, who - according to one of many legends - requested Emperor Tiberius to load his body on to an ox cart after his death (which itself is somewhat vague) "and left to the power of fate." The oxen, masochists that they were, chugged up the mountains to this very spot - remote and accessible only with extreme difficulty - and subsequently deposited his body in the lake. Another legend claims that the lake turned blood red at precisely the moment of Christ's crucifixion, while yet another that leaves suddenly sprouted on the surrounding slopes in the shape of joined hands pierced by nails. The tiny rare freshwater shrimp that turns the waters red at spawning time flapped about the shallows like bulging-eyed fledglings learning to fly, perhaps smiling at their role in the creation of a legend.

Whatever the truth, it's a popular destination, and on our visit was buzzing with the satisfied acclaims, camera shutters, and reclining snores of numerous hiking pilgrims. On our return trip we met a mountain runner charging recklessly down a steep slope, and a gentleman clad in nothing but a towel and a skimpy swimsuit, adding distinct colour to an already multi-hued cast.

Needless to say, there was less activity around the campfire that night, but not so in the surrounding forest, where combative grunts interrupted the still night, suggesting a family of cinghiale (wild boar) in the neighbourhood. But we were wrong - just before turning in, a bluster of hooves and snorts drew us out to see a herd of horses come galloping out of the trees. Wild horses? Sort of ... The Piano Grande down below is a favourite of horse people, some of whom spend several weeks up here as part of the annual holiday. There are some who have "retired" or released their horses into the semi-wild here, giving them the freedom to roam as they will. We've encountered such herds before, and one needs to treat them with respect - get too close and the dominant male will suggest in no uncertain terms that you're quite close enough. Seeing their shadowy frames careening out of the forest as if escaping an unseen foe, gave a feel of being part of some dark medieval tale, but we were tired enough to sleep soundly in spite of our imaginations.

After packing up the next morning - leaving no trace of our presence - we headed for Castelluccio and the daily capuccino fix (there are some luxuries that simply can't be given up), our creaking bodies told us that the planned hike for the day (a short one) was not a starter in the continuing heat. So we headed for Norcia instead, and a taste of Umbria's premier salami town, but that's another story.

All in all, a perfect getaway, and our camping fix accomplished. The freezer blocks held out just long enough in the mid-summer heat to keep the dairy and other perishables fresh, although the absence of a grocery store and butcher in Castelluccio - it must be the only such town in pork-mad central Italy - did impact the planned menu.

It would be remiss of me to omit mentioning that, strictly speaking, free camping and fires outside of the designated areas are not allowed within the Sibillini National Park. Which makes the rather obvious campsite we stayed at, along with its fire ring, rather curious. But let's not forget - this is Italy after all.

For a photographic experience of the trip, see Part 2 of this entry.

Festivals: Montelago Celtic Festival (Serravalle di Chienti)

2010-08-17T01:30:00.000-07:00

Given where we are - in a deeply traditional part of central Italy - the Montelago Celtic festival is best described in a single word: unique. Ringed by peaks of the central Apennines, the high Colfiorito plain on the Umbrian border comes alive over the course of a weekend in a feast of colour, sound, and humanity.

"Colour, sound, humanity ... unique?" I hear you justifiably ask. OK, consider this - there were enough kilts on display to suggest a McFellini family reunion (although the black Megadeth T-shirts that offset their tartan pleats were a tad incongruous). Then there was the all-night concert which ended after sunrise, a not unheard of phenomenon in these parts ... except for the fact that The Wild Rover by a band from Lazio named The Shire ended the musical festivities after a stream of Celtic favourites throughout the night. (A local marchigiano band named Mortimer McGrave closed out Friday's lineup.) Tossing the caber, McEwans Scottish ale, and a Tolkein booth (amongst many other similar attractions) added a flavour that these hills - and others in the region - have seldom (if ever) tasted prior to Montelago's first bash eight years ago.

But away from the stage, and the food, drink and craft stands, it's the life in tent city that defines the festival. A broad arc of coloured domes, gazebos, A-frames, and who-knows-what border one side of the site, with setups ranging from the sophisticated to the fleeting. Our neighbours, who obviously got there early, had their site neatly pegged out and cordoned off, military style, with a covered outdoor area and sheeted entranceway meticulously pegged down, citronella candles laid out symmetrically to repel the anticipated coordinated (and symmetrical) mosquito attack. Their shoes and boots stood neatly in paired obedience outside the sleeping area. The mosquitoes never came, obviously deterred by such organized defence, but it was all we could do to stop from mischievously disturbing the candles' symmetry and fussing the shoe ranks.

In front of us was an open-sided gazebo with an equally open-ended invitation for strangers and kin alike to join their festivities, while a few sites down a couple of night owls had draped their canvas loosely over a very low horizontal support constructed out of those flexible tent rods meant for the sides - if any thought had gone into its construction, it was fleeting, with only one object in mind: haste. Every now and then a chorus of voices would join forces to herald a developing primal roar, sweeping around tent city like a wind.

The majority of regalers seemed to be in their twenties, something of a surprise I must say - I expected more thirty- and forty-somethings - but despite their not inconsiderable overindulgence in a diverse menu of liquid refreshment (with predictable purgative results), there wasn't a hint of tension, confrontation, or anger. And this to me is what makes it uniquely Italian (or perhaps central-rural Italian) - the spirit of friendliness and camaraderie of a group of young revellers out on a weekend adventure. It's one of the many reasons that makes living here such a pleasure.

As for the music, it was pretty good all round, although the featured group on Saturday - coming on stage at 1:30 am on Sunday morning - was outstanding. Kila is an acclaimed seven-piece band from Dublin, playing a range of rousing music with Celtic overtones that was several notches ahead of their fellow performers. Well worth the trip on its own. Last year featured Spanish bagpipe virtuoso Hevia, demonstrating the organizers' continuing efforts to attract world-class headlining acts.

As we packed up and left at around 8:30 am on Sunday - as part of an extremely well-organized and civilized exodus - I reflected on why it took me four years to finally make it to this festival. But one thing's for sure - it won't be another four before I'm back again.

The Montelago Celtic festival is typically held on the second weekend in August. Details of the festival can be found online at www.artenomade.com.

Festivals: Treia - Disfida del Bracciale (Part 2)

2010-08-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

If you're interested in reading about the event that these pictures portray, take a look at the Part 1 blog entry.

Festivals: Treia - Disfida del Bracciale (Part 1)

2010-08-10T03:55:00.001-07:00

The Renaissance had a major influence on Italian, European, and even world culture back in the 15th and 16th centuries. But it wasn’t only in the fields of the arts, humanities, and sciences, it also played a significant role in the development of popular sport in Italy. Born in the noble palaces of Tuscany, and based on a combination of tennis and an ancient Greco-Roman game, il pallone col bracciale became the most popular sport of north and central Italy from the late 17th century until as recently as 1930. Using spiked wooden armlets (bracciale), a leather ball was pounded back and forth between two teams of three, with a high wall on one side permitting deflection back into the field of play. Such was its popularity that it spawned full-time professionals and massive followings, particularly in the Piedmont, Emilia-Romagna, and Le Marche, and special courts called sferisteri (singular sferisterio = ball court) were built throughout its popular realm.

The most renowned sferisterio of the time was Macerata’s, which today hosts the illustrious Opera Festival every July and August. The prescribed dimensions for the high wall that borders one side of a sferisterio required a height of between 14 and 20 metres (Macerata’s is 18m), and a length of around 90 metres (Macerata’s is 88m). It also needed to be on the west side of the court to prevent the players from being disturbed by the rays of a setting sun (the game was played in the afternoon). The arena was also used for other activities such as circuses and an Italian form of bullfighting, which was a popular Papal State “sport”.

Le Marche’s other major centre of pallone was just a few kilometers away in Treia, perhaps not surprisingly since it was a privileged man’s sport, and Treia was home to numerous noble families. And it was here, into the wealthy landowner Ercolani family, that the greatest player of the game was born – Carlo Didimi. Such was his prowess that he amassed a substantial fortune from his tournament winnings, on one occasion in 1830 demanding a fee of 600 scudi for a performance – schoolteachers at the time earned 25-30 scudi a year. A strong proponent of the growing unification spirit of the country, he was implicated in the failed 1831 revolution, but was pardoned when Pius IX was elected pope.

On the pallone court, Didimi was a battitore (batter), the player who sets the game in motion with a mighty swipe of the ball tossed by a mandarino (server), who plays no further part in the game. The other two players that participate are the terzino and spalla, who stand in mid- and fore-court respectively. Scores are the same as tennis – 15, 30, 40, game – and the first team to win six games is the victor.

If this year’s finals of Treia’s disfida del bracciale are anything to go by – the competition has been held since 1978, just 100 years after Didimi’s death – the battitore exhibits one quality in spades: attitude. Losing finalists in 2009, the green-sashed Cassero team has a battitore that walks so slowly back to the serving board that I wondered if he was actually going to make it. His attitudinal amble is liberally punctuated with furtive glances to the crowd, all the while keeping a stern, stoic expression on his face. The yellow-sashed Onglavina team – 2009 winners and clear crowd favourites – has a battitore with rather more urgency about him, although the serious attitude and crowd-checking glances are the match of his Cassero counterpart’s.

The game itself is a drama-filled event, with much chest-bumping, primal screaming, and angry self-remonstration. This year’s final dished up an added element of drama, one which my local friends could not remember happening before. Onglavina’s mandarino must be close to 70 years old, and on August 1st the occasion seemed to get to him – his tossed serves to the battitore were all over the show, and on most occasions he (the battitore) was forced to “decline” the first serve, and risk an erratic second. The battitore’s initial anger turned to arm-around-the-shoulder encouragement, but it wasn’t long before the team manager called a halt and replaced the poor fellow with a younger mandarino. Their serving improved dramatically, they got back into the game, having been two down when the original mandarino was replaced, and almost snatched victory. However, after drifting off into the crowd, I never saw the old man again, and I don’t believe he watched out the game. Even though Treia is one of Macerata’s larger towns, it’s still small enough for everyone to know everyone, and with the disfida being its leading event of the year, I’m sure “the replacement of the mandarino” is going to be a talking point for some time.

When Cassero finally won the thing, their team members collapsed in a heap on the ground, soon to be joined by a few groupies who gleefully leapt on to the mound of bodies. Serious stuff, this pallone. But I must say as a first-timer and a lover of ball sports it was really engaging, and I was captivated throughout – the seesawing contest, the emotional charge of the players (and the crowd), and the skill and thumping shots of the protagonists. (To be honest, I’d love to have a go myself.)

The whole thing is preceded by a parade consisting of four groups each dressed in period costume portraying a particular social stratum – artisans, the middle class, nobility, and the peasants. On a sweltering day when shorts and T-shirt constituted a state of overdress, I admire the parade participants for their forbearance in their heavy fabrics and multiple layers, all the way down to the youngsters.

This is a unique festival in the province (and indeed the region, if not the nation), and definitely deserves a visit - it's held in late July/early August. And if you were dubious about the importance of pallone to this area’s history, consider the fact that Goethe wrote about it during his Italian journey in 1786-7, and that Le Marche’s poet laureate Giacomo Leopardi – who was born in the nearby hilltop town of Recanati just eight weeks after Didimi – eulogized its most famous player thus:

The face of glory and her pleasant voice,
O fortunate youth, now recognize,
And how much nobler than effeminate sloth
Are manhood's tested energies.
Take heed, O generous champion, take heed,
If thou thy name by worthy thought or deed,
From Time's all-sweeping current couldst redeem;
Take heed, and lift thy heart to high desires!
The amphitheatre's applause, the public voice,
Now summon thee to deeds illustrious;
Exulting in thy lusty youth.
In thee, to-day, thy country dear
Beholds her heroes old again appear.

If you're interested in seeing a few pictures of the event, have a look at the Part 2 blog entry.

You know you've arrived ...

2010-07-16T05:53:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When in the Italian countryside ...

2009-05-17T23:54:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Italy stops

2009-04-06T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's been a while...

2009-01-16T23:47:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drifting a little off the subject

2008-12-11T14:58:00.000-08:00

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

You can read the articles in their entirety here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Olive picking

2008-12-08T01:06:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silvio and Barack

2008-11-07T06:45:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A transplant's dilemma

2008-10-24T04:22:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amalfi, Cilento, and a Greek surprise

2008-10-24T03:56:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pictures to follow.

A milestone event (in pictures)

2008-10-24T00:53:00.000-07:00

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

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

2008-10-13T02:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Tuscan grape harvest

2008-10-11T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A milestone event (in words)

2008-09-24T00:26:00.000-07:00

It's not every day that one turns 50. In fact, there's only one such day in every (honest) man's life. And since it's a pretty significant ring on the trunk, it should be celebrated. We did. In fine style.

Of course, being in Italy only adds to the flavour of it all. The day of my birthday itself (Thursday 4th September) was a quiet, relatively uneventful day - a swim in the lake (after the clouds had come and the chilly wind had arrived), and a somewhat disappointing dinner at one of the touted local restaurants serving quintessential marchigiani fare.

But it was two days later - on Saturday 6th - that the milestone was consummated. It started out as a surprise party, but given all the preparation necessary, along with my periodic jabber about "what we're going to do on my birthday", I was soon helping (in a peripheral sort of way). Maria, along with the sterling efforts of friends Janette and Chiara, threw together a shindig that will go down in the annals of serious parties (and I've been to - and thrown - a few).

With a mixed crowd of our ex-pat and Italian neighbours and friends - split about 50:50 - we fired up the brick wood-burning oven for the first time and cooked around 30 delicious home-made pizzas. Giuliano - one of our neighbours - played the saviour and stepped in to direct (and ultimately took over from) our flailing efforts to get it going. And with the willing helping hands of his wife Ivana, another neighbour Giuliano and his sister-in-law Sabina, the production line clicked into full swing. Platters of steaming pizzas came flowing thick and fast - mozarella with tomato, onion, prosciutto, eggplant, mushroom, zucchini, many with a zing that required a swift response in the form of (the second) Giulano's family farm wine - a rich and edgy chateau di Regnano of the highest order.

When the birthday cake came out, I gave a (very) short speech in Italian, to the appreciation of all the locals.

As midnight approached and some of the neighbours were about to leave - some ex-pats had already scarpered - Janette and Chiara brought out "the present": a multi-layered wrapping with an anecdote from my life in each layer. These were translated into Italian for the locals. There weren't too many embarassing revelations, just stuff that added meat to the skeleton character that they'd all known up to now. Once that was done, the locals went off home, leaving just 9 of us.

And that's when it started. Pushing the volume capabilities of my laptop stereo to the brink, we blasted out a mix of old and contemporary music across the hills of rural Le Marche - Manfred Mann, 4 Non Blondes, Queen, Rihanna, Mattafix, Massive Attack, Madonna, Boston, Angelique Kidjo, Animal Logic, and still others. And we danced, none more freely - read "wildly out-of-control" - than my dear wife, who let go like I've never seen before, throwing herself around like the black-leather-jacket, rockin' German she is. It was wonderful to watch. The others left at around 4, we tidied up a little (or rather Maria tidied up a lot, me a little), and relaxed on the mattress outside to the strains of my favourite, more sedate music - Bruce Cockburn, Django Haskins, Lisa Gerrard, Aimee Mann, Bandits, Oystein Sevag, amongst others. Bedtime 5:30am.

I don't know when last I went to bed that late, or when I let rip quite as freely as that. But 50 be damned - I'll still be doing that (God-willing) when I'm 80.

Perhaps more significant than the milestone birthday that it was, was the feeling of being at home. Every single Italian neighbour turned up ... and stayted until the (pre-rave) death, outlasting quite a few of the younger ex-pats. I won't pretend that it's me that has fostered such goodwill in them, it's Maria, who's out there interacting far more frequently and freely than I do. But they look on us as a family, and they'll be there for us just as they'll be there for another neighbour.

I may not ever completely integrate into this country and its people, but one thing I'm pretty sure of - when it comes to the community we've chosen to live our lives, we've done pretty well.

And another thing - I'm happy here.

(Photo version to follow)

Talking of food ...

2008-09-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

Say "Italy" and I'd wager a good 6 times or more out of 10 the knee-jerk response would be "pasta" or "spaghetti" or some other gastronomic impulse. This is no accident. Every single citizen of this country has a gene that renders them both willing and unwitting marketers of arguably their most renowned cultural facet: their cuisine. It's as if they're swept along on a sort of wave cast by the gourmand magician's wand, riding it boisterously and happily in blissful ignorance of their role in perpetuating an enviable tradition.

It's a little difficult to work out which is the proverbial chicken and which the egg in all of this - did the food come first, followed by the enthusiasm for it ... or did their desire for things sensual produce, inter alia, the most exquisite tavola? It doesn't really matter - it is what it is, and the world is truly thankful for it.

Most intriguing in this epicurean theatre - replete with its din of gestures and noisy camaraderie - is the role of the male. Not any and every male (although I suspect it's the vast majority), just those that don't spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen. They are, in my experience, the most eager to expound on the specialties of their regions ... the key ingredients of a ragu sauce ... the best place to find fresh (insert foodstuff here).

Two classic examples.

First, Pepe, our neighbour who lives in Bari in Puglia, and who visits his mother's house in Regnano several times a year. She (nonna) seldom comes these days, having now reached the age that her physical condition keeps her back in Bari. When she is here, though, you'll find her - blue scarf wrapped around her head in the way that makes all the older woman seem related if not clones of each other - bent over like a hook, scavenging the fields for cicoria or nettles or some other green leaf that grows wild in the fields.

Perhaps Pepe got his knowledge from his mother, or perhaps from his wonderful cook of a wife, Anna. But it's most certainly as a looker-on, albeit a mighty observant one, that Pepe's knowledge derives. When quizzed by Maria - as Anna slaved over the dishes after another of her prodigious feasts - whether or not he helped in the kitchen, Pepe responded that he had tried washing up once before, but he didn't like it so he doesn't do it any more. He wasn't joking.

But he can tell you exactly which ingredients to use for the perfect penne arrabiata ... what it is that makes pugliese bread so delicious ... and how long you should blanch the beans before taking them off the stove and mixing it with the ubiquitous olive oil and I forget what else. He's a gem, though, genuinely caring for our well-being, and - it goes without saying - the satiation of our appetites.

The second instance was on a hike with some 15 or so Italians on the premier festa of all summer feste - ferragosto (which falls on 15th of August and whose origins deserve a blog entry all of its own). Now going on a hike with a group of Italians (the word "large" is superfluous here) is an experience of an entirely different kind from a hike anywhere else that I've been, and is one to be savoured and enjoyed for its very uniqueness. However, that's not the point here.

The point is, after we'd had our various sandwich lunches and roused ourselves from the gentle slumbers that the food and the hot day had induced, somehow the topic got around to food. (There is a saying that all roads lead to Rome - perhaps that has some sort of proverbial significance here with respect to conversations and food.) Claudio - a really interesting guy who paints frescos and collects ancient stone implements - launched the first salvo, proclaiming with deep sincerity and mouth-watering conviction his unflinching and passionate loyalty to dried pasta (as opposed the fresh kind made with egg). He reeled off all sorts of shapes and incarnations of his culinary elixir, but I don't remember any of them. I do, however, remember his face - alive, sparkling, ecstatic, as he reeled off his heavenly weak spots. For a consistently fascinating and fascinated fellow, he rose to height that I hadn't seen before.

Sitting some distance away, Giuglio, normally a (very) silent, smiling chap, was immediately drawn to the topic, like a moth to a flame. Over he came and joined in with a verbosity that might even have surprised Carla, his wife. He bubbled with mirth - for what seemed a disproportionately long time - at the recollection of a friend of his who had once eaten pasta for breakfast. He took on a new persona for me in that moment.

It was indeed a spectacular hike, through a narrow, towering gorge with a crisp river that we had to wade through up to our knees. I'll remember it for that, no doubt. But I'll remember it more for the simple joy of that conversation, when everything else stopped and fell away, and the lifeblood of the Italian passion came charging to the surface, eager to be heard ... and shared.

Bureaucracy bondage

2008-09-20T02:14:00.000-07:00

Bureaucracy is an evil that of necessity one has to deal with in any country, doubly so when you move from one country to another. When one of those countries is Italy, the bureaucracy factor disappears into the stratosphere. But like all things Italian, it's not a static, predictable thing - it's dynamic (not in an energetic sense) and mostly very difficult to predict. I even suspect that the bureaucrat dealing with whatever's in front of them feels very much the same way - heads: reject, tails: ask for another form, coin stands on its edge: approve.

But I shouldn't be critical or cynical - the research I'm doing for a book about moving to Italy asserts that the way I came into this country and got my permission to stay (permesso di soggiorno) is actually impossible, can't be done, against the law, don't even think of trying it. I can only assume that I was a benefactor of the other side of that Italian bureaucratic coin - the Italian character.

Anyway, my permesso di soggiorno, the very thing that allows me to stay here, expires on September twenty-something. (See here for a blog entry on the original application process.) Three months before the due date, I start making inquiries. Coincidentally, at the same time I'm in the process of updating the very section of aforementioned book that deals with residence permits. Turns out - after clarification of the contradictory terms of the law - that I can actually work here legally thanks to my matrimonial state with an EU citizen. This is a revelation to me, I actually thought I was prohibited from working. I guess I can now follow up on that list of job offers that have poured in over the past months.

The application process - along with the law - all changed last year, and now one submits the application through the Post Office. This fills me with trepidation. When I finally get all the paperwork together - 40 pages of it! - I have to hand it over to a clerk working for an organization that routinely loses things, some of them very big things, like the box I sent from the US two years ago that never arrived. On top of it, I arrive to hand in the application just as they're closing, meaning they're all anxious to head off for lunch. But what can I do? I hand it over, and hold my breath ... only to be pleasantly surprised ...

Two weeks later I get three things - a web site where I can check the status of my application, and a text message on our cell phone, which says I have an appointment at the immigration office on December 12th. The text message even agrees with what the web site says. And then a letter arrives, confirming what the other media have already said. I am wary to start changing my view prematurely, but I'm now looking at all of this with a cocked head, creased eyes, and a curious, questioning, twisted pursing of the lips - is the system actually ... working?

I can actually vouch for the fact that the bureaucracy is indeed working exactly as intended in another arena of the government's grasp on my life - taxes. Now based on everything I've researched - and believe me the info I've found would fill more than a small book - I have no idea where I'm actually meant to pay income taxes. But given my belief that I wasn't allowed to work here, I decide to file in the US (which has a worldwide taxation policy for its lucky citizens). Hours and hours later, head bulging with with the instruction of numerous regulations, I fill in my 40 forms and find out that despite my meagre earnings in 2007, due to my status as a self-employed individual, I owe - guess what? - self-employment tax. Off it goes, once again into that black hole that is the Italian Postal Service, and lo and behold it finds its way to its intended destination.

On the Italian side, things work differently. Maria worked here last year, and so has to file a tax return, even though employers have to deduct and submit taxes from each month's payslip (i.e. PAYE). But unlike the US, where a tax return form arrives at your doorstep comfortably in time to file before April 15th, there's no such notification in Italy. Now I acknowledge that this isn't such a big deal. What is a big deal is getting the right form, accurately filled out, from her prior employers. With the due date have sailed languorously by a few months ago, we still don't have it.

More intriguing to me, though, are the other taxes. Two in particular - rifuti and ICI. Rifuti is for waste removal, ICI is property tax. You don't get notified that it's due, when it's due, and how much is due. You just have to know these things. If you don't go and pay, you're likely to get a bill in a few year's time with substantial penalties and interest. Interestingly, Berlusconi decided to abolish ICI for primary homes, but there's no official announcement (as far as I'm aware), it just sort of acquiesces.

[Update - with a uniquely Italian flair for the deadpan-faced prank, our rifuti bill arrived in the mail the day after I posted this entry to the blog.]

As far as taxes go, I think I'll miss ICI, even though I never had to pay it. As I understand its machinations, you march down to the comune, tell them what you think your house is worth, they then work out what you owe. So effectively you're telling them what you think you should pay. Now if I absolutely have no option but to pay tax, this is the kind that I could live with.

As for rifuti, you follow a similar path down to the comune office, tell them how big your house is, and they tell you how much to pay. Now it's not a huge amount, but my (thankfully) spendthrift wife tries to save on everything she can, and after an appeal to the woman behind the counter, she got a discount!

And you wonder why I love it here.

Cost of living in the Italian countryside

2008-08-27T05:05:00.000-07:00

The other day I filled up my car. I was horrified, not because the pump just stopped before the tank was full, but because it took 78 big old euros to get that far ... and it still wasn't finished - the pump was somehow set automatically at that amount, and so it didn't even fill up the tank. €78??? That translates to about $114, or R893 (South African rands).

Such is the price of living in the Eurozone. It prompted me to thinking that those of you in the netherlands (USA, South Africa, the UK, and other places) might find it interesting to know what it costs to live here. So I put together a list of day-to-day items. (In truth, I didn't just do this for the blog - I have a couple of assignments that were looking for this info.) The grocery items come from a local co-operative and include in-season fruit and vegetables, which are either more expensive or simply not available out of season.

Shopping basket	Euro	South African Rand	US $
Loaf of rustic bread	2.03/kg	23.24/kg	1.36/pound
Milk	1.25/liter	14.31/liter	6.95/gal
6-pack of coke	2.64	30.23	3.88
Bottle of table wine	3-5	34-57	4.50-7.35
6-pack of beer	3.76	43	5.53
Mineral water	0.45/1.5 liter	5.15/1.5 liter	0.66/1.5 liter
Sugar	0.90/kg	10.31/kg	0.60/pound
Coffee	2.05/205g	23.50/250g	5.47/pound
Free-range chicken	4.30/kg	49.25/kg	2.87/pound
Ground beef	6.00/kg	68.70/kg	4.00/pound
Pork chops	4.90/kg	56.11/kg	3.27/pound
Norwegian salmon	7.90/kg	90.50/kg	5.28/pound
Prosciutto	19.80/kg	226.70/kg	13.23/pound
Bananas	1.69/kg	19.35/kg	1.13/pound
Peaches	1.89/kg	21.65/kg	1.26/pound
Onions	1.28-2.45/kg	14.66-28.05/kg	0.86-1.64/pound
Potatoes	0.86-1.14/kg	9.85-13.05/kg	0.57-0.76/pound
Zucchini	0.89-1.49/kg	10.20-17.05/kg	0.59-1.00/pound
Carrots	0.89/kg	10.19/kg	0.59/pound
Tomatoes	1.48-1.98/kg	16.95-22.67/kg	0.99-1.32/pound
Quality Pecorino (sheep's milk) cheese	14.50/kg	166/kg	9.69/pound
Italian butter	1.66/250g	19/250g	4.43/pound
Eggs per 1/2 dozen	1.32	15.10	1.94
Spaghetti	0.86/500g	9.85/500g	1.15/pound
Olive oil	5.05-9.59/liter	57.80-109.80/liter	7.42-14.10/liter
Monthly costs for running a 2000 sq ft (200 sq m) farmhouse	Euro	South African Rand	US $
Water & electricity	60	687	88
Gas (for cooking, hot water and heating) – winter	375	4294	551
Gas (for cooking and hot water) – summer	100	1145	147
Fixed phone(moderate-significant international calling)	50	572	74
Cell phone	30	343	44
Hi-speed internet	25	286	37
Satellite TV	45	515	66
Going out	Euro	South African Rand	US $
Movie tickets for 2 w/popcorn & 2 sodas	18	206	26.50
Dinner for 2: 3-course + wine	50	575	74
Espresso	0.80	9.15	1.18
Local beer	2.50	28.65	3.70
Car expenses	Euro	South African Rand	US $
Gasoline	1.47/liter	16.83/liter	8.18/gal
Diesel	1.44/liter	16.50/liter	8.01/gal
Car insurance per year (bare bones for 10-year-old car)	1200	13740	1764

HRH: pre-teen going on 20 ... or 70

2008-08-25T03:55:00.000-07:00

"Eh."

"Bo'."

"Si."

"O!"

"Eh."

"Ciao."

This is the regal telephone diction of HRH. He's rather more eloquent with us, but only sometimes, and only just. I guess it's the age, and the concomitant slide into monosyllabic taciturnity.

This summer, a new habit has evolved - the Urbisaglia get-together. Urbisaglia is the little town just 10 minutes away where HRH goes to school. His mates live there. They go out to the local piazza and campo (field) on a daily basis to play football and "hang out" (one of HRH's more verbose phrases).

We typically drop him off at about 4 or 5pm, and pick him up as close to midnight as we can manage. Italians are night owls, and their children get inducted into their ways when they're still toddlers, so there are often plenty of them still milling about when we pick up HRH. Needless to say, this "early" pick-up is not the most popular of our parental actions.

I must confess that rural Italy is probably one of the few places I'd feel comfortable about doing this. I'm sure he'll want to start moving further afield the older he gets - he's already started talking about getting an Ape when he's 14 (fat chance) - so maybe our concerns will grow accordingly then. Last year it was Colmurano, this year Urbisaglia, next year ....?

But even then it's not a major problem - the local comune puts on buses to the discos on the coast a half-hour away that pick them up at 11pm on a Saturday night and bring them back in the wee hours. Now that's what I call a pro-active attempt at keeping the youth happy and keeping them safe at the same time. But in any event, I'm hoping the fairly frequent presence of girls in the current crowd helps to motivate a more "local" interest.

Last night I went to pick him up just before midnight at one of the local bars. Now this is not the type of bar you'd find in the US or the UK or South Africa, for example. Here they're gathering points for the village, probably the biggest item they sell is coffee, and anyway heavy drinking is not something one finds in rural Italy.

The boys had gone down to watch the Inter Milan - Roma derby on TV. When I arrived, they were playing cards on one of the outside tables. Just across from them on another table, the 60 and 70 year-olds were also playing cards. Both tables were engaged in rapid-fire chattering, loud remonstrating, and hand-led gesticulating as is the Italian wont. I had to do a double-take. For a moment I thought I was looking at a superimposition of future time against the present - which one of the old guys was HRH?

Colmurano Go Kart Grand Prix in pictures

2008-08-07T03:48:00.001-07:00

The setting

Didn't quite come out as intended, but the sweeping colours are interesting

Through the neighbourhood

Avid potential go kart buyers (HRH at center)

More unintentional waves

Hot August

2008-08-04T23:57:00.000-07:00

Hot. Stinking hot, in fact. Indeed, it wouldn't be out of place to suggest, Bruce, that it's hot enough to boil a monkey's bum (a knowing nudge and wink to Monty Python adherents). As dry as dust, too, with a hot wind just to make it that smidgen drier.

At this point clichéd vernacular would normally require me to attest: "At least it's not humid." But unfortunately this provides no solace for a sweat-drenched gardener or tree-house builder who has to wear long pants to keep the biting flies off his legs.

On the windless days, clouds puff up into thunderheads, the air crackles with electricity, shadows darken the distant skies ... but it's all just a ruse - nothing happens. I'm surprised, with the lack of rain, that our plants have not simply said "To hell with this place" and died. They're actually still going - well, dragging, really - and some of them (the weeds, mainly) are positively flourishing.

Unfortunately, the heat does not dissipate household and garden tasks, and so - when my writing deadlines allow me a day or half-day - I take to the broiler outside and tackle a heat-inducing task. Like clearing out the back porch so that you don't trip over any one of a hundred stacked-up, metamorphosising "things" ... donning pore-less plastic gear to take on the wasp's nest right on a frequented path in the garden ... building a tree-house with (and for) HRH.

This last task has been both a joy and struggle (although thankfully the latter in lower measure). The heat and our differing opinions on what to do to secure the thing have produced a few beano disagreements, but the end product is nonetheless taking shape, and is - as a first effort on both our parts - quite a thing. Julius even slept overnight in it once the lower walls were up to prevent him rolling over mid-dream into the dark abyss. With just the roof and the deck remaining to be done, I'm hoping it accords some utility beyond the satisfaction of constructing it - we'll see. At some point I'll post some pictures of the finished article.

In the midst of the heat wave, the streets of our local village, Colmurano, were once again transformed for a weekend, this time for a national go-kart grand prix. Attracting top-class drivers from all over Italy, it was curious to see my normal routes play home to screeching rubber and squealing engines. Julius, of course, now wants one, but he's been told that he'll have to be satisfied with his dad's robust rendering on those hairpin bends, an assertion that elicits nothing but contempt from HRH, given his claim that said dad lacks any trace of a spirit of adventure.

The grand prix was somewhat out of the ordinary for this time of year. Italy is in the throes of shutting down for August, and every town, village, hamlet, and collection of more than one house is in festa mode. What's so pleasant about it all is that here they make no attempt to disguise their primary intent behind each festival - eating. This is what it all comes down to - life, the universe, and everything: they want to eat. Lots. Different things too - lentils with pork rind ... paparadelle with duck ... nettles ... And always with a passion that is unique, infectious, and nation-defining. Yes, August in the Italian countryside - I haven't experienced one yet (last year we were in southern Africa), so I'm looking forward to the phenomenon.

But right now I have to go - after all that food talking I'm starting to get a little peckish. I'll have to see what's on the festa menu in Cessapolombo tonight ...

Cosmopolitan rural Italy

2008-07-12T07:21:00.000-07:00

Our local village's annual arts in the street festival (Arti Strada) is on again right now. It's brilliant - top class music, dance, magicians, performance art, painting and sculpture, along with the requisite stalls selling perfumed candles, rings, ornaments, and a host of other interesting stuff. Not to mention tarot card and palm readers next to the fortune teller. It's arranged along much the same lines as last year's event, which is chronicled here, so I won't go into it in detail.

But there is one thing about the festival that prompted some reflections about living here. I was standing mesmerised watching a band playing, applauding loudly at the end of a piece when a friend tapped me on the shoulder and said: "That was worth coming here for, wasn't it?"

Indeed it was - a rhythmic, energetic, infectious world beat number played by a band thrown together from immigrants that gather in a piazza in Genova. They're from all over the world - Russia, Brazil, Morocco, China, Sri Lanka, Mexico, Senegal, and - believe it or not - Italy. Here in our little corner of rural Marche, a region that none of the 20-strong band had been to before, a world-class act playing just for the couple of hundred of us swaying enthusiastically with them.

And while they were the top billing, they weren't the only top notch performers from far afield. Uruguay, Australia, Holland, Spain, Chile, Macedonia, Congo, and Honduras were all represented as well. I could have been almost anywhere.

The international flavour of the day didn't end there. The friend watching the band with me is Scottish, an author and illustrator of books on goblins, legends, and spirits from all over the world. And earlier in the day as we sat on the beach, a Venezuelan who used to play baseball for the White Sox in Chicago struck up a conversation with us. He lives not too far from us with his Italian wife.

Who would have thunk that we'd be rubbing shoulders with such an eclectic mix in this place? It's not an isolated occurrence either. While this weekend was perhaps a little more concentrated on the international flavour front, interacting with "foreigners" is a fairly regular occurrence. And that's not including the many English people here, their community on its own offering layers of class, outlook, and soap opera happenings on a daily basis - there are also Australians, Americans, Argentinians, Kosovari, Albanians, Senegalese, Nigerians, Ghanaians, Moroccans, and still others.

Then of course there are also the locals, who provide their own distinct essence in an already rich patchwork. Vitaliano, our contadino neighbour, has likely seldom ventured much further than Macerata, a half-hour away. In contrast, our other neighbour, pensioner Franco, has travelled more than I have, in his days with Italian oil company Agip reaching distant parts of South America, North, Central and South Africa, and the Middle East. He still doesn't speak English, but it didn't stop us spending an Arti Strada night together, sharing travel stories and enjoying the music, him tapping his 70-year-old feet along with the teenagers surrounding us.

It's a veritable surprise of diversity. In a country known for its xenophobia, more pronounced in its rustic reaches than the urban sprawl, it's just another contradiction in the mass of anomalies that somehow hold Italy together.

It's a wonderful thing. As I look out of my office over the rolling hills at the breeze blowing the cotton-wool clouds gently across the cielo azzurro, bringing a welcome coolness to the air, I can only think how lucky I am to be here.

Our garden in pictures

2008-07-12T05:45:00.000-07:00

A few pictures from our own little plot of turf. While some of the colourful products of our garden had us to thank for their robust vibrance, many are entirely free of our intervention, helpful or otherwise.

First up, a few cherries. Delicious they were, as the birds I'm sure would agree.

This rose had Maria to thank for its survival and ravishing health.

Growing wild ...

... as are these.

An onion blossom.

A couple of onion blossoms getting to know each other a little better.

Corn flowers a long way from the corn.

Four existing hibiscus bushes decided to burst forth this summer after taking a year off. No thanks to us either.

This yellow broom has likely seen its last season as a wood stack is destined to take its place.

Another wild guest.

And another Maria rose.

Flowers from our flourishing potato plants.

More cherries ... and an apple.

Talking of apples ...

And finally, another wild, unaided member of our colourful throng.

The three P's of wisdom in rural Italy

2008-07-10T01:43:00.000-07:00

As things start taking on a semblance of normality, there is occasionally the time to think. Make no mistake, there is still plenty to do before we could say the house is "phase 1 finished":

- light fixtures to replace the blatant wires and bare bulbs
- office file cabinet to eliminate the iceberg-pile of stuff in the corner
- patio paving and loggia
- garden differentiable from the nearby forest so that it actually looks like we're in control, not the plants (weeds)
- TV moved from temporary location with frenzy of wires to permanent wall fixture
- furniture in the lounge(s) to replace picnic fold-up chairs, Marty Crane specials, and bare carpet
- kitchen drawers to reduce risk of back problems from having to bend over for everything
- proper storage space for tools so that we can actually get in and out of our back door without tripping over something

... and so on.

Basically what I'm finding is that there are 3 main ingredients for living contentedly here, or anywhere, for that matter - planning, passion, and patience. (OK, "passion" may be a bit poetic, but it was alliterative.)

The prime example is the garden. We planted vegetables back in April/May, romantically envisioning the bulbous onions, fabled beanstalks, and Popeye spinach adorning our daily tavola. Indeed. But such is the fertility of the soil here, and such was the dampness of the spring, that our garden positively exploded, burgeoning with green growth everywhere to such an extent that I'd barely finished the hacking through the rash-inducing, sweat-provoking, jungle-like growth on the bottom slope that I had to start again on the flat surfaces on the top (since they'd shot up in the interim like speeded-up home videos).

The vegetable garden? Forget it. It was a tangled mass of stalks and vines and leaves and grass and weeds within a few weeks of planting. It was so overgrown that on several occasions I simply turned away from it and banished it from my thoughts (at least temporarily) because it was so overwhelming I didn't know where to start. Eventually I came back to it, of course, and did some weeding, just enough to be able to recognize the vegetables from the feral growths that had invaded the place.

In the meantime, of course, while I turned my attention to the vegetables and my back on the remainder of the garden, the parts I ignored took the opportunity to enjoy a growth spurt. When I looked back at them again, it was as if I'd never even tended them in the first place.

Demoralising. When we stopped and commiserated with each other, we came to the realization that we just tried to do too much. We weren't ready for the vegetable garden, to give it the numerous hours per week that it needs. We hadn't planned adequately on what we wanted to plant and harvest, when we were going to do so, and where we were going to put them. And after a hellish year of renovations and nomadic living when everything was such an effort, we wanted it to happen too quickly.

Well, guess what? Everything is still an effort, and it'll always be. The garden will come in time, but only in it's own time, and after we've put in the time. And got the blisters and callouses on our lily-white hands.

Only if we embrace the process too, not just the end result. Without the passion going into it, the results will be lacklustre.

The same is true for the rest of the house and the property. Ditto for living here - the language, the friendships, the life...

It reminds me of an article I read some years ago about a young Yahoo! turk who had reflected that something that took two years to come to fruition (in business) was way too long. Six months was basically the edge of his time horizon. As a forty-something at the time, I had to smile wryly at the impetuous impatience. Such is the world in some minds.

What I'm finding is that things that endure take a little longer. And they don't have definitive measuring units - they simply take as long as they take. And there's no place better to learn that lesson than out here in rural Italy, where this concept is baked into the earth and infused in the veins of the locals that surround me.

I'm coming to terms with it, and calming down as a result. The key is to keep planting one foot forward, and if you get knocked backward - as we have innumerable times already and will be in the future - to step up and plant it again. With conviction. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Maybe in a decade or two, I may even have a few pearls of advice for my son and his progeny.

Having endeth-ed the lesson here, a couple of more encouraging sequels. First, the fava beans were delicious and monstrous, we're enjoying the 3 types of onion right now, and the potato plants have been prolific in their output. Casualties? The peas and spinach. But 3 out of 5 ain't bad for a city slicker with computer keyboard fingers.

The rest of the garden, too, has taken it upon itself to grow anyway, in spite of my efforts to hold it back, rendering a colourful display that will be the subject of a pictorial blog in the not too distant future.

A Grande day - in pictures

2008-07-06T03:01:00.000-07:00

The visual companion to the verbal version chronicled here. (Note also that if you click on the picture it opens full-size.)

A Grande day

2008-06-30T07:31:00.001-07:00

Up in the Apennine mountains in a bowl surrounded by soft, curved hills is a wonderful place. It’s called Piano Grande, and is actually just across the regional border in Umbria. It’s famous for its thin-skinned lentils grown in checkered fields that deck the plain, every year yielding a crop of wonderful wildflowers in late June. The phenomenon is celebrated in the form of an annual festa in the Piano’s sole village perched on a mound on its northern edge. In typical Italian fashion, the town has a rhythmic, tongue-satisfying name – Casteluccio. Last Sunday, we went there.

The spectacular weather attracted throngs, and as we sauntered through the shady, oak-covered avenues in the valley en route, we were constantly overtaken by bikers buzzing like black insects toward the honey pot. Biking is a very popular weekend sport here, particularly among the curving mountain roads in our neighborhood. For some reason – maybe it’s a biker thing – they’re always in a hurry, which means, given the innate and unchangeable habits of the Italian driver, a constant dance with the wild side: overtaking on solid white lines (what lines?), speeding by on the other side on blind curves (who's blind?), and generally making a mad dash to get there … and do nothing. It’s all black leather, making everyone look the same, so it’s always intriguing getting to a communal stop to see who’s actually underneath all that black – anyone and everyone, as it turns out, and – in this country – pretty much as you’d expect.

Casteluccio has a permanent population of about 3, and on festival days, 30,000. Cars are parked all the way down the approaching roads in typical Italian fashion: eclectic, avante-garde style. The numerous mammoth coaches slow things down to a crawl, and jam up the village’s piazza, but it doesn’t matter – it’s festa time and all that’s important is that you’re there in some way or other. Chaos, after all, is what Italians thrive on, it’s like a life juice that injects them with an oblivious energy that makes everything just OK.

Ignoring the apparently obvious requirement to park a kilometer away, we crawl into the piazza, and scoot up a sidestreet, finding a parking on a precipitous slope just 50m from the action. Why everyone else isn’t doing this is anyone’s guess – I thought that finding obscure but convenient parking places was a national pastime.

Anyway, after spending a nano-second on that thought, off we go to explore. In the town itself, there are only three things to do – browse the few stores for the local products (lentils, salami, cheese, and curios), watch the people … and eat (of course). We did all three, crushing into a busy diner-cum-restaurant that had a single, heaving line to get in and out. Amongst the many dishes available, Julius and I had the compulsory lentil and sausage soup – more like a stew but delicious. My son then followed this up – much to our surprise since his appetite has shrunk since his eating-machine days – with a monster of a porchetta sandwich: whole roasted pig, a specialty of the larger region and an absolute must if you have the stomach for it. To our even greater surprise, he flattened it, and left sated and satisfied, hands and mouth glistening with grease.

We then took a drive up a bumpy dirt road that leads to who-knows-where up and around the corner, and stopped to watch the group of hang- and para-gliders readying themselves and throwing themselves off the slope and into mid-air. It reminded me of Douglas Adams’ flying instruction manual: throw yourself at the ground … and miss. Well, miss they did, these fellows, most of them English, it seemed, and went soaring over the plains and some of them up into the stratosphere, gliding peacefully some few thousand feet above the central Apennines’ highest peak, Vettore. There’s actually a school for such ventures not far from where we live, and watching these guys do what birds do – apparently as easily as they do too – took me another step closer to being convinced that I want to do it too. We shall see, maybe it’ll be my 50^th birthday present to myself, although my Italian would need to improve in order to be able to understand all of the instruction and increase chances of survival.

After a couple of hours of this, down we went into the plains to get a close-up of the flowers. Not inordinately spectacular, I have to confess, but given the peaceful setting, buzzing with happy visitors lying down in the fields posing for photos, there was little to criticize.

Driving back at the settling dusk, I was reminded why I came here (notwithstanding my son’s unfathomable tantrum). Sure there are other beautiful places like this all over Europe and the world, but this one is just an hour from my house. And it’s an experience – bikers, congestion, food, gliders, throngs, and more – that you could only have in Italy.

Contrasts and contradictions

2008-06-17T03:49:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, a friend visiting from South Africa pondered our move as he stood looking at the shell of our house in the early stages of renovation. “I’m trying to get my head around your life here,” he said. His words echo frequently as I do my own share of pondering our life here, full as it is with contrasts and contradictions.

We get our honey from one neighbour, eggs from another, milk from a third. Our vegetable patch is doing OK given the lack of attention it’s received, but we had a few delicious meals from our first crop of the season – the fava beans.

In between, I do research on the internet and write for my American and Irish clients. Last Saturday, I watched South Africa play Wales in a rugby international, and on Sunday I watched Rafael Nadal win the French Open. Tonight I’ll watch Italy play France in Euro 2008.

I can go days without speaking Italian. Over the past three weeks, I’ve had to dust off my improvised German for Maria’s visiting friends and family, causing my hard-wired brain untold confusion and my bumbling speech to substitute languages with reckless abandon.

I suppose it is a little more complicated than it used to be in some ways, but it most ways, it isn’t. The simplicity of it is calming, even if the pressure to make money – a greater challenge here for me than ever before – isn’t.

But I’m reminded every now and then how different my life is - not only from my old life - but also from so many people around us, the locals in particular – what constitutes a good day, what a crisis is, how I earn a living … the list goes on.

A week or so ago a particular event brought it home in a jarring, etched-in-the-memory type of way. When we went to collect our milk from the farmer across the valley, I noticed one of the cows lying on its side next to the road. Thinking this an unusual posture for a bovine, I looked closer, and noticed a long gash in its neck. The cow-hand (a woman) came over and told me that it wasn’t well (pointing to its swollen leg) and so they slashed its throat. As we watched, it was eking out its last, moaning and groaning as the life bled out of its neck.

“Mi dispiace” (I’m sorry), the woman kept saying matter-of-factly, which is pretty much how they must have come to the decision not half an hour before our arrival. And then led the cow across the road to its death gutter.

I suppose this sort of thing shouldn’t bother me, but it simply points to how different an upbringing and life I’ve had. People like me imagine life in the rolling hills of Italy to be romantic. It may be so, but it’s also real – perhaps a lot more real than I’ve ever experienced.

From the land where nothing is straight-forward

2008-06-11T08:21:00.001-07:00

There is no peace for the wicked … no such thing as a free lunch … no gain without pain … one forward, three back – you name it, there’s a cliché out there to describe our experience here.

Take our internet connection – my life-changing internet connection, chronicled here – for instance. Everything went fine for a couple of weeks. Even our neighbour backed off when I was able to string the cable a couple of metres off the ground, allowing him to cut the brush below it.

But then the inevitable happened – failure. During a storm. Just quietly shut down.

So down I go to the internet store – my network port is dead. Well, not dead really – the system knows it’s there, but it just didn’t work. No-one knew why.

So they gave me a network adapter that plugged into my PCMCIA slot. Worked like a charm … until the next storm (two days later). Down it went again.

Back to the internet store – network adapter’s dead. No problem with the antenna or my computer during and after the storm, mind. They were puzzled.

So they gave me a different type of network adapter, one that plugs into a USB port. Again, no problem … until the next rain, that is (two days later).

Now, at the best of times, this would have been a frustrating experience, but with two looming deadlines and a bucket-load of online research to do, the timing couldn’t have been worse.

But we soldier on. Down to the internet store again – now this network adapter is dead. The techie’s suggestion? Get an exorcist. He chuckled when he said that, and in a different scenario, I might have joined him.

He and his techie partners are flummoxed – they don’t know what’s causing it. So as a last resort, he gave me a network filter to moderate the signal coming through. Of course I had to get another network adapter, but since I had already blown the only two they had at the store (they only have a call for about two a year, since, in their words, “they never fail”), I had to go and get it somewhere else.

The store down the road was closed – permanently, it seems (their timing from my selfish standpoint was perfect, of course). The other store had to order it, and it took a day to arrive (not bad, given where I am).

In the meantime, my deadlines came and went, and I scrambled through them by to-ing and fro-ing to the internet store, where my wireless card – a useless piece of equipment so far in this neck of the woods – got me onto their network.

But the new network card has a gimpy connection, so I lost the connection the second time I tried it. I was distraught, thinking that the ghost was still in the machine. And hoping the fact that I got the network cable outside caught up in the weed-eater (strimmer) yesterday wasn’t the reason for it. Luckily, a firm push and the network card connected.

The network filter, however, needs to be properly earthed, something I’m led to believe will require an electrician. Which means a phone call & an appointment, neither of which has happened yet. So the filter is not operational yet.

As a result, the network adapter gets disconnected when rain threatens, which right now is daily, for several prime working hours. Last week it rained solidly for 3 days.

And so when the weather starts turning, I have to do something else – like cut the lawn, weed the vegetable patch, install something …

Yes indeed here we are in the Italian countryside, mixing vegetable growing with internet surfing.

But only when the weather’s good.

Another step forward

2008-05-25T23:15:00.000-07:00

Life over the past two months - at least in terms of its convenience quotient - has indeed taken leaps and bounds forward. First, we got a fixed phone. Then, we got the internet. Both have saved hours of to-ing and fro-ing in the car to internet points and phone centers, eliminated a not insignificant number of euros in cost, and a schedule that no longer requires planning around phone calls and emails. As one might imagine, this has simplified our lives and reduced the stress index accordingly.

But that's not all. Our most recent addition to our growing new millenium acquisitions in this old world domain has no less of a daily impact than these other two giant steps for mankind.

Solar panels.

As a previous blog might have alluded to, our infrastructure plans somehow forgot to include an alternative to our fireplace (camino) for our hot water needs. Most people in this neck of the woods use gas. How this happened is another story; suffice it to say that it belongs in the same category as the Bermuda triangle and the wreck of the Mary Deare.

Anyway, our fire-for-hot-shower system meant that every time we wanted to indulge in a spot of personal hygiene, we'd have to light a fire. Not a problem when it's chillsome outside, but a real pain in the ass when it's shorts and T-shirt weather. Given the current law of diminishing vestiture that goes with the advent of spring, lighting a fire was becoming something of a bind, if not downright humiliating to my common sense. Hence the solar panels.

It would be something of an understatement to simply say blandly that life has changed since they've gone in. These days, every time I want a shower, I can just go and take one. It's hard to explain to anyone that's never been in such a position, but it's positively a revelation - no going to collect kindling and wood (more than a simple task if it's been raining), getting the fire going, and then waiting at least half-an-hour for the fire to heat the water enough to take the plunge. Since we invested in the best solar panel system (Paradigma from Germany), we can simply step in, and within minutes be smiling under a cloud of steam. Even when it rained for 3 days and we never saw the sun in that time, the system's insulated boiler held sufficient water at a hot enough temperature to have a bone-warming doccia.

Another benefit is that it's going to help in the winter when we're using the fire for hot water and heating - the partially-warmed water from the solar panel boiler is routed to the camino reservoir, giving a head-start in the heating-up process.

Plus, of course, if leaves us virtually free of any gas obligations. our stove currently uses about 6 euros a month in gas, while others who heat their homes and hot water can spend 400 euros a month in winter, and maybe a third of that in summer.

It's a learning process, this living in Italy thing, often a challenge, and always an exercise in patience, but we'll get there in the end. I mean, how can I feel anything but good when we're not only saving money with solar panels (in the long run, obviously), but we're also doing our tiny little bit for the environment.

Phone update

2008-05-19T02:10:00.000-07:00

In the excitement of several other landmark developments (at least from our humble, provincial perspective) in the last month, it somehow escaped the blog’s attention that a fixed phone line was installed at our house. After a long, frustrating, and fruitless relationship with Telecomm Italia – much of it chronicled here – they finally turned up and spent all of 10 minutes to (re-)connect our long-standing, plain-for-all-to-see, existing phone line. Apparently we’re going to have to fork over some €400 for their questionable effort.

Since the complex flip-switch just over a month ago, service has, I’m happy to say, been uninterrupted. We were able to sign up – stunningly without a hitch – for a long-distance plan that allows unlimited calling to Europe and North America for a mere €10 a month.

For my South African calls, I’ve signed up for a third-party, call-another-number-first service. They advertised calls to SA for €0.02 per minute, a charge which I’ve yet to see – so far, costs have been in the €0.03-5 per minute range.

Attempted comparisons with Telecom Italia tariffs to South Africa have been fraught with puzzlement and self-doubt – their website gives a creative, neatly-compartmented, and entirely incomprehensible formula which my dull brain calculates to a monumental €0.30 for every 5.5 seconds (or €3.27 per minute). Notwithstanding TI’s likely higher charges given their sparsely-populated competitive realm, it surely has to be cheaper than this. So I’m sure I’m not reading something right, an outcome I’d wager is not beyond the essence of their intent. Whatever the actual tariff – and it wouldn’t surprise me if it changed from minute to minute – I’m pretty sure it’s more than €0.05 per minute.

Consequently, I’m not about to complain. To anyone. After all, I have a working phone, one that rings, and one that gets dial tone consistently. Better to let sleeping dogs lie I reckon, lest waking them rouses a spirit of curiosity in some telecomm bureaucrat or technician that would in all likelihood weave an “unravellable” bundle of telephonic events that would render us paying for something that we don’t have, and sharing a line with our neighbours just like our friends in Paterno do.

It’s already a little peculiar to many of the locals here that our number has a San Severino Marche prefix, a town some 50km distant.

Needless to say, our telephonic adventures have other dimensions – the telephone itself, for example. Our attempts to buy one (a) without a cord and with a built-in charger, and (b) with an answering machine have so far proved as fruitless as my attempts to understand TI’s tariff structure. Italians have not embraced the answering machine culture, and they rarely (if ever) leave or listen to messages on either fixed or cell phones. Consequently there’s not much of a market for built-in answering machines, and so I suppose we shouldn’t blame the sales clerk in the store (that only sells telephone stuff) for telling us there was an answering machine when there isn’t. Or, for that matter, for selling us a cordless phone which requires its "special" rechargeable batteries to be replaced when they finally expire.

In truth, we only have ourselves to blame for not doing all the double-and-triple checks before leaving the store, or asking the questions that we didn’t know or think to ask. (In truth, I’ve managed to stay out of this particular mire myself, leaving it to Maria in the interests of keeping my blood pressure at acceptable levels.)

All of this, however, matters naught, given - as I said before - that I have a working phone, one that rings, and one that gets dial tone consistently ... even if I trip over the cord when I walk into my office.

Another Italian hospital experience

2008-05-14T09:02:00.000-07:00

If you’ve never seen a dislocated wrist, I’d suggest not volunteering to go look at one if you’re ever given the option. I had the misfortune of seeing one on my own son last weekend at his football match. It doesn’t take much to dislocate a 12-year-old’s wrist, it seems. Upon his fourth or fifth tumble of the game, one that seemed more innocuous than the others, he leapt to his feet yelping in pain, and clutching his arm. Parents, coaches and players clustered around him immediately, each gasping as they arrived – his wrist was bent at an improbable angle, and his hand was standing grotesquely atop a hill of skin and flesh that rose steeply from his forearm. I was horrified, a reaction that manifested itself in stark silence and a firm grip on his shoulders.

Misfortune, however, often has more favourable bedfellows, it seems, and so far we’ve encountered two.

First was the hospital experience that followed. Lucky for us, one of Julius’ teammates has a nursing couple as parents – his mother was at the game, and she took immediate charge, rushing us off to the hospital where her husband works. Although he was off duty at the time, he called ahead and so the emergency receptionists were primed for our arrival, and after checking in – a matter of 30 seconds – Julius was whisked off for X-rays and thence to the orthopedic surgeons, who said he’d need an operation to put the wrist back in place and insert a few pins to stabilize it. Unfortunately for him though, he had to wait some 4 hours because of the minimum time required after his last meal before a general anesthetic can be administered – his 8am breakfast meant he couldn’t be anesthetized until 2pm, and we arrived at 10am. Even more unfortunate was the total lack of effect the painkillers had, and so he had to wait in constant pain. I felt helpless, as did the hospital staff.

All was well after the op, however, and Julius was all smiles when he came round and found himself pain-free. I spent the night in hospital with him, a rather sleepless affair as a result of the noisy (vocal and other) ablution attempts of the septuagenarian in another of the ward’s beds.

As a hospital experience, it was class A+. The only “forms” I had to deal with involved (a) supplying Julius’ name when we came in (they pulled up all his details immediately from a previous visit) and (b) signing acknowledgement that I was going to sleep the night. In the morning, we were out of there by 9am. Given my prior experiences in the US with forms and bureaucracy and insurance and ass-covering and such, it was a real breeze. And on top of it, all the doctors and nurses, being the child-loving Italians that they are, hovered around Julius as if he was the crown prince, pinching his cheeks and constantly making sure he was OK. Notwithstanding our frequent buzzing for the nursing staff, they always came promptly and with a smile.

The second positive outcome came from the outpouring of support and sympathy from Julius’ teammates, their parents, and his coaches. He received numerous visitors in the short time he was in the hospital, among them the director of the football club. He was also asked to a special presentation after the team’s last game, where he was given a football signed by all of the boys. No other awards, just one for Julius. I’ve told him the football should never be kicked around, and that it should take pride of place amongst his keepsakes, one that will trigger a warm glow every time he has cause to look at or touch it.

Needless to say, the cast on his arm is something of a status symbol amongst his schoolmates, and it has the added benefit of freeing him of the burden of homework and tests, given that it’s his writing hand (“Damn!” he said with a wry smile). Thankfully there’s only a few weeks left before the end of term, so we’re hoping there’s no loss on the learning side. It’s also given him a “handy” excuse when it comes to housework, although the other side of that coin is that he can no longer go footballing in the local village square. At least not until the pins come out and the cast comes off on June 17^th, when he will hopefully recount yet another smooth visit to the hospital in Macerata.

The Internet!!!

2008-05-12T00:42:00.000-07:00

I’m getting all choked up as I write this, such is the magnitude of the declaration – I have the internet … at home. Those who have read previous posts on the subject (here’s one), and those who can empathize with a profession that lives and dies through its electronic relationships, will appreciate the emotional depth of the subject. It’s been a long time coming – 18 months (give or take) to put a number on it.

I can’t believe what a change it’s wrought in my life – no longer do I have to wait until 9:30 for the internet store to open, no longer do I have to schedule my day around trips to the internet store, no longer do I have to drive 10km each way to the internet store, all I have to do is walk down to my office … at any time of the day. It’s a true revelation, I feel liberated.

Rather ironically, given my rantings and ravings about the inefficiencies of life in rural Italy, it turns out that I could have had the internet all along - well over a year ago - if only I'd tried the solution I doubted for so long. There's a lesson in there somewhere, but I'm ignoring it for now.

After having reached a dead end on what I thought was the most promising avenue for the internet (Telecomm Italia, a curious choice given its gross incompetence and indolence, but indicative of the dearth of alternatives), I turned once again to the internet store that became my office for over a year. The techie there said if I could run a network cable less than 80 or 90 meters from a receiver mounted on a pole up the driveway that is in sight of their tower in San Ginesio some 6km away, I might be able to get a signal.

So, in desperation and in cautious hope, I gave it a shot, and after a couple of false starts, lo and behold, it worked! I still get goosebumps when I think of that “Local Area Connection 100 Mbps” message that popped up on my screen, followed by the strangled whoop that I simply couldn’t contain. Not only am I getting a signal from my receiver that j-u-s-t manages to peep over the hill up to San Ginesio, it’s a pretty solid one as well, matching any one of my friends who have a clear view of the tower.

Of course, it hasn’t all gone without incident or issue. First of all, I’ve mounted the receiver on one of the electrical company’s poles. I’ve no doubt that they wouldn’t take too kindly to it if they knew. I could of course ask them for permission, but I’m pretty sure what the answer would be, and even if they were marginally open to the idea, I don’t think I have the stomach for the bureaucracy and paperwork that would ensue. So I do what most Italians would do – I simply go ahead, and if they discover it (improbable given our hidden-away location out in the rustic reaches), I’ll simply plead ignorance, take it down, and erect my own pole.

But it’s not the only hurdle. The second one is a little more concerning. Turns out that the electrical pole is on one of our neighbours’ land – I thought it was on ours, but given the minuscule sketch of a plan that we got with our deed, I’m not in a position of strength to counter his claim. In any event, the difference is marginal.

However, said neighbour, who has been friendliness personified up until now, has said that he doesn’t want the network cable running over his land. Understandable, naturally. One option would be to bury it, but it’s 80 long meters from the house, entailing a lot of digging if I did it myself, or a lot of euros if I get someone else to. So I thought of running it in the air from one electrical pole to another, and thence to the house. He’s not entirely happy with this arrangement either, but it’s better than the cable interfering with his lawnmower (and consequently my work), and so this is the makeshift arrangement as it stands now.

It’s temporary not only for the above reasons, but also because I haven’t managed to find the right bracket or attachment mechanism to mount it on the electrical pole. And so it’s literally held on with wire and string, a rural Italian solution if ever I saw one.

In the meantime, I’m gallivanting all over the web with a carefree abandon, a smile on my face, and a new daily schedule in my life. In quintessential masculine denial, I’ll ignore the looming issues until they knock on my front door. Until then, I’m hoping my neighbour just cuts his grass under my looping network cable, and doesn’t think of suggesting to the electrical company come and check up on their poles in rural Regnano …

All things come to those who wait …

2008-04-14T03:19:00.000-07:00

Well, perhaps not all things, but some things, at least.

Totally within character, two of our “home renovation outfits”, should we call them, delivered on their long-outstanding promises. In one case, it wasn’t even a full delivery, but hey, who are we to quibble – we’ll take whatever scraps we’re given, wouldn’t you?

First, the crane that has towered over our property in bored idleness since September when it was last triggered into action, was finally moved. It has taken probably half-a-dozen requests for its removal, all of which elicited the same response – next week. So we play the game – next week comes and goes, crane still there. Wait another week or so, just to make sure that “next week” didn’t mean “the week after next, or the one after that” (which it frequently does), and we call again. When’s the crane going to be moved? We need the space that it’s taking up to store stuff. Next week.

I must confess it was quite interesting watching it being dismantled and pulled away, a feat of close calculation and small margins for such a beast of a thing – 835 kg blocks sinking a 10-ton truck on its wheels, squeezing through two of the narrowest of gaps to finally get it out.

Not only have we reclaimed the land area, we’ve also got back our air space. It’s actually instilled a sense of freedom about the place, as if the crane was a towering sentinel watching over everything that happened on our little plot. In a way I feel liberated.

Not quite so cathartic with the random visit of the carpenter who showed up unannounced in the middle of the crane removal operation. It’s been some 9 months since the windows were installed, and after an initial resistance to our protestations, he caved and agreed to switch the bathroom and kitchen windows whose designs he had confused. The windows have been ready for some 4 months now. Finally he came to switch them. It took less than an hour. He also brought the window and door frames to complete the job on several of those he had installed but not framed. For some reason, this was not completed.

There’s also the question of the two doors that open into the middle of the room instead of against the wall. He agreed to switch these as well. The man he sent to do the window-swapping seemed to know nothing of these. So we’re still waiting for him to finish the job that we – in our naïve, willing, but totally un-Italian way – paid for in full some time ago.

Boy, do we have some lessons tucked away in our little home renovation satchel. I’d almost like to do this again to be able to do it better next time, both to vindicate ourselves for our sins this time around, and to do it with an overall lower average blood pressure. Fat chance of that happening anytime soon.

Oh well …

Some more Italian-South African reflections

2008-04-14T03:16:00.000-07:00

Whenever I return to rural Italy from a distant land, I’m prompted to reflect on the peculiarities of my adopted homeland, along with those of the place I’ve just returned from. Having just spent 3 weeks in South Africa helping my parents adjust after my mother’s hip replacement surgery, I’m once again in that mode. And while I was just there some 6 months ago, bringing back a clutch of reflections from that trip, there are always nuances and new discoveries. This time was no different.

The most obvious of these is the advent in South Africa of “load shedding”, or it’s more specific form, “predictive load shedding.” If I didn’t know what the term meant (from first-hand experience), I must confess I’d be left scratching my head. Seems that the country has applied for membership in the club of those supposedly “advanced” countries who hide their problems under confusing, spin-doctored terms which bear no resemblance to their actual nature. I’ve often wondered what they try to achieve with this approach – do they really believe the public is so gullible as to be diverted by their contorted terminology?

But I digress. Turns out that “load shedding” involves shutting down of the electrical grid, rendering homes, businesses, and streets – playing havoc with the traffic systems – blacked out. “Predictive” translates as “scheduled”, an arguably preferable version to the random shutdowns that interrupt washing cycles, cooking, and livelihoods.

It seems that the warnings several years ago that the country would not be able to support its power needs in the future went unheeded, and they’re now paying the price. As is their wont, South Africans, so long used to disruption and challenge, have accepted its inevitability and inconvenience in their stride.

I wonder how Italians would deal with it. Probably similarly, actually, much as they accept the inefficiency of the postal service and Telecomm. However, unlike South Africa, where the sole provider of power, Escom, is partly owned by the government, Italy’s power supply is totally in the hands of private providers, and as such, it operates with a modicum of efficiency.

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of its national airline, Alitalia, which recently entered bankruptcy protection proceedings, following the failure to find a suitable buyer for the beleaguered company. A sorry state of affairs, it must be said, for the country’s standard-bearing airline. There are other (mainly regional) airlines in Italy, but given the size of the country, its proximity to others nearby with their own national airlines, and its membership in the EU, these smaller companies tend to fly below the radar (sorry).

The landscape – or perhaps “airscape” – of carriers in South Africa, however, abounds with low- and full-cost carriers, sporting colourful planes and staff that typify the “rainbow” of the country’s character. One example is kulula (yes, with a lower-case “k”) – meaning “it is light” or “it is simple” – which encourages their staff to inject personality and humour into their work. “I hope you find your car where you left it” was one such kulula steward’s quip, eliciting a wry chuckle from the theft-weary passengers on board. Another is the low-cost alternative of the country’s giant, South African Airways – it’s called Mango, and its planes are bright orange, adding a welcome dash of colour to the concrete expanses that typify airports these days. So too does one of its competitors, 1Time, whose aircraft are bright red.

Inside the country’s airports, you’ll find a plentiful supply of bars to whet the whistles of its beer-loving citizens. Like Australians, Englishmen, indeed even Americans, South Africans frequently go out “for a few beers” (not only to airports). “A few” has something of a different meaning here as well, and while it’s perhaps unusual, it’s by no means without precedent to hear an unshaven, bleary-eyed, raspy-voiced fellow sitting in the sports club bar with a beer in his hand, recounting the previous night’s 25-30 beer beano.

Italians, in contrast, drink only when they eat. When invited to a home to enjoy some local cooking, you won’t be offered a drink until the antipasti are laid out on the table and you’re starting to dig in. And while bottles and bottles of after-dinner drinks typically clutter the table in the aftermath of each monumental feast, their consumption is tempered by the fact that the stomach is full. In addition, the grappas and the like are digestivos, to help the digestion process. Unlike these other beer-thirsty countries, I’ve only ever seen one inebriated Italian in public (or in private, for that matter). They may be the world’s leading quaffers of wine, but clearly they do so responsibly.

Now if only that could be carried over to their driving ...

The expat ritual

2008-02-19T03:04:00.000-08:00

There’s a ritual developing here in our little corner of rural Marche. It’s amongst many of the foreigners, the majority of whom are English.

It’s the monthly trip to Ikea.

I’d never had any real exposure to the Swedish furniture giant before, save for a puzzling encounter with a Swede in Washington DC, whose fervent – even over-zealous, I thought – enthusiasm for a new Ikea opening in the area made me look at her with no small degree of incredulity. I took it for a sense of national pride, or homesickness. I didn’t understand.

Now I do. It’s the consummate shopping experience, and I’m succumbed to the ritual, willingly and wittingly, even as I recognize what they’re doing to me.

They’ve thought of everything, and more, to make your trip convenient, efficient, and economic. Most people leave with more than they came for.

Now even in a consumer-oriented society such as the US, such a shopping experience would be unique, and way above the norm. But out here in Italy, where customer service – or client sensitivity as I prefer to think of it – is non-existent, a day at Ikea is positively exhilarating.

Since most people are likely familiar with the Ikea concept, there’s no point in waxing lyrical about things that everyone already knows – the handy and appealing layouts, the channeled routes through the store, the specials, the ability to mix-n-match, the self-service section, the ease of returns (generally a foreign concept to Europeans), and so on.

But since I’ve become a convert, it’s the little things that I notice every time I go there – the organic milk used in the coffee, the healthy and diverse and tasty options at the in-house restaurant, the clocks dotted throughout all set to the same time – 10 past 10. I’m not even sure why they do some of these things (e.g. the clocks), but the fact that they went to such lengths makes it impressive.

The fact that it’s staffed by Italians adds an extra flavour too. Many of these concepts are beyond their natural tendencies – this is not a criticism, it’s just how it is, take it or leave it – and so the way they perform these foreign tasks is, I’m sure, a little different from the way the Swedes would, for instance. I can’t quite put my finger on it, perhaps it’s that ever-so-slight marginal degree of imprecision in the way things are laid out, or the shirt tail hanging out just slightly, the odd price tag missing, the package that doesn’t contain everything it should. (This last misfortune happened to me on our last trip there. It was the result of a product being returned without everything inside the box, and the staff simply sticking it back on the shelves without checking. Not one of the more endearing departures from the standard Ikea behaviour, I must declare.)

These positive Ikea feelings were no more evident when, on our last trip, we also went to the furniture store next door. First, it took about half-an-hour to get someone to help us. Next, when we went back to place the order, we found out that they had made a mistake in the pricing, by some 20%! And that’s without mentioning how uninviting the layout was.

So do Italians go to Ikea? Yes indeed, by their thousands. The fact that they’re cheaper, have a greater selection, and greater diversity in how your selections can be put together, all have something to do with it. It would hardly be a reasonable business proposition to make that size investment simply for the foreigner market.

But for those foreigners (me included), it’s a getaway, a reminder of what it used to be like, a sort of trip home, as it were. Here we are, making our commitment to this country and this culture which is foreign to us, and will probably always be that way, no matter how hard we try to integrate. Somewhere inside, at varying depths for each of us, we know this, and so we need our periodic home fix as a reward for the constant effort we’re putting into our new lives.

Or maybe I'm reading way too much into it (as I am occasionally wont to do). Maybe it's simply because we're all building new homes, are busy furnishing them, and it's the most convenient shop around ...

Internet and telephone update

2008-02-08T03:09:00.000-08:00

There are aspects of living out here in the Italian countryside that remind one daily of that very fact – that we’re living out in the countryside. It’s been 17 months since I arrived here. We still don’t have a fixed-line phone at home, let alone a snail’s-paced internet connection. Here’s a microcosm of how it affects our lives on a regular basis.

In my daily trip to the internet point (which is open daily from 9:30-1, and 3:30-8, closed Thurs afternoon), I made an attempt to buy an air ticket to South Africa for mid-March. Halfway through, I was asked for my passport number, which, of course, was at home. So instead of simply walking over to my filing cabinet to get it and continue (if I had the internet at home), I had to wait until the next day. I got all the way through the reservation the next day, only to find that my US credit card rejected the transaction, requiring me to call my bank and ask them what the problem was. But instead of reaching for the phone next to my desk, I had to go into Tolentino – 20km in the opposite direction from the internet point – to make the call, since the charges to do so from a cell phone would be prohibitive.

I duly go and do so, clear up the matter, and call back the airline to complete the reservation i.e. process the payment on my now-cleared credit card. Sorry, they can’t do it – the reason wasn’t clear, but, given my experience of how quickly and easily things get bunged up here, I accept it rather than push them to do something destructive, and ask what I need to do. Make another reservation, they say. Can I do such a thing over the phone? No, I need to do it online. So now instead of walking over to my desk and the computer, I have to drive 20km back to the internet point to make a new reservation. Only now it’s closed, and so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

The measure of the temperature in my writing doesn’t begin to reflect the rapidly rising heat that all of this ignited. But that’s all past now. I have my ticket, 2 days later instead of 2 hours. I’m just thankful that I was able to get the ticket at the same bargain price. So I suppose I shouldn’t complain – with each trip I was driving through the beautiful Italian countryside, notwithstanding the fact that I was doing so past homes with telephones and internet connections.

We’re now on our 4^th or 5^th application for a telephone with TelecommItalia (TI). The penultimate one was simply cancelled by TI after they were not able to determine where the telephone line on our property came from (yes, this is the very telephone institution that installed it). And then when we reapplied, they connected us with a year-old application for the house we were renting back then. Every time we speak with them, they ask why we’re changing the address of our application. They even called us twice to ask why we want the telephone at 31 Regnano instead of 27 Regnano.

They’ve told us a technician will be calling us soon. I’m not holding my breath.

The simplest solution to an internet connection is, of course, through TI’s ADSL service. A friend down the road set it up himself and it’s working wonderfully for him. But having to work through TI every time there’s an issue seems to me to be a brazen request for high blood pressure, and so I’m looking for alternatives. They’re not encouraging.

Our closest town, Colmurano, have – unlike all their surrounding villages – opted not to lay in TI’s optic fibre lines so that everyone can get broadband internet. They’ve even snubbed the approach of the local computer outfit (where I go for my daily internet fix) to erect a tower so that everyone can get wireless access. That’s because the mayor – a not insignificant position in these reaches – has struck a sweetheart deal with a company some 40km distant to upgrade the town’s computer setup for free if he goes with their broadband offering.

On paper, not bad. Only the company wants a minimum number of subscribers in order to do it, and, needless to say, the potential subscribers – being tech-novice, skeptical rural Italians – want to see evidence of a working service before they’ll subscribe. The fact that over 130 locals signed the initial petition asking for the service seems now to be irrelevant – they want ink-dried signatures.

So it’s a stalemate. I should have known not to get all hopeful when I attended the late-night meeting some 3 months ago, where, after 2-plus hours of wanton waffling, I discovered that they would start the process within the next ten months … once they had the minimum number of subscribers. Ten months???? What are they going to do, mine the ore and turn it into steel themselves? Even in this neck of the woods, that timeframe astounded me. And I know it was an optimistic estimate, as all such things around here are.

So – back to the internet point I go on a daily basis. I ask them what I can do. They say I need to be able to see one of their towers, and since I’m in a dip on the side of a hill, Colmurano is the only direct option for me. However, someway up my driveway, it is possible to see San Ginesio and its towers. What of that? It turns out that there are 2 more-expensive-than-normal options. (1) Put the receiver on a pole up the driveway, and run a network cable from the receiver to the house. Only problem is, the network cables don’t work beyond around 100m. How far would the receiver be from the house? You guessed it – 100m, or just a smidgen over that. (2) Install a set of 3 antennae – one picking up the signal from San Ginesio, one to take that signal and beam it to the house, and one on the house to pick up the signal. Needless to say, the extra two antennae are not cheap.

So we’ll probably give (1) a try first. Am I hopeful? I know I need to be – these things, like horses and other beasts upon which we are sometimes totally dependent, have an aptitude for sniffing out fear, skeptism, despair, and other negative emotions, and providing their in-built, exacerbating responses. In other words, history has now taught me that any hint in my thinking that it will not go well, and ... well, draw your own conclusions.

The other vital thing, as I’ve also learned, is to figure out all the questions to ask, and ask them. It seems to be a human law here that information is only given when requested. It could be vital, pivotal, fundamental, core – it doesn’t matter, unless you ask, ye shall not receive. It’s not malicious, or premeditated, or negative in any way, it’s just the way it is.

Our challenge, then, is to figure out all the questions that we don’t have the slightest clue we should ask. And on this score I suppose I should express some gratitude – who would have thought that out here in the rolling hills of Italy, wallowing back in the 1950’s, I’d be taken to brainstorming, lateral thinking, and open-minded blue-skying on a routine basis. I guess sooner or later (more than likely later, much later) I’ll finally figure out how to take my flash-point blood temperature and soothe it to the point that I’ll achieve the calmness that I came for in the first place. After all, everyone else around me has managed it …

Going postal

2008-02-08T03:05:00.000-08:00

It’s my lucky day, I can’t believe it – today (February 7^th) the fourth and last of my Christmas and Julius-birthday (January 8^th) book purchases arrived. They were mailed from the US and the UK respectively on December 5^th. [English titles at bookstores in our neck of the woods are both scarce and prohibitively expensive.]

Not only was I lucky enough to have this tantalizing and uncertain wait, for 2 of them I had to pay a total of €14 custom’s duties and “postal expenses”. In each case the fee amounted to more than the value of the contents of the packages. But I know after a prior experience, when the postal clerk threatened to return my package to sender if I didn’t pay it, there’s no way around paying these spurious and extortionist “tolls”.

In truth, I’m just thrilled to get everything I ordered. Clearly our multiple begging trips to the post office, along with the considerable time spent waiting on the phone for lethargic and uninterested dispatch clerks – all of which yielded nothing more than indifferent shoulder shrugs – paid off, at least in the sense that we had done our due diligence. I believe that – this time, at least – we appeased the Italian god of the mail sufficiently for him to lift the “hide-it-in-a-dark-corner” spell from our meager packages in one of his random moods.

As for the €14 in tolls, I think I’ve found a way around it – from now on I’ll order my books from the UK (part of the free and easy EU) instead of the states. In fact, I’ve found a bookseller online who delivers FREE from the UK, and whose gross prices are comparable with those in the states. (Their net prices, after taking into account the postal tolls, anguish, enamel loss from frustrated teeth gnashing, and blood pressure medication, are vastly cheaper.) Of course this is all just theory right now, but I’m confident that my latest order of about 10 books is winging its toll-free way to me as I write.

As a result of our regular postal experiences and the effect they have on our mental health, wherever I can these days I pay the extra and ship via UPS, Fedex, or some such trackable means other than USPS (United States Postal Service). Unfortunately these options are not available for online book purchases, and so we’re left to the vagaries of the government postal services.

There’s one anecdote worth mentioning with regard to the one trackable method I won’t use – the USPS. It turns out that the tracking number the USPS uses – and which the customer innocently uses to try and find out where their phantom package is – is changed once it is received by the Italian postal authorities. No one tells you what the new number is. So when you go to the post office or call up the dispatch company, confidently brandishing your USPS tracking number, needless to say they can’t find it, and trump you with a retort that starts something like “without a tracking number …” The defeat is positively humiliating.

Worse still, if and when the package finally turns up and you explain to the postal workers what happened with the number switching, they look at you blankly as if to say, “Yes, and …?”

But I have my books, and if my next batch actually makes it here, I’ll be set with reading material for a while. Ironically, the bulk of the subject matter relates to life in and the culture of this wonderful country I’m living in. At least I’ll be able to verify their tenets and conclusions.

The look

2008-02-07T02:33:00.000-08:00

The Italians have a reputation for being xenophobic. Having been exposed to just a small fraction of its landmass and population, I can’t really say one way or another. And I don’t know if the predomination of Fiat and Lancia and Ariston and Vulcan and other locally-made products supports it or not, just as the knee-jerk tendency to blame the Albanians for every theft that happens in this area doesn’t necessarily imply a distrust of things or persons foreign.

What I have noticed, though, is a tendency for the locals – particularly the older ones, the contadini (peasants) – to examine you rather closely when you drive by. They interrupt whatever they’re doing – bending over collecting chicory or fallen chestnuts, or gathering at the local bar for their prolonged daily chin-wag (the men, at any rate) – and stare long and hard, turning their heads to follow you and your smile, wave, serious look, or return stare as you pass them and move off into the distance.

I can’t tell if it’s a hostile, unwelcome once-over … a pained, squinting attempt with failing eyes to identify an unknown intruder … or simply an innocuous, innocent gawk of curiosity. Funny though, how it repeats itself – the fellow up the road from Anna’s house, where we stayed for 6 weeks, gave me the same examination every time I went past him on the road, which was almost daily. I always drove the same car, gave him the same smile, occasionally tried a wave, and without fail got the same response – a long, intense stare with mouth agape, as if he had stumbled across a new and virulent germ that threatened to wipe out the human race.

It’s not as if foreigners are new to this place. More recently, the English have been coming (and now settling here) for years, but the trend dates back to years with a “BC” after them – after all, the Italian peninsula has seen the Greeks, Spanish, French, Saracens, Lombards, Barbarians, and Byzantines ebb and flow through the land throughout its colourful and somewhat jerky history. These visitors I’m sure gave the locals far more to stare at and ponder than a harmless, somewhat reticent, admittedly slightly quirky South African and his family.

So why then do I still get “the stare”? Even one of our neighbours in Regnano, who I once stopped and chatted to (with some success I might add), still gives me the glare, even though I know that underneath it all he harbours a disarming smile and a friendly disposition.

I don’t know, perhaps – given their history of a constant stream of strangers treading their paths – they’re simply wondering “Who’s it this time?”, investigating with a prolonged gaze how their lives might be affected by the new aliens.

Who knows, maybe it’s a property of the atmosphere here, the water, the air, the land. But hold that thought for a moment – I just heard a car coming along the road, and I need to check out who on earth might be passing through our little hamlet …

Driver's license - the sequel

2008-01-26T01:41:00.000-08:00

So, what happened with the driving license tests? (See here for an intro.)

The written test is taken at the department of motor vehicle offices in Piediripa near our provincial capital, Macerata, a half-hour away. I was picked up by the instructor along with three 18-year-olds, whose peer group made up the majority of exam-sitters – the remainder consisted of (a) older Italian women who’ve decided to finally take the plunge, in most cases out of pure necessity, and (b) non-EU foreigners like me who’ve become resident in Italy.

I was in the first of 4 morning sittings, starting out at the Italian version of 8:30am - 45 minutes late at 9:15am. In a typically drab, paint-peeling, last-cleaned-10-years-ago, ill-furnished government room, we used touch screens to record our answers. The stark contrast – modern technology against dilapidated building – was marked, and yet another of the typically Italian contradictions that one encounters on a daily basis.

Each student gets a different test, so you can’t peep at your neighbour’s answers. I answered with a tentative confidence, knowing full well that there could be logic-defying mines buried in the answer sheet.

When they read out the results, the first candidate of the sheet – a Mr. Ali – got 9 errors, thereby failing with honours and instilling a feeling of trepidation in the rest of us clustered around the examiner, who fumbled at the computer with a complete absence of technological prowess, welcoming every hint of distraction to draw him away from the obvious torture of having to do this.

Luckily, it seems as if I managed to dodge all the mines, and I passed. (You’re not told about the number of errors, but at this point it’s moot.)

I always thought that there was a mandatory 30-day waiting period between the written test and the practical driving test, but Andreas the instructor immediately confirmed a practical exam a week later. I did not ask any questions.

Arrangements for the day of the driving test were curiously vague, but I went along with them in a trusting but confused haze, showing up on time at 3pm at one of the junctions down on the main road near here. No Andreas, just a woman who greeted me as if she knew me.

About 45 minutes after the appointed time, a car I’d never seen with “Scuola Guida” (driving school) on it pulled up and disgorged several young 18-year-olds, including one with whom I’d taken the driving test. The woman who’d greeted me earlier beckoned me to come and get in the car, and so – somewhat bemused by it all but happy that something was at last happening – I did. The driver, who I’d never seen before, and who didn’t even acknowledge my presence, set off, my mind wondering where on earth to.

A minute later I saw Andreas the driving instructor coming in the other direction, sitting in the front passenger seat with a student driving and someone else in the back. We followed. After curving up to San Ginesio, the student got out and switched places with the familiar woman from our car … and finally I got it – the third person in Andreas’ car in front was the examiner. As I found out later, the driving schools make appointments with the department of motor vehicles, and the examiner – who could come from anywhere in the province – shows up at a location that’s convenient for all concerned. This particular woman had driven a good 40 minutes from some way up the coast to be with us.

I was last, coincidentally driving a route through Colmurano and Urbisaglia that’s as familiar to me as any I’ve driven here. I was calm and confident, but had I known what happened to the familiar woman immediately before me I would certainly not have been – she inadvertently crossed into a turning lane slightly too late, going over the solid line instead of the broken line as she did. It was the only mistake she made – failed.

Andreas and the examiner talked through the entire duration of my test, and it seemed as if the examiner wasn’t even paying attention to what I was doing. Whether she was or not ends up being somewhat immaterial, at least now it does, because she passed me, and I can now proclaim with dubious pride something that I never thought I’d say – I’m officially “an Italian driver” …

Sledding Italian style

2008-01-21T08:49:00.000-08:00

The weather’s been quite balmy the past few days, but some remnants of snow still cling to the upper reaches of the central Apennines just ¾ of an hour away. And so yesterday, on a glorious sun-drenched morning, off we headed for the slopes to try out Julius’ two new sleds.

We went to one of our favourite spots, summer or winter – Pintura, at close to 2,000 m, just a few km past the most popular skiing destinations in Marche, Sassotetto and Maddalena. After threading our way beyond them through roads narrowed to alleys by the Italians’ proclivity to defy parking logic, we found Pintura pleasantly busy but not overly so. The same was true for the snow on the ground – a reasonable covering with patches of brown soggy earth dotting the slopes (although “pasting” may be more apt than “dotting”).

Julius’ first run was one of discovery … that the sled was rather faster than he anticipated, and that he was unable to deal with said speed, parting company with it in rather spectacular fashion as he stumbled upon a new level of meaning to the term “out of control”. Like Julius, Maria went to the top of the steepest slope with the second sled … and discovered precisely the same thing. With my limited exposure to all sports snow-related, I tried the lower, more gentle slopes, where we remained for the rest of a very enjoyable day, returning home tired, smiling, and bruised.

Like any outing into the outdoors in Italy, it’s about more than the targeted activity … a lot more. That’s because there are Italians there, and they do things in a way that can only be described as, well, Italian. First off, it’s a rare thing to find a single family heading off to the slopes – normally at least 3 combine to bring a veritable team of fun-seekers to the arena. And “fun” is most definitely the word, mixed with a good dose of the obligatory level of extreme parental overprotection, rendering a constant stream of laughter, yelling, song, and squeals.

At the cafe near the car park, there's a constant crowd sitting on deck chairs enjoying the scene, as if they’re reclined on their beach chairs at their favourite lido on the coast – it barely raises a brain-sweat to imagine them in precisely the same pose with precisely the same sunglasses lying on a striped chair beneath a matching striped parasol smoking precisely the same brand of cigarette.

Below them, concerned mothers clamber down the slopes in their high-heeled boots after kids bobbling gently down the hill at a speed all too dramatic for them – “Frena! Frena!” (Brake! Brake!) is the most constant refrain of the day. I actually believe that their child’s speed doesn’t really make a difference at all, they simply have a biological need to call out to their offspring with some sort of concern for their safety – they’d be doing the same even if their child was playing tiddly-winks (“Watch your thumb!”).

One particular scene had me chuckling for a while, and brings a smile to my face even now. “Paolo! Vieni qui! (Come here!) Frena!” yelled mom in her city outfit as she stumbled down the slope, bent forward in her vocal exertion and endeavour not to slip and fall. 5-year-old Paolo continues down the hill, picking up speed as he passes a group of 4 teenagers arm-in-arm, singing loudly as they climb back up for their next ride down on a tarpaulin they’ve brought for the team ride. Flashing past them a few seconds later goes Paolo’s dad, loping past in his city kit in long, ungainly strides, propelled by the same built-in call of nature: “Paolo! Frena! Vieni qui!”

Paolo, who knows full well how to brake the sled, stops and allows dad to catch up. There’s a bent-over, breathless remonstration (I’m sure Paolo had a smile on his face) before the long walk back up the hill, dad pulling the sled. Halfway up they’re joined by mom, who spends the remainder of the climb bent over Paolo sharing her expert and intimate knowledge of the dangers of … what is it today? … sledding, not to mention the perilous consequences of not listening to his parents. I can’t be sure, but I might have heard Paolo humming cheerfully to himself all the way up.

Naturally, exactly the same scene plays itself out once more just 5 minutes later.

The festive season in rural Italy

2008-01-17T02:48:00.000-08:00

This past festive season was our first in rural Italy. Instead of going elsewhere, we decided to stay in order to be able to answer the immortal question of Monty Python’s Eric Idle: “What’s it like?”

Well, I really don’t want to disappoint, but aside from the January 6^th festival of Befana (which we missed anyway), we didn’t find anything especially different, exotic, or traditional (other than of course the fact that one is in Italy amongst Italians, a rather distinct fact in and of itself). In fact, even “Babbo Natale” (Father Christmas) is inherited from the commercial English-speaking world.

Unlike some other European cultures (like the Germans) who have their main celebration on the 24^th, Italy celebrates primarily on the 25^th(like us English-speakers). It all starts with a midnight mass, a mercifully (moderately) short one, attended primarily for the post-service social mingling, before the serious eating begins at lunchtime on the 25^thand beyond.

On Christmas Day we had a delicious but non-traditional (i.e. no turkey) lunch with our Irish friends, and Maria cooked the traditional local meal on the 26^th after tapping our dyed-in-the-wool marchigiani carpenter for details of the menu. First comes tortellini in brodo, with the broth that they swim in drawn from the boiling of a capon, which is eaten as a second course. The capon – no easy feat to find one, and a weighty price tag when Maria did – was very tasty in spite of the unappetizing thought of a boiled bird. [The contadini around here routinely boil chicken, a far less appetizing prospect.]

As with my own heritage, out here Christmas is for family, while New Year’s eve is spent with friends. Locals from the area whose roots go back a good way may spend several days wading through meal after meal with various branches of their families, but they approach it uncomplainingly and without question as a duty, one that cements the family ties which penetrate deep, long and supportively throughout their entire lives.

Family ties and bonds notwithstanding, there seemed to be a palpable relief at the arrival of New Year’s eve, requiring just one last eating marathon to cap the season. “Capo anno” they call it – top (or head/source) of the year. We were invited with 3 other local families to the home of Piergiovanni and deputy mayor Ornella, our Italian friends and hiking companions.

The food lasted from about 8:30 until midnight. First came about 4 different antipasti (including a variety of local cold cuts), followed by 3 different primi piatti (pasta), and then the secondo, a traditional dish of lentils, representing money and good fortune for the following year. If there’s any room left after all that, there’s fruit, including grapes which, like the lentils, bring hopes of moolah in the year to come.

Following the countdown to the new year, we stepped outside into the brisk air to watch the fireworks all over the countryside. Being a hilly terrain, there’s no bad vantage point, and dozens of light shows were visible, including a few tame ones of our own bought with the groceries at the local supermarket. Then back we went inside to begin the games, a light-hearted indulgence of silly fun with adults and kids divided into 2 teams. When we left at 2:30 a.m. it was still going strong, and the tombola (bingo) boards – apparently a fixture at many Italian celebrations – had just been brought out.

All thoroughly enjoyable, I must say, not least because it was the kind of occasion where my patchy Italian was passable and intellectual conversation was restricted to the bare minimum (if that).

Maria and Julius left for Germany on the 1^st, and in the absence of a child in the house, Befana came and went without notice. Here, however, is the essence –

La Befana is a folklore character who visits all the children in Italy on the eve of 6 January, filling their socks with candy if they are good or a lump of coal if they are bad. She is usually portrayed as an old lady riding a broomstick through the air wearing a black shawl because she enters the children's houses through the chimney.

Her name is derived from a mispronunciation of the word "epiphany" upon which the legend is based. Apparently she turned down the 3 wise men to accompany them on their quest to find Jesus, and when she had a change of heart, she went after them but couldn't find them. And so she's still looking.

So there you have it. No snow, unfortunately, and so no white Christmas - I've never had one before, and so was hoping ... However, aside from a good dump of the stuff at the beginning of December, the snow's been restricted to the mountains. Now that Julius is back home, we shall have to take ourselves up there to enjoy the season's spoils - his Christmas and birthday presents: skiing lessons and a ride on his new sleds...

Driver's license

2008-01-17T02:40:00.000-08:00

One of the unforeseen pleasures as a non-EU citizen residing in this wonderful country is that I have to get an Italian driver’s license. Now, having been a victim for over a year of the frenetic morass that is Italian driving, there are eminently reasonable grounds for thinking that licenses are secondary considerations, or at best “optional.” (See Italian driving for a first-hand account.)

Unfortunately, my thinking is flawed. Turns out the unsmiling carabinieri apparently take these things rather seriously, conducting spot checks on the main roads around here for licenses, registration, and insurance. Being caught without a valid license involves both a hefty fine, and even suspension of one’s license. Now it seems to me suspending a license might prove a little tricky if one doesn’t have one to begin with, but in a country that taxes potential income instead of actual earnings, anything’s possible.

I’m already driving illegally – my international license expired in September and the year’s grace from the issue of my residence was up two months ago – and so to avoid a run-in with the red-and-black caps of the stern and serious lawmen, I have to get my license. And I need to start as if I’ve never had one before, sitting a written test, and taking a practical driving test.

This is not only ignominious for a near-50 year old who’s been driving for 30 years, it’s also an exercise in supreme frustration. That’s because the sample tests that I’m studying suggest – and my driving instructor confirms – that the intent of the written test is to try and fail you.

The written test consists of 10 questions with 3 answers, each with a True-False option. Get more than 4 out of the 30 wrong, and you fail. Practicing with my book of 250 sample tests (each containing questions from the actual official tests), I routinely fail. Here’s why:

- “A holder of sub-category A1 driving license can drive up to 125-cc motorbikes with a maximum power of not more than 11kW.” Here’s the thing: I’m applying for the ‘B’ driving license, and have absolutely no intention of ever applying for an ‘A’ license, never mind sub-category ‘A1’. As for 11kW – you tell me how much power your car generates in kW.

- “Parking of vehicles or motorbikes is prohibited at or close to road signs.” What road signs – no parking? Unfortunately, “it depends” is not a valid answer.

- “When, at a junction in town, the vehicle in front does not set off when the road is clear, it is advisable not to sound your horn in order not to cause intolerance with other motorists.” True or False. Is what true or false? One almost needs a degree in logic just to wade through all the negatives. And if two “not’s” make a logical knot, what do 3 "not's" make?

- “Providing assistance to people injured in road accidents is compulsory because the law punishes hit-and-run drivers.” Huh? Is the ankle bone connected to the shin bone, or the finger? You tell me what the connection is.

- “This sign (a parking area one) indicates a parking area and may have a plate indicating times and charges.” Yes, I can see how knowing this vital bit of information would make me a responsible driver.

I should point out that thankfully the test is offered in English, a fairly recent development. The English employed, however, often requires one to read the Italian to understand it. This strikes me as being rather ironic. Some terms like the car’s “strangler” are clearly obvious (“choke” for those of the newer generation that never had to use one), but others like “having the right occupied” tend to induce something of a hazy fog in the brain, trying to imagine what it might mean. (Explanation: if your “right is occupied” you don’t have the right of way.) There are so many examples of this, the list is endless – “canalization lanes”, “central reservations”, “inverting your direction”, “lacrimation”, headlights aimed “mainly in depth”, and on and on.

I must say, though, that there seems to be a bit of tongue-in-cheek with some of them. For example:

- “Drinking alcohol affects driving because it makes driving more pleasant and less boring.” They say this is False, but I’d wager the local farmer who says Foligno is “18 Camparis from Tolentino” would contest their assertion.

Here’s one of my favourites:

- “When overtaking you must get as close as possible to the vehicle in front.” I hear that 99% of students mark this one “True”, and take it forward as the #1 rule of the road. (Once again, see Italian driving.)

Wry observation aside, however, this little parody is a microcosm of the Italian culture, at two levels.

First – Italians love to flaunt the rules, ignore them, slap them about, distort them, with a flair that is both enviable and irrational. At times they seem to take this deliberately to an absurd level, as in their driving, parking, etc. But I know it’s not deliberate, there’s actually some (questionable) reasoning behind it: if some of the rules don’t make sense, why bother working out which ones do – don’t obey any of them.

The second level of this little insight is best communicated in a simple mantra: It is how it is. Regardless of how inefficient, counterintuitive, or nonsensical “it” is (whatever “it” might be), it isn’t going to change. So shut up and get on with it. This insight is confirmed by my driving instructor: “What are you getting uptight about?” is his unspoken and underlying message when I rant at one of the mystifying translations or rules that could be my undoing in the driving test. “This is just how it is.”

I’m left wondering how, with the anal, impatient, stubborn slices of my character, I’m going to make it here. There’s a part of me that came here to get rid of those undesirable personal traits by immersing myself in a culture that, through its subtle, unmoved, and unflappable ways, will simply not put up with (or even notice) my raving.

As I'm learning, things - longstanding habits and tendencies included - change slowly.

Daily update parte nove

2007-12-18T03:53:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while. Seems like ages in fact since I last ventured into blogland. Truth is, it’s been hectic, moving into an incomplete house and all, swamped by boxes, trying to get used to a new way of life in our “back to nature” (ish) abode. There’s no “automatic” central heating or hot water system, see, just a “camino” – a wood-and-other-material-burning stove that circulates hot water to the radiators and to the showers and sinks. Which means having to constantly keep the fires burning (literally), and, in the morning, getting them going again.

It’s been an adjustment, on top of all the other moving in challenges that one meets along the way. Like not having doors on any of the rooms, including the only complete bathroom – the incomplete one at least has a door and a working shower and toilet, just no basin (which we’ve waited for over 6 months for, and the stonemason who’s making it keeps telling us that it’ll be ready “tomorrow”, or perhaps “the day after tomorrow”, perhaps to add some hint of authenticity to his claim. Only trouble is, tomorrow of course simply never comes, let alone the day after tomorrow.)

Back to the camino – first order of business is finding the wood to burn. Like everything else in this part of the world, one gets wood from a guy that somebody knows. We’ve found two and had a delivery from each. Neither load burns spectacularly well, but then I’m apparently a skinflint when it comes to how much wood I put on – the locals pile it up like a bonfire, so to keep some semblance of warmth circulating we need to emulate (somewhat against my grain).

Then there’s the showering. Radiator warmth is one thing, maintainable with a moderately-burning, moderately-hot fire. A shower, however, requires us to crank up the heat and keep it there so that the showerer isn’t left shivering as the temperature plummets after a brief flirting with the high degrees. It’s been a bit of trial and error, but one learns quickly when the lesson comes in the form of a wintry chill while completely starkers.

Overall it’s added a whole new dimension to the list of daily household chores – just cleaning out the fireplace, fetching the day’s first load of wood from outside, and getting the fire going with kindling damp from the incessant rain, consumes a good half-hour each morning. I’m not complaining, mind – I rather enjoy the fact that we’re independent of the exorbitant gas prices that everyone else is paying. We’ll probably end up paying about ¼ of what everyone else does for heat and hot water.

Of course, just as the heating lessons were starting, and the chaos of living in the shambles around us was becoming “evident”, should we say, two things happened: (1) Maria decided she needed a break, and sped off for Germany for 2-½ weeks, leaving me to deal with it all, Julius and his schedule included of course, and (2) I got a writing assignment with a very rapid turnaround, requiring me to more or less drop everything to get it done. Just what I needed.

Of course I got through the trial, as one always does, even managing a couple of trips into the snow-and-wind of the mountains, not to mention a rather scary folly of a foray into the muddy mire of the waterlogged backroads and farmtracks at the goading of my son, miffed at my lack of adventurous spirit. (We made it out of this last sortie OK, but only after a few hair-raising, completely out-of-control sideway-slides down and along “roads” with mud a foot thick.) Under the circumstances I was rather impressed at just being able to maintain the status quo, and even make a little progress on getting things done around the house. Naturally, however, not everyone is as impressed at my effort as I am, and I’m now going through a great learning experience being told about all the mistakes that I made in my blissfully unaware, honest endeavours as a temporary single parent and home-keeper.

Things are moving along, though. We have a nice new shiny fridge, a similarly shiny dishwasher (hallelujah), an equally shiny washing machine, and a beautiful but somewhat ill-fitting granite countertop in the kitchen. We also have Sky TV, affording live viewing of South African rugby, the English Premiership, and the Champion’s League. And we’ve now unpacked enough boxes to know that we have enough storage space for about ¼ of our belongings. So instead of living out of boxes, we’re living directly off the floor …

Finally ...

2007-11-14T02:31:00.000-08:00

We're in. Two nights we've slept in the house now, amid a rather large degree of chaos admittedly, but in the house nonetheless. Julius has 3/4 of his bed (bed legs and top layer of the 3-layer mattress missing), while Maria and I are on a makeshift arrangement - comfortable enough - on the floor, waiting for our bedroom floor to be finished and our own bed legs to turn up.

The bathrooms are usable, but lacking final coats of "accent" paint, not to mention a basin in the downstairs bathroom, or places to put "stuff" (toothpaste, toothbrushes, etc). But Maria had a hot bath (that took several hours to drain), and Julius and I have both had showers that crept over the "warm enough" barrier.

The fireplace has blazed on both nights, filling the radiators in their rooms with enough warmth to keeping the frostman out, and depleting our meager wood supply rather alarmingly.

We've retrieved 2/3 of our belongings from our neighbour's house, and are managing to find narrow walkways between the myriad boxes that are adorning the majority of available floorspace.

If it wasn't for the particularly unfinished kitchen, it would feel like we've moved into a finished house. At least we have a fridge and stove, both operating, but we don't have a working sink, cupboards, or a countertop.

But we'll manage until we've found the time, energy, and wherewithal to get that Nordic resin spatchelored on, and found willing helpers to get our marble dining room table carried inside.

Perhaps the best surprise so far is that the ubiquitous rat and/or mice waste matter in our storeroom was limited to the outside of the boxes - no sign of rodent habitation inside anything, just a few nibblings of plastic here and there ... so far.

I wasn't sure this day would ever arrive, but here it is, and if it wasn't for the absence of a kitchen, I'd be waxing right lyrical now, I'm sure. Euphoria aside, it's good to be in. It's going to be a nice home.

So near … and yet seemingly inching away

2007-11-06T03:31:00.000-08:00

Amongst the milestones of moving into a new house are: (a) moving in, and (b) finishing the move-in. (b) takes rather longer than (a), as most will attest. If you’re renovating, or building, somewhere in there is “completing the building”, and then “completing the touching-up”. The first of these can be pre- or post-(a), while the latter typically coincides or is subsequent to (b).

To someone who is eagerly working and waiting for any of these activities merely to start, these distinctions and timeframes are purely academic (as is the numbering). And they’re most certainly academic for us right now.

That’s right – we haven’t moved in yet, although it’s hardly for lack of trying. Everything in our lives besides “the house” has disintegrated into the background – the very necessary task of getting my Italian driver’s license (to be covered in a subsequent blog), the very necessary task of finding work and/or a source of income, the very necessary task of learning Italian, catching up with friends, even spending real time with our son.

And with every joule of energy that we contribute, the goal of moving in – based solely on a working bathroom and heating – seems to be two joules further away. Here’s a partial list:

The special paint which is destined to find its way onto our bath and sinks has not arrived. It was ordered a month ago. We need it to complete the bathrooms. [If you're asking why we needed this particular finish, I'm working on it.]
In order to move into the house, and move some of our long-stored items in from the mouse-ridden outhouse, we need to clean the rooms we and they (the “things”) are moving into. Our vacuum cleaner is stored in the house we used to rent next door. The house’s key-keeper, a friendly Englishman, cheerfully announced yesterday that he had lost the key to said house. Aside from the vacuum cleaner we need to do the cleaning, much of our warm clothing, bedding, and kitchen appliances and stuff are in said house. In addition, the compressor we’d hoped to use to help with some power-cleaning of our furniture and other things – we’re expecting some powerful dirt after a year in a rickety, dusty, holy (not-spiritual, that is) storehouse – was removed by the builder the day before we asked to use it.
The wooden floor upstairs – site of the bedrooms and therefore the ultimate destination for the stored beds – is finally installed. They started in July. They (the floor layers) are not experts, as the results attest – a bowing surface that had to be nailed down to keep it level, rendering a row of unsightly holes that now have to be filled in. So do the gaps between the floorboards themselves. Given the proliferation of both nail-holes and gaps, it is no doubt going to be a time-consuming effort. Naturally, it’s ours to do … before we then have to paint it with a finish to protect it, that is. And given Maria’s distaste for the varnish that the carpenter supplied (Julius and I, somewhat irrelevantly, are rather taken by it), there will be a delay while she conducts the search for the “right” finish. It’s odds-on that we’ll end up with what we already have, only a week or two later. This, of course, takes no account of the prerequisite search for the filler for the holes and gaps, which has yet to commence.
The kitchen “cupboards” – concrete constructions made by the builder – were also selected to receive the aforementioned special paint (see bathrooms above). We started it way after the bathrooms, and we’re now only on the first of the four coats that they will ultimately get. The surface area is much less than the bathrooms, but much harder to do, given that you have to crawl into spaces that weren’t designed for this kind of thing. I hate it, and avoid doing it every chance I get. Along with the inherent slowness of progress, my mindset, which seems unlikely to change in the near future, is equally unlikely to speed up the completion of this rather key location in our new home.

There’s other stuff too, although it doesn’t have an immediate bearing on our ability to move in:

We (I use the term “we” loosely here, with a focus on family unity rather than culpability) “mislaid” our cell phone. It’s the only way numerous people, upon whom we are relying to get things completed, can get hold of us, and contains the only record of the phone numbers of those who need constant chasing to get the necessary things done.
The downstairs bathroom sink, which was bought some four months ago, finally had the hole for the plug drilled by the marmista (the marble guy from whom we bought it). Only it was the wrong sink … and he can’t find the one we bought.

I’m left considering the possibility of a conspiracy – what else could it be?

“Why” doesn’t matter, of course, when considered in the same breath as the need for (a). Notwithstanding all my rumblings, believe it or not it may be this week. That depends on whether the idraulico (plumber) arrives to complete the installation of the bathroom radiators, toilets and other fittings. Am I holding my breath? Don’t look for me to be going blue anytime soon.

The only thing I can say is – thank heavens for angels like Anna Finn and her two daughters, Mimi and Cara Bella, who have accommodated us uncomplainingly with warmth and grace and patience for the past 3 weeks. Without them, we’d be even more at our ragged ends than we already are.

House update

2007-10-16T01:52:00.000-07:00

Like a tame domestic version of “The Perfect Storm”, there is a convergence of sorts as the triggers for all final tasks on the house start setting themselves off. Upstairs wooden floor, downstairs quartz stone floor, fireplace and heating system, electrical system, doors and windows …

Nothing, of course is straightforward. The guys laying the wooden floor didn’t come when we thought they would, they came a week later, and have yet to finish. Now the quartz stone floor guy has arrived from Germany on a tight schedule, which means that the two floor teams are working at the same time. This is a problem:

The wood floor guys generate a tremendous amount of dust from their sawing and cutting … an unwelcome embellishment for the drying resin on the floor below
The quartz stone fellow decided to lay the stairs first … thereby taking away the wooden floor team’s access to their workspace, since the only outside door upstairs can’t open with the new way the floor is being laid

This, naturally, is not all:

The guy who delivered the quartz stone floor material decided to come down the driveway forwards with his big truck before checking to see if he could get out. Needless to say, he got stuck, and destroyed some newly-laid concrete walkways, a terra cotta brick wall, and the recently-laid pebble garden patch in his failed attempts to leave the premises. Our farmer neighbours had to come with their tractor to pull him out. When I asked him if it was the first time this had happened to him (expecting a “yes” answer from this professional driver), he said that it was the third or fourth.
The guy installing the camino (wood-burning stove to provide hot water and heating) is a week late, meaning the big, cast-iron brute of a thing still isn’t installed … a necessity before the quartz stone chap can lay the floor in that room.
The bathroom upstairs still has a big hole in it (not to mention a very shabbily-concreted corner) … presenting something of a minor challenge for the laying of the quartz stone, since it doesn’t naturally sit well on a layer of air.
The doors leading to the outside open (inwards) away from the wall, into the middle of the room, instead of against the wall … and the door guys say that we’ll just have to adjust the furniture to accommodate it, since changing it to the logical way would require making a new door.
The mix-up of two very different types of window between the bathroom and the kitchen – making an obvious and ugly mismatch in both places – has been vehemently defended by the carpenters as being “what was decided upon”.
The people who were meant to order the special resin paint for the bathrooms didn’t order it because “they couldn’t reach us” (but never left a message, an Italian habit, it seems) … and so now the 4-layer, one-layer-per-day process will have to wait until the bathrooms floors are laid and dry (a 4-day process in itself), further extending our move-in date.
Our decision to back up our water and house heating with a gas solution (primary source is the camino – see above) has not been factored into anyone’s plans … meaning that we’ll have to light a fire every time we want a shower or want to wash the dishes.

I imagine I’ll be able to add to this list in time.

Of course, Maria decided to add to the challenges by not liking the partially exposed walls, and asking for them to be filled in. This has left a noticeable line and bump where the old and new cement meet, requiring a search for a solution, and – needless to say – repainting after the quartz stone floor has been laid, an eventuality I had striven with some effort to avoid.

There is, happily, some good news. The electrician moved the floor lights from their mid-room position to a more “ambient” locale, after some (German) insistence by Maria. I will hold my breath that the electrician (the fellow responsible for the sloppy concrete floor in the bathroom upstairs) did not pierce one of the buried water-carrying heating tubes in his endeavours.

It’s starting to get cold. The farmhouse (our current digs) is not very well insulated, and the other day Maria returned home to find a rat on the kitchen table, merrily helping itself to whatever leftovers and other foodstuffs it could find.

We need to move. Our spirits require it, our tired bodies require it, our family unity requires it. I had targeted October 20^th, but I now think, with all the recent developments, that’s ambitious.

Believe it or not, I’m not despondent – I think we will move in soon. It’s what we’re moving into that I’m now concerned about.