New Year Caveat
December was a lean month for web journal readers. Sorry. Not that things weren't happening. I was just too busy living it to make the time to write. I even took a vacation from my longhand journals, wanting to focus on living, not recording. Since I am summarizing to catch up, I will stick with my usual practice of organizing entries by date so its not too confusing.
December 29-31
I had a lovely Christmas dinner with Katherine, Lenny and their friends. She manages the Altabella rental properties in the area. Lenny is a well-respected writer. Their Christmas guests included an American woman doctor with a practice in Rome, a film animator turned painter, a young couple from Rome (whose backgrounds I missed) who were both very engaging. We had turkey, lamb, roasted carrots and potatoes, fabulous cheese and some mutant oatmeal bars I made. They began as cookies but refused to cooperate. So, I put them in a pan, baked and cut them in to bars later. Katherine served them with a Greek yogurt -- a good counterpoint to their sweetness.
The day after, I journeyed to Rome to see visiting family friends. I last saw Rome when I was 14. Not that I remember much but the thought occurred to me that Rome had not changed much in those 14 years. This made me laugh... if you think about Roman emperors and centuries of Popes, palazzos and princes. Whatever changes modern life has wrought must be small in that span of centuries. Rome is fascinating. Layers of history surround you. The Roman forum, monuments to long dead men... an awe-inspiring Renaissance church on every block, medieval palazzos that have morphed into embassies and museums. There is a huge monument to Victor Emmanuel (first king of unified Italy), sometimes referred to as the big typewriter. (Like SF's big washing machine?) Two days is only enough to whet the appetite.
I boarded another train and scurried to Florence for Thomas. Thomas has never been to Italy so it was my responsibility to present it all in the best light. I love Florence but it is basically a merchant city. For an unrepentant shopper like me, that is joy. For Thomas, well... we would focus on the medieval. It is a 19-hour train from Germany. We met at the train station, having discussed a very Dr. Zhivago scene cold wind, scarf flying, and breath coming in puffs. It was more anxious than that. I was on the wrong side of the platform and could not find him. Certain something was amiss, I was secretly cursing technophobes that do not carry cell phones. He did not see me on the platform and was sure I had deserted him. We each stuffed a fair amount of panic in the space of minutes. Then the joyous, "Kathy!" "Thomas!"
We wandered a cold, damp Florence... through market stalls of silk scarves, leather gloves, handbags, belts, Florentine ware and generic tourist crap. (Cooking aprons with the David's body imposed over yours, anyone?). Through the alleys, looking at archways, carved doors, old stone, the Duomo and very high-end retail shops on Tournaboni (Pucci, Bulgari, Versace, etc.). We dropped our luggage at Torre Guelfa, the tallest private tower in Florence and a sweet little hotel (which I highly recommend if you are staying in Florence) then located a little osteria for dinner. After, we settled in a small pub for pints and conversation. The next day was wet so we opted to head right for the train and the countryside. News had reached me via cell phone text messaging (I love technology) that we had snow in the country!
December 24
Carol, Dima and I has a spontaneous Christmas Eve lunch today. We went for a quick food run in Umbertide and when we got back, Carol suggested we have lunch together. So we pooled our supplies to create a hodgepodge feast grilled sausages, English baked beans, steamed greens, faro (a cracked wheat that the Umbrians have been eating for centuries) and Carol's apple crumble. Washed down with a bottle of wine, a lot of laughs and good conversation about religion and religious strife... it was a truly memorable meal. I will miss them when they leave. They are moving back to Perugia at the end of the month.
December 21
We had a light snow last night. There's a fire crackling' in the stufa and I'm listening to Dino sing Christmas songs. Outside it is crisp and cloudy... more snow predicted. My stocking is hung by the mantle and the house is filled with juniper boughs, rosemary branches and red rose hips. Tis the season.
Tomorrow I learn how to make salami in the morning... then, in the afternoon, siphon stagnant water off the pool cover! Life is all about balance. It seems that I will be up here in the country for Christmas Day... with Katherine, Lenny and a fleet of folks from Rome. The day after I head down to Rome for a couple, days to see my Aunt Pauline and her family, then on the 28th up to Florence to pick up Thomas who is visiting for 10 days. I'm planning a Festa de Thomas before he slips away.
Vampires
When the sun goes down and we have a full moon, the light bathes the hill in a pale blue light. It's gorgeous, but eerie.
Tonight, Dima was working over at the big house and Carol was at work. There was a chill in the air that was sharpening as the sun dipped. The dogs were outside and I was puttering in the kitchen. Suddenly, there was a hair raising noise in the air above the house. What made it so shocking was mostly that I could not identify it... not a bird, not a beast... it was circling outside above us, but it sounded like someone was strangling a cat. Completely freaky.
I do not consider myself to be nervous by any stretch of the imagination. But I could feel the hair standing on the back of my neck and I was fighting a sense of panic... What in heavens name IS that noise and why is it CIRCLING OVERHEAD?
I ran to the door and called the dogs in, locked the door, and pulled the curtains closed. Panic was taking control. I snatched my cell and called Dima.
"Dima! Did you hear that noise?"
"What noise?"
"That weird cat strangling noise that circled over the house just a few minutes ago. Completely freaked me out? What was it?"
"I don't know. Hang on a second and I'll check."
"No, no, Dima! Don't go outside." (That's the mistake they always make in the movies... checking out the weird sound!) "It was circling over the house! I don't know what it sounded like but you never know... Could be a vampire!!"
Two minutes later there is a knock at my door. I pull back the curtain. It's Dima... cell in hand.
"I didn't see anything. But I have something for you."
Dima took a laminated piece of paper with an intricate line drawing out of his pocket. "Its a Buddhist symbol of luck to keep vampires away. I think you should have it."
Later that evening, as I looked out the window at the field lit by moonlight, I saw a large owl bathes white under the moon, circling the field. But, you know, thanks to Dima, I never saw the vampire.
December 9, 2001
The Festa Del Acqua, At Which We Kill a Pig
Sunday - cold and windy still. Nevertheless, off to Melchiorre's, as this festa is both a birthday party and a celebration of friendship. He lives in the outback. I know where his road begins but no strada bianca seems to be direct. There are always forks and twists. The last time I was here was September. I'll have to do this one by memory. I'm running very late. When I make my first wrong turn, its 1/2 a mile up a hill & into someone's driveway. I begin to curse. I reverse down the road, get on the other fork and pray this one is right. If not, I have no clue where I should be. I can point to where his home should be, but the road is not going in that direction. I seem to be angling away from my largest landmark, a crumbling tower that should be on the curve below the house. Melchiorre lives high on a ridge, completely exposed to the weather. It's a timeless, elemental place... 360-degree views of the hills, the clouds and the farms far below. A bare plot exposed to the wind, surrounded by building supplies, parked cars, and roaming animals. Melchiorre and his brothers have been "restoring" the house for some time. A huge yellow building crane towers above. Today, 2 huge skinned boars dangle from the crane, as if some ancient ritual was performed earlier. The house is spare. Two stories, with Melchiorre confining himself to the main floor with all the necessities but no luxuries. But today, as the festa declares, we have hot running water.
When I finally arrive, there is a raging fire in the hearth. Yet another fireplace big enough to sleep in. A lamb roasts over the coals. He has made fresh bread to serve with fresh butter, his cremosa cheese and house-smoked sardines. (He smokes on his roof above the fireplace.) We set two long tables in the main room, covering them with blue and white tablecloths. Melchiorre had bought more plates and glasses to better present the bella figura. With simple iron candleholders, white candles and bright tangerines nestled under the candlesticks, the table looks lovely. Golden grapes drape from the beams above, drying for vin santo (we think). In the midst of the grapes, he has hung his trumpet. Melchiorre paints so the walls are decorated with vivid primitives in bright, saturated colors. Most of the pictures seem to be of his experiences in African a man on a camel, a boy with his robes. Later in the day, we will have Anatra Arrabiata (Angry Duck), stuffed artichokes, roasted potatoes and a delicious pecorino romano as well. For now, its 11am and we are there to "be" the festa -- to celebrate Melchiorre's friendship. For most of the day, we are 14 milling people laughing, eating and sharing stories. Sharon is just back from Hawaii. Sarah talks about her trip to Malaysia. Lenny sets to casting his play with the folks at hand. Later, more folks arrive. Marisa, who owns an alpaca farm and organizes the local film festival, with her new daughter-in-law.
At about noon, Melchiorre grabs 4 men and they gird for the task at hand. (Jeannie, stop reading here). Melchiorre has a large pig that he has decided to make into sausage and salami. Today is the day the pig meets his maker. First, he must be tied down. They take an awfully long time to get it done. Just when I think its over, the squealing starts again. I hide in the house with the squeamish few, trying to blot the animal's cries out with loud talk and nervous laughter. Turns out that it was a rather large pig -- a honkin' big hog. Here I was picturing this little Wilbur creature. So I now understand the delay. They finally get the creature tied and Melchiorre plunges a knife into its heart. One true thrust, and no more squealing. It was disturbing to hear the pig's distress. Once done, it became just another chore. The men stayed outside for the cleaning and gutting. Lenny took a few pictures for posterity. A bit of coincidence -- while the pig was being killed, hung and cleaned, a herd of red, horned cows descended on the house. It was eerie to see them gather and stand, silently watching. Animal witnesses. Each with a bell around its neck. (The pig had a bell as well.) I joined them to take some pictures but whenever I raised the camera they shuffled and moved, disturbed. When I tried to pat one he jerked away as if to say, "Oh no. You aren't touching me, lady. I see what goes on here."
The party was a big success, leaving Melchiorre elated. When I left at dark, he was holding down the on button of his cassette player, groovin' to the music and punctuated the beat with whoops and laughter. Three big occasions in a row. I slept like a stone.
Melchiorre's Dance
Saturday night I attended a dinner/dance in Gubbio, benefiting a mission in Burkino Faso (Africa). Two hundred plus people in holiday finery fur coats, sparkly stockings, big hair, gold jewelry. Like Jersey without the fights! (The priest, in an un-Jersey move, wore a simple brown robe with a rope belt.) I saw a woman who looked like Charo, with black spandex flared pants with red insets that furled and unfurled like little spinnakers as she walked. Her hair was huge but her blouse was not. A large woman, the tiny bit of fabric had ground to cover. I found out later Charo was in the band.
Melchiorre invited Uta, a German woman who speaks English and me. Uta, unfortunately, did not make it. But we had a lovely time! Gubbio is up in the mountains, and there is a local Christmas tradition of lighting the outline of a huge Christmas tree on the slope of Monte Ingino. Beautiful! The hotel Cappuccini was decked out for the holidays with greens, lights and ribbons. The food was standard hotel buffet food -- cold by the time it got back to the table. However, the variety was wide and the flavors good. We shared our table with 2 couples from Trestina, who taught at a school together. Very friendly people. We made the polite inquiries about one another -- an adventure with my Italian. One couple had visited the US Chicago, NY and, of course, Disneyworld. They liked America and the Americans. Our addiction to fast food and how unhealthy we often look was mentioned. Specifically noted, "fat folks" in track suits. That made me laugh.
The highlight of the evening was the dancing... couples swinging easily along the floor, in a clockwise circle -- sambaing, fox trotting, waltzing. Even the younger couples. The older folks with that sure-footed confidence borne of twosomes who have many a dinner dance under their belts. The band (now Charo made sense) was a Latin-tinged foursome. The female singer was in a red, flamenco-esque dress. The male singer, in a black sequined jacket with his hair slicked back. (Charo was on the keyboard.) Melchiorre loves to dance... he goes into this funny dance trance, making up his own steps, spinning unexpectedly, punctuating the music with little whoops and growls. I never dance the first dance, as I am still trying to find a way to get out of it altogether. With Melchiorre that is just not possible. We danced the second dance and I'd say the next 7 or so after. I did not do too badly. He is a good dancer and I'm a tolerable follower. The trick is to get your head out of the dance and let your body take over. So, with my backless shoes and my scarf tied around my waist, we boogied, giggled and bumped into the orderly couples. Finally, Melchiorre looked at his watch and remembered his festa in the morning. I gathered my scarf and we said our goodbyes, trundled into the cold to make our way back to Umbertide.
To top the evening off, I saw a badger on the way home. For those who know me well, you know how the simplest wildlife sighting can thrill me. Even squirrels. But a badger that's big. Like seeing a wolverine.
Carol's Birthday
Friday night... the old kitchen in the main house, 12x12 chestnut beams, old stone tiles, indirect lighting and the smell of roasting chicken. Carol and her husband Dimitryi have invited a number of friends (and neighbors) for a birthday celebration. There are 6 Italians, 2 Americans, 1 Brit, 1 Russian and an errant Lithuanian. All present (except moi) speak Italian. It's a great party. Often at gatherings, I feel peripheral as I listen, trying to pick up pieces of conversation. Tonight, I just fit perfectly. I surfed the conversation, made a few comments (banal comments "yes, yes", "perfect", "good") but pretty much fit in. The Lithuanian kept talking to me in Italian, as if I understood it all. I did get maybe 50%? I didn't say 6 coherent words, but I knew what everyone was saying. Dima made Russian Salad a frightening combination of diced pickles, potatoes, ham, canned peas and mayo. It tasted good, though I barely believed it. He says that in Russian it is called French Salad. Everywhere else in Europe it is known as Russian Salad. The wine was flowing freely and my neighbor kept refilling my glass red, white, whatever. After dinner, Dima went to his keyboard and Fabio got out his flute. We were serenaded with blues, Mozart and even Black Sabbath (sans flute... I should have requested Jethro Tull.) It all flowed. We really listened. And when we talked, everyone was involved... even me, the silent observer. I have invited them all to my Festa del Thomas, when Thomas is down from Germany. I've also promised to bring wine back from California for a wine tasting in March. (A specific request was made for Zinfandel so even foreigners know about red Zinfandel, Danny.)
Who was there? Lets see. The birthday girl, Carol, olive-skinned and angular, with dark pre-Raphaelite hair and a genuine, hearty laugh. Her husband Dima (Dimitryi) -- concave cheeks, and almond eyes, serious face and a sly smile. Matteos with his profile from a Roman coin. Antonella and her son Gabriel. (Gabriel was about 3 and had a real fascination for ears. He always was holding one of his parents' ears, or reaching for someone else's.) His dad, whose name escaped me, is a compact Neapolitan with a widows peak and a welcoming approach to people, resting his hand on his friend's arm, coming over to lean in while he talks. Nice man. (Such high praise that is from me.) Next is Augustinius, the Lithuanian, with an aquiline nose and that peaches and cream Slavic complexion. He had long, smooth hands and a powerful voice. Fabio our flutist. Cultured, funny and very sweet. And then there is Massimo, who arrived 3 hrs late looking like a cross between Where's Waldo and a rumpled Bruce Campbell. Whenever I asked about Massimo, they just smiled and rolled their eyes suggesting that he was somehow enchanted. I don't know... perhaps at the Festa del Thomas I will learn more. I surprised myself, coming home at 2 a.m. It was a very good party!
December 7, 2001
The wind is whipping around the house. All the creatures are inside, snug and quiet. A young couple moved into the main house for the winter (Carol and Dimitryi). Tonight is her birthday; I will be toddling over, bent by the wind, for a little social hour. They are both very nice and quite interesting. They've lived in Northumberland, Siberia, Udine... the have friends in Tibet. Quite an international brigade. I'll enjoy getting to know them.
It is always beautiful here in the Umbria, but do not think its always easy living here. Living in a foreign environment is wearing... grappling with communication, getting used to new customs, figuring out the post office. Still, the hardest things aren't the new things. The hardest thing is missing the familiar. It's losing the everyday communication with friends... what is happening at work, who was over for dinner last week. It's missing birthdays and holidays. Getting news but not sharing the experience. Its best friends who used to talk every day, who can't now. It's missing familiar foods. (It is very hard to find an Indian restaurant or, heaven forefend, sushi in this area.) It's missing your mom.
Everything here is a new adventure... and adventures cry out to be shared with your friends and family. This journal is a good step. You know what I am up to, what I am seeing and doing... and I love writing it down. Regardless (or disirregardless for Sally), it's not the same as picking up the phone for a sly gossip or meeting for a quick coffee. I am making new friends here. Like all of you back home, they are smart, interesting and fun. But they are not you... you, with whom I have shared stories and memories and tragedies... and laughed uproariously about stupid things. There is a shorthand to friendship that develops over time.
So, as the holidays roll around and I write stories of festas and dances... of snow and wild boar...of my little casetta with its warm fire, flickering candles and snoring dogs... remember that it is always a beautiful adventure in Umbria. But it would be more beautiful if you were here.
