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OUR ITALIAN EXPERIENCE - Our Italy Journal
Welcome to my daily journal, a look over our shoulders as we navigate our lives in Italy. The journal reads from the beginning to end of each month.
We post to the journal several times a month, so if you'd like to be notified each time we post, send us an email: evanne@lavventuraitalia.com
For previous entries, click on JOURNAL ARCHIVES to find the month you're looking for.
Evanne is also a contributor to ItalianNotebook.com. From time to time she writes about something of cultural interest about life in Italy. Take a look and you can subscribe to get a daily (5 days a week) snippit of life in Italy. Click here: www.italiannotebook.com 
For those of you who have known us for a long time as Roy or Dad and Evanne, the names Nonno, Dino, Eva and Nonna may seem a little strange at first. We are grandparents of Marissa and Nicole of California, hence the Nonno and Nonna nicknames. Dino and Eva are our Italian nicknames, or sopranomes. If you've been reading the journal, you'll know about those changes, too. In addition to LINKS in the column on the left, you will now find Dino's, soon to be world famous, collection of photos of Fiat Cinque Cento cars. Everyone needs a hobby and it probably keeps him out of trouble.
August 2010
Here is another "sign of Summer" in Mugnano - friends passing time....
August 1 Mild weather continues as we begin a new week, a new month. I spend every minute I can on the drawing, thinking that tomorrow we'll do blowups of different sections and hope to arrive at the final design before visiting Marco again to have him take a practiced eye. The jazz festival ends its stay in Soriano, moving next to Civita di Bagnoreggio, Tonight there are many awards to the students, and we agree with most of them.
August 2 We drive to Viterbo to renew our Italian health card; last week we were turned away because it was too early, so here we are again. We then blow up copies of the drawing to work on them later. I decide to finish the drawing by myself, with counsel from Dino. It's when I take my own counsel that paintings turn out better these days, and it is Dino's perspective that is most important to me, although I appreciate Marco's counsel. Italians, notes Professor Altomonte, are among the world's heaviest consumers of bottled water. "Do you know why? Because the water in the tap comes from the government."
August 3 We return home and I work on the drawing a bit; now the saint kneels in the foreground, ignoring the assassin who is about to strike him from behind. Dino agrees to take me to Viterbo later this afternoon to blow it up to the final size, and I will finish the drawing in a day or so. I did not realize until yesterday, but the people to approve my proposed designs for the interior of the church are the church elders, which makes the success of my efforts less promising. Perhaps I can win them over in person, especially if the presentation takes place after our citizenship papers arrive. Each day Dino opens the mailbox with hope; each day he is disappointed. Today is no different. Stefano had agreed to come today to finish the small project to get ready for the larger one, but cannot. That's the bad news. The good news is that he may be ready to begin the main project sooner than the end of August. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Speriamo di si (we hope so). The geometra tells Dino that the amianto (asbestos removal) people don't return from vacation until next Monday. He spoke with the tecnico (engineer who is responsible for approving any permits) regarding one of our projects (the one between our property and Pepino's garden), and that should be approved next week...or was it about the cemetery project? Either way, we have no news. Stefano and his very carina (cute) daughter, Corinne, drive up to the geometra's office in Stefano's little truck and we run into them (figuratively) as we are leaving; he'll come by tomorrow or the next day. We're like someone trying to get an old car to start ...rrrr....rrrr....rrrrrr, gently egging the muratore onward. My memory is certainly lagging. That is why posts for some days are so short. If I don't sit down right away to tell you what's going on in our lives, the information floats off like a farfalla (butterfly) and I cannot call it back. Sigh. With the blowup even larger than the canvas, I can figure out whether to have more blank space at the top or the bottom. So I'm anxious to draw the rest, although the natural light is not optimal at 8 PM. Until tomorrow...
August 4 Warm weather continues, but I stay inside to finish the drawing of Saint Peter the Martyr, hopefully, for the church in Isernia, Molise. We have day-old bread, purchased specifically yesterday for panzanella, the characteristic bread salad of Italy, and the recipe is on the site. The change I would make is to put the minced garlic in the marinade and then sprinkle olive oil on the top with a fine pourer instead of brushing it. Put cheese on the pieces before putting them in a baking pan. Oh heck. Why don't I just change the recipe? Dino wants tuna in the salad, so va bene. It's easy to vary the ingredients, and I even put in chopped celery for extra crunch. There I go again. Oh, and a few special marinated olives. Stefano comes by at 5PM to talk about the projects, and now wants to finish one project completely instead of just starting another with more to do, so he'll begin on Saturday or Monday latest. He has an idea for the pianorotolo (landing) outside the front door, so as soon as that's laid we can get a quote from Franco and then choose him or the man in Soriano to make the peperino top and balustrade. Yes, we'll finally have a balustrade, but it will be small and not seen unless you're already inside the gate. Perhaps next week we'll get crankin'. Oh. The fifteenth is Ferragosto, which marks the iron days of summer. It's on a Sunday, so workers won't work the day before or the Monday after. It's another ponte (bridge), which Italians craftily fashion to make vacations out of a day here, a day there, added to a weekend. By the time we post this, Ferragosto will have come and possibly ended... Rosita walks by and calls up to me to tell me that Coro practice in Attigliano will be Thursday instead of tonight. Bummer. Well, I won't attend, for we'll attend the Cerreto sagra tomorrow, probably the best of the year. I finish the drawing and email it to Don Francis for his comments. Will he approve? Will he want changes? I have no idea, but I can paint the canvas pale yellow while I wait to hear the news.
August 5 Deciding not to begin the painting of the canvas until I hear back from Don Francis, I resurrect the many stories and photos we have not yet completed for Italian Notebook. It's not a rainy day, although the forecast tonight is for rain in Viterbo, it's pretty cool; cool enough that Dino works after pranzo on the front steps. We're happy to learn that Pino is the new owner of the Todis store, and his Attigliano butcher shop is closed, just today, so that the employees can all enjoy the celebration at the new location. When we leave with our groceries, the cashier asks where we are from. Surely the Todis people are there as well to train them. Good for Pino! Dino picks up a porchetta sandwich or two to bring home, for they're offered free to "opening day" shoppers. Content that a local owner will gain new prosperity; perhaps even Gianni will do more business. Magari? If it brings in new business to the town, everyone can benefit. I learned that from my father. Short term, it will probably not be easy for Gianni. He's a very nice guy, and we'll shop at both places to help both succeed. Confident that Stefano will be here to work by next Monday, Dino and I confirm the length and width of the front landing, and he takes off three tiles and the underlying tufa stone on each side of the front staircase; a staircase we really don't use anyway. Laughing at a paragraph in a new Donna Leon novel while resting after pranzo, Dino reads it to me while I'm trying to unravel old and uncompleted stories I've partially written for Italian Notebook. Although I'm really not in the mood to write these stories anymore, I realize how much fun they are to research and write while updating the unfinished ones. Perhaps we won't stop after all. Amazingly, I've submitted one hundred to date! Frank thinks that one of the best sagras of the year is tonight in Cerreto, near Orvieto. Their sagra is based on a type of bread that looks somewhat like a homemade pita bread, albeit larger and thicker.
Candace and Frank and some of their friends join us in weather that is sprinkled with drops of rain at first. We have a couple of umbrellas with us, but after we sit down on the somewhat wet benches the weather clears.
I have missed the Coro practice in Attigliano tonight and am sorry for that, but hopefully I will practice the music and we'll have another rehearsal soon.
August 6 Viewing the world with a painter's eye is an interesting thing to do. One does not have to be a good painter to look at the world in this way, and it opens up one's vista immensely. While waiting to hear from Don Francis about the drawing, I'll work steadily on Italian Notebook stories, for there are 150(!) of them either already sent or in stages of development. Let's try to clear the slate of at least a dozen in the next week, unless I hear good things from our good friend down South. In case you think these are a lot, remember that the Notebook is almost three years old. Multiply 5 by 50 (include vacation) by 3 and you get more than 700, when including a few extra weeks every year. So GB and his pals have to come up with lots of stories to keep the pipeline streaming. Bravo, dear GB! Clouds bring rain while I'm deadheading the white Medilland roses on the tufa planters standing above the parcheggio, but no matter. Sofi continues her watch at the mouth of one of the caves nearby. Old planks of wood and pots keep her out, but there is some overhang, so she stays sheltered from most of the drops and waits...for what, we don't know.
We eat Paola's frittata di maccheroni for pranzo, as it's a recipe for leftover pasta, in the form of a frittata, with: yesterday's meatballs cut small, mozzarella, olives, parmesan cheese, chopped pepperoncini in an oil sauce, a couple of eggs, a couple of anchovies and a small can of tomatoes, and of course yesterday's leftover pasta, topped with a tablespoon of olive oil or butter. Buona! So, cooking a whole box of pasta at one time gives us a day or two more for the same basic work. Just remember it's 5 eggs per box of pasta, so if you have less pasta, use fewer eggs. A dolce fa niente (sweet afternoon nap) is what we have in the afternoon, for it is cool and windy and we lie upon the high bed while watching the cypress trees dance and clouds move swiftly in and out of our view. It's heavenly. Rain moves somewhere else, and Dino remarks, "Might as well get up and do an hour's work, the regular day's work of an Italian". Well, some Italians work really hard; some not lifting a finger. I work some more on Italian Notebook and there is a ton of work to do to clear up what I've started. Let's send at least a couple of stories off tonight.
August 7 With rain not expected for a week, and intermittent clouds on the horizon, we've the shutters open as we enjoy the sunlight. Waiting for Stefano until Monday or so to return, Dino has put a board at the edge of the steps and covered it with gravel to give us a feeling of what the landing outside the front door will look like; at least the amount of space we'll have. It's what I've always wanted here. There is pizza in the borgo tonight, as the first in ten days or so of events put on by the good folks at Ecomuseo for the people of the village. We'll take our binder full of family histories to add more from folks here on their summer holiday and perhaps Dino will speak with them about the next steps in what we are going to do for the people of the village. Will we take the new painting of the boys, "Sempre Amici" (always friends) as well? I'm not sure, although Ivo and his family are here from Parma, so both boys will see it for the first time. Great friend Don sends us an article from TIME magazine, dated July 5th, in which it speaks of Italy living off the savings of its citizens. The writer believes that the country's economy is based upon protecting privilege, not expanding opportunity, and has not kept up with changes in the world's economy. A gradual erosion of living standards is expected here, but I'm not a futurist. Yes, I believe Italy needs a financial overhaul, but Berlusconi is not the man to do it, and Prodi could not gain the momentum he needed to make it happen when he was Prime Minister. We're left with the cicadas and naps in the cool afternoon behind shutters before returning outside to enjoy the terrace and the garden. Are we fiddling while Rome burns? What could we do to make a difference, other than continue to recycle and live our lives simply? Roy visits the Post Office, but lines are too long, to obtain the abonomento (special form) to pay for owning a television. He's told we must do that before we can get the hookup for Formula-1 from RAI, the state-owned television company.
Here's some news from Italia: Pirozzi, a member of the Naples-based Camorra crime syndicate, had been on the run since 2003 and was on Italy's 100 most wanted list. Throughout his time in hiding, the boss remained in close contact with his wife, arranging meetings using a complicated code of numbers and letters, according to Naples flying squad chief Vittorio Pisani. An exercise book since discovered at the wife's home contained the complex code the pair had developed, he added. But while Pirozzi changed the SIM card in his cell phone every two weeks, his wife always used a card registered to the name of A. A. Milne's fictional bear, Winnie the Pooh.
Etruscan necropolis yields fresh discoveries Tarquinia, one of Lazio's richest Etruscan sites, is home to dozens of tombs but this is the first time archaeologists have been given the opportunity to excavate the 'Queen's Tomb' in detail. Created in the mid-7th century BC, the crypt is thought to have hosted someone of royal rank although no remains have ever been found. Instead, archaeologists have uncovered elements of decoration indicating the settlement had much wider links with the outside world than previously realized. The first stage of the excavation revealed a wide, imposing, open-air staircase leading down to the crypt's entrance. After entering the tomb, archaeologists discovered the walls were covered in a form of gypsum plaster, using techniques common in the ancient civilizations of modern-day Cyprus, Egypt and Syria. This is the first example of this technique found in the central Italian region of Etruria and is believed to have been created by specialists from the eastern Mediterranean area. This theory is further backed up by the design of the crypt itself, which appears to be modeled on a style common in Cyprus, particularly in the ancient city-state of Salamis. The fact a royal tomb was created by a team of foreign architects and craftsmen is strong evidence of a solid network of ties and trade with other cultures, archaeologists said. We hear from Ecomuseo that the pizza fest originally scheduled for tonight will happen next weekend. There is a death in the village, so it is not a night to celebrate. Alberto Filiberti died today and his funeral will take place in the village tomorrow morning at 10 AM. We'll arrive at the church at the regular time just the same, Dino with his confraternity costume and me with my hymnbook, for the Coro sings special hymns at funeral masses. Dino told me that he saw a Fazioli vehicle drive into the village earlier today, but was in the middle of doing something and forgot to tell me. I hope my memory lapses are not contagious. Fazioli is one of the local undertakers.
August 8 But where are the donkeys? There is not a sound from their lair down below us, and we suspect they have left. Peppino told Dino they're too much work for him, and yet he and we miss their honking; seeing them graze from our bedroom window. We're sad for dear Peppino, and for us. We drive off stealthily, as if we're not supposed to be on the lower road on this funebral day. Why can't I make up a word; a word clinging to the smoky mist above Alberto's silent body lying stiffly on his bed in the last hours before his funeral mass? Sun streaming low from the East catches the fields of pale blue daisy-like wildflowers, staring toward the light from their spattered earth, stretched all over the hills on our drive toward Il Pallone, and it's as if there's a beam just drawing us to Nando's bar, the pallone of the bocce game a symbol of this place, for this supermarket is the one people flock to from miles around on lazy Sundays, when that last minute shopping before pranzo may even include a pair of slippers, a dish or two, clearly not on the list. Today, it is too early to shop, and we don't need anything anyway; trout purchased yesterday will be poached with a sauce of tomatoes and olives after Alberto has been lovingly slid into his last resting place. Yes, we've been listening to fiction podcasts from NPR on our iPod as we drive, and I want to write to you; to write of inner things as if they're slipped between two pages of a book held in your hands. There are so many things I delight in doing these days: drawing, painting, writing in journals and stories for Italian Notebook, clipping roses, sewing wild and crazy things for the grand daughters, laughing with Dino, delighting in Sofi, talking with our neighbors, singing in Coro... This morning we add a poignant memory to our bank; yet another Mugnanese dies, and when driving through Bomarzo note that three death notices from the little village of Mugnano overwhelm the death notice boards here, with nary a notice of a Bomarseze, or Bomartians as Duccio calls the residents. Dino is confused; Alberto does not show up on any of his family tree information for the Filiberti family. So he folds up the data and takes it with us as we walk up to church for Alberto's funeral mass. We pass another Alberto...Castori this time, as he leads a bunch of boys and men to their camping overnight for the next couple of days. He's sorry there are no girls, but I think it's better this way...Sorry we don't have our camera with us to share the scene with you. Dino will try to capture them with his camera on their way back. Rosina does not sing with the Coro, for Alberto is her brother. Since she has been widowed for decades, Alberto was probably like a father to the then young Fabrizio; she sits with Alberto's family. I look over at them and yes, these are the people I would have imagined as parts of the family. It appears that Italo, Ivo and Vincenza are a part of another part of the Filiberti family, although they are all related. Confused? Sit with us and we'll try to unravel the mysteries for you. Dino is becoming quite an expert.
Dino holds the portable PA amplifier for Don Renzo's microphone, and a very sad Fabrizio stands on the other side of the priest, his head down for most of the procession to the cemetery. This photo was taken shortly after the birth of his newest grandchild, Matteo, a little over a year ago.
Outside the gate of the cemetery, I notice that the cemetery is surrounded by cedro (cedar) trees; their thin pine needles make a soft bed for anyone who enters. Yes, these are Mugnano's trees, and it will be a gentle one that I paint for everyone to know it is theirs, as soon as we have all the information we need for the albero genealogical (Mugnano family tree). Once Alberto is safely inside his tomba (tomb), surrounded by friends and relatives, Dino and I walk over toward our space, and he takes off his confraternity robe and cord before we walk home together. Soon we're safe inside the cool dark rooms of our little home. Poached trout with a tuna sauce is on the menu for pranzo, but I'm hungry for cocomero (watermelon). So we'll have caprese with the trout and plenty of cold, cold cocomero (how about a song about it?) on this hot, hot day. The cocomero dessert does not take place, for we watch Lessons of Love on TV, which we've previously recorded, and we can't take our eyes off the screen. We'll surely have cocomero later, Dino thinks, as he puts it back inside the frigo in the loggia. I can only take a nap, full of wine and overwhelmed by the film. It's a good day to rest in the cocoon behind blue shutters and closed windows, with a fan making the best of the air recirculating inside the room. Another story is dashed off to Italian Notebook, and a stream of them push their way through the pipeline. Since it's cool by the fan in the bedroom, I chug along with Dino posting the related photos. GB is on vacation, so should return to a bundle of them and after we've done another spurt of them we'll retire from writing them for a few months... It's a day to be pensive, and I'm thinking of Rosina on this day, who appears sad, indeed. Perhaps tomorrow morning I'll walk up and see how she's doing. The asini (donkeys) are still here, and I can make out Spillo, Maggiolino and Priscilla. So at least for now, they're still part of the Mugnano landscape. Missing is Maggiolino's honking to welcome Peppino. A few clouds and plenty of breeze surround Mugnano on this day. Otherwise, there seems to be a sweet sadness in the air, for Alberto seems to have been very much loved. We wake up after a nap and feast on big hunks of cocomero (watermelon) while sitting at the table in front of the kitchen, shaded by a roof of wisteria. Sofi seems to smile as she sits nearby, looking up toward possible lucertole sightings. Dino wants to clear the gravel away from where the landing will be built soon in front of the front steps. It's an exciting prospect. A full-on headache strikes, but it's been a while since I've had one, so that's not too bad. I end the night with a migraine and meds, while Dino sits on the sofa and laughs at an old Steve Marin movie. I love to see him laugh.
August 9 We're all awake, so get up anyway to a blessedly beautiful day with haze on the hills behind Orte in our view from the front bedroom window. There are so many trees in the Mugnano valley, and they appear shaded in black on their west sides, as their east sides are joyously bathed by the sun. A couple of women appear below the house on the street, chatting to each other on their daily walk to the cemetery. I can make out Norena and another woman. When this house was built in the 1930's, Norena played here, for it was her uncle Celestino's house, but today she is helped up the hill after their visit with a cane. She remembers our house fondly, but sadly has no photos. Rosina is on my mind, for I am worried about her. Sofi and I walk out on the terrace, and while Sofi sniffs around on the gravel looking for her friends, I look up to see if Rosina is at home. She is, for the clothes lines in front of her balcony are loaded with laundry, hanging out to dry in the bright morning light. I lift up a large basket with a handle and Sofi walks with me to the tomato orto below the secret garden, where I pick up an entire basket of tomatoes plucked from just two plants! I lay them out on the table in front of the kitchen, but don't return for more until Dino knows the status. We'll need to bottle tomatoes in the next day or so. It depends on whether Stefano works today or not, and whether or not Dino is in the mood to take out the processing machine and the rest of the paraphernalia we use to do it. It's that time again. I take two large and lovely tomatoes from the table, wash them off and put them in a little basket, nestling on a red checked cotton cloth, a cloth usually used to wrap bread to keep it from getting stale. Leaving Sofi at home with Dino, I close the side gate and walk down the parcheggio stairs, then down the street, past Donato sitting with his arms folded on the wooden kitchen chair in front of him, past Giovanna and her brother and Franco, who stands sanding a door for Francesco, the neighbor who lives across the street and next to Luigina, past Nando backing into a space in front of his open doorway, around the corner past Marina leaving her car with a plastic bag full of tomatoes, past Marino opening the cantina for her, and up the hill to Piana Antica. I am just past Tommaso's house when I hear Rosina's voice coming from the open door at the corner and turn around. It is Alberto's widow's house, and Rosina sees me as she parts the fabric that acts like a screen in front of the open door. I walk toward her, and she asks me whom I am coming to see. Rosina starts at my response and smiles, telling Ida she'll bring her bread to her later. "No! Now!" Ida responds, and Rosina asks me to wait a moment, while she opens the gate and hands her the bread she earlier asked Rosina to pick up for her from Ernesta's store in the borgo. We walk on to Rosina's little house; one that is attached to Gino's on one side and Gianfranco's on the other, and she opens her door with a key and welcomes me inside. Her shutters are closed to the sun, and we sit in her sitting room while she opens a cloth towel and thanks me "Ringrazio tanto!" for the two orbs, as I lay them in front of her. "I have been worried about you," I tell her. "In America, when someone dies, it is a tradition to bring food to the grieving family's home". That's not the case in Italy, but she thanks me just the same. She did not plant pomodori this year, so I know she does not have them. We talk for a while, and she remembers that Dino's brother Jim died not too long ago. She has a good memory. Alberto was her brother, and she was close to him, especially since her husband died twenty years ago. Dino knows all that, for he's the expert on Mugnano family trees. Soon, Gabriella Farina opens the door and slowly walks in, helped with a cane with a plastic grip to help her to lean forward onto her arm. We sit together talking for a while, and it is only when her neighbor leaves that I tell her that it is when Rosina is alone that I worry about her. I don't tell you the most personal details, and you know all that, but these people are so dear to me, and to us, that I want to hold them figuratively in my embrace, and that's what I do on this morning, and then suggest to her to come to Coro tonight only if she wants to. I walk back around the corner, past Franco and now Francesco, both sanding Francesco's door, past Donato with his hands on the chair Otello is now sitting on, past Otello's wife, Caterina, who is Donato's sister, and back home, where Sofi's little narrow tongue licks between the squares of the side gate at me and she whines and wags her tail to welcome me home. Dino tells me that Sofi could not tell where the sound of my voice was coming from, and since Rosina's balcony is very close, it is no wonder. After a very tasty pranzo, I return to write to you and to work on Italian Notebook stories, while Dino reads his book nearby. I am distracted by reading my emails, which includes the NYT online, and a story about faith and philosophy: Faith is not a like-for-like relationship of equals, but the asymmetry of the like-to-unlike. It is a subjective strength that only finds its power to act through an admission of weakness. Faith is an enactment of the self in relation to an infinite demand that both exceeds my power and yet requires all my power. Such an experience of faith is not only shared by those who are faithless from a creedal or denominational perspective, but can - in my view - be had by them in an exemplary manner. Like the Roman centurion of whom Kierkegaard writes, it is perhaps the faithless who can best sustain the rigor of faith without requiring security, guarantees and rewards: "Be it done for you, as you believed." Thanks to Simon Critchley for these words, who is chair of philosophy at the New School for Social Research in New York, and has piqued my interest. I'd like to read some of Kirkegaard's works, but when will I have the time? I order a book anyway, for existential thought is something I'm interested to explore. I come upon the next quite by accident. I slide into bed beside Dino to read, and in the book I am reading, Mediterranean Winter, a Journey Through History, Robert D. Kaplan writes: Thus, the rebirth of Greece in the fifteenth century would depend upon an intellectual order that was compatible with, but separate from, the Orthodox Church. This fact is relevant today not only in the Orthodox world, but in the Islamic one, too, where religion has degenerated into an austere ideology, stifling independent thought. Those aren't my words; they are Kaplan's. But in thinking about the practice of religion, I'm not so sure most people don't just go through the motions in church, and it is only when facing death themselves or the death of a loved one that they contemplate the bigger picture and their place within the order of things. This little village is probably full of such thought these days, with the death of Alberto, who was dearly loved. And it is with this that I wait to hear back from my priest friend about the message we want to convey in my painting of Saint Peter the Martyr as he faces death.
Dino asks if I have picked all the pomodori, and will he ever be surprised when he takes a basket down to pick the rest. He's willing to process our pomodori tomorrow, for Stefano won't be here until Mercoledi (Wednesday) to work. We'll get things ready tonight. What do YOU think of all this, Sofi?:)
While Dino dozes, I decide to read awhile, and I'm in a reading mood. Writing and submitting more than two stories in a day will drive me batty, and life is meant to enjoy, come no (why not)? We take a popsicle break as the heat continues, and later I'll attend Coro practice. But first, I take a big basket and pick all the gigantic pomodori, and there are a lot of them. They are not optimal, for with all the rain this Spring there is probably a lot of water content in them, but we'll see. Tonight before Coro practice, Dino asked me if I'd mind walking home by myself, and I do not. Actually, I arrive early, and sit alone in the piazza without a soul to join me. It's a lovely evening, and the borgo is silent, but only while its inhabitants eat their cena (supper); before we're through with Coro practice the yellow bricks will be full of people outside enjoying the warm but not too warm evening. All my Coro buddies laugh at me. They've never seen me alone without Dino driving me and picking me up, and they tease me. Afterward, we all walk down around the medieval hill, where others ask if I need a companion to walk me home. No, I am not afraid. More laughter. On the bench below where Giustino lived, four neighbors sit jammed together, and I stop to talk a moment. But soon I'm walking alone to the house, as Sofi sits inside with Dino. It's good to be home.
August 10
This morning, we'll process a bunch of tomatoes, for too many are ready to eat now, and there are just two of us. Might as well save some to actually eat in salads.
Sturdy and not so sturdy Mugnano campers return from their overnight mid morning, and Dino snaps them as they walk up the hill past our house. I had thought they'd camp out tonight, but perhaps last night they were able to see shooting stars where they were camping. 
With just a modicum of the usual annual stress, Dino realizes he does not have enough new caps for the bottles, and rushes out for more in nearby Attigliano. Purtroppo (too bad)...San Lorenzo is Attigliano's patron saint, and everything is closed in the town on this day to celebrate. He drives up the hill to Giove, where he finds what he needs and returns to a shaky Sofi and me. Sofi is shaky because she's afraid of the whirring and grinding noises that the processing machine makes. Does the noise bother her ears, or is she afraid that she, or we may be hurt by the machine? Either way, she hides under the sink in the loggia to watch until we are through. We've strained the tomatoes to have more pulp and less water in the jars. I remember one year that a muratore (not Stefano) wagged his finger at me when he looked at the water settling in our tomato jars. Back then, we processed heirloom tomatoes, grown from seeds bought in Oregon, and it was definitely brutto figura (a bad impression) that we made to the Italian contadinis (farmers) who were too proud to process such an "inferior" tomato. We're finished by 11AM, and I use some of the leftover tomato juice to make chicken Parmesan, although I'd rather use it for Bloody Marys. That's our tradition, anyway, with Candace and Frank when they process their tomatoes here. That should happen soon. I think of our grand daughters often, as well as my two nieces, who are daughters of my brother. How can I slip under their skins the desire to ask those of us a generation or two older than they, what we were thinking when major events happened in our lives? Unable to ask my parents or older relatives the same questions, I so wonder... These days, when reading about dates or happenings decades ago, the events don't seem so distant. The 1960's, for example, seem like just yesterday and yet, to someone not born then, the dates seem ancient. One's perspective changes so, as Tom Lehrer sang, "soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life". Ouch! So today is San Lorenzo's day, and on this night, shooting stars are supposed to be seen crossing the constellations, or something like that. Here's the story you may read again later in Italian Notebook; they're on vacation all month and no stories are published in August. The night of August 10th is the best night of the year in Italy to watch the skies for shooting stars. It is the night of the Perseides, known poetically as the Lacrimas (tears) de San Lorenzo (tears of Saint Lawrence), and all around the country people gather for star watching and wishing. If you believe in wishes, be sure to make your wish before the star you are watching disappears. The Lacrimas de San Lorenzo is a tradition dating back to the III century when, according to popular belief, San Lorenzo was burned at the stake. The falling stars are his tears of suffering. Actually, San Lorenzo was decapitated but the burning is a better story, in keeping with the drama. Although stars fall at a rate of no more than two or three a minute or so, it's a wonderful excuse to pack up a picnic, find a spot out in the countryside with as little artificial light as possible, and even if you do not believe in making wishes, it's a heavenly sight. Actually, the stars are the sad remains of the comet Swift-Tuttle, entering the atmosphere at very high speed, disintegrating right in front of us. The most popular wish among Italians is for lasting love (49%), followed by wealth (32%) and then success (27%). We meet Candace and Frank in the early evening, and follow them to Alberto and Ike's lovely house near Fabro. Our friends have a boutique winery, and we begin the evening with a tasting of two delectable white wines before sitting down to fondue on their terrace.
Alberto and Ike then lead us to a friend's winery, Cantine Ravazzi, in Palazzone, where we think we are going to do star gazing, but there is an enormous party underway, and in true Italian fashion, people are more interested in laughing and enjoying each other's company than looking for shooting stars.
We arrive home just before midnight, not having seen one shooting star. Because I don't believe in making wishes anyway, I'm not disappointed. It was a lovely evening with friends we enjoy a great deal, and the adventure continues...
August 11
Stefano and his cousin Angelo and a young helper arrive, and before they leave for pranzo, the cement is laid over rebar and stones and Angelo gently puts Sofie's paws in cement, writing her name across the landing. Dino adds the year.
We discuss the pepperino and the balustrade and Dino wants me to see the pepperino pavement laid in Bomarzo in the area of the Comune (city hall). Va bene. We have one quote for the work, but would love to give Franco a chance to bid. Stefano smiles broadly. It's wonderful to see him happy, as he is working here all morning, laughing with his cousin who he tells us is Italy's answer to Mr. Bean. Signor Fagioli? By tomorrow he'll have closed up the electrical work and we'll be able to get the electrician back to finish the installation of the gate. This afternoon, Stefano's crew is working on the step outside the main gate. Soon we'll close up the front stairs with a wall, and have more privacy. But when will all the permits be ready? We still don't have a permit for the work on our plot in the cemetery. Next week, tomorrow, in two days...it really does not matter which one you pick; the permits we are waiting for aren't ready. While watching the trial in the Hague of Charles Taylor on CNN, especially the movie star testimonies about the blood diamonds, I'm reminded of an event that took place decades ago, while I was in my twenties, when I agreed to travel to Washington, D.C. with a Philippine diplomat for a weekend from Boston, where I lived at the time. We were wined and dined at the Philippine Embassy, and although I succeeded at keeping the man at arms' length all weekend, he had me count out seven one hundred dollar bills to a fellow countryman whom I was introduced to by first name only. When I questioned the reason, I was quietly told that this was payment for arms for the Philippine Army from an American company (to remain unnamed). The exchange took place at breakfast one morning, and all weekend the man kept his briefcase at his side. At the time I thought to myself, "What drama!", but looking back now realize that I was really naive. Should I have done anything about it then? If so, what? I do admit I had quite a few adventures while I was young and single; perhaps that's why I'm content to live my life out quietly here in this village. But its memory jogs my mind back to the events, and I hope I don't lose my memory...for things I'd like to revisit in my mind. This is one. We call Franco at Tesiccini and he's in the office, so we drive there after looking at pepperino pavement in Bomarzo. Franco is a wonder of a man, and we'd so love to use him. His plant is closed until the end of August, but he tells us we'll have the first pepperino slabs on Sept. 1, so Stefano the muratore can install those first, and only then will we decide upon the fascia of the landing and the balustrade. He also told us where we should buy the individual round turned pepperino balustras directly, and tomorrow Dino will research them, in case some of the places are not on ferie (holiday) till the end of August. No matter. I love the landing, and Sofi does, too, even though it is unfinished. I love our simple life here so much I can just hold up my arms and holler, "Hooray!" but there's no need to. Tonight there is a meeting below the ancient tower, where the residents will do some brainstorming about the future of the village. What an amazing group this Ecomuseo is! It's an honor to be a part of it.
August 12 After four hours, Dino picks me up, and I'm holding my breath. The woman who owns the shop tried masterfully to please me. I told her that perhaps it is the Italian water, for she used the same solution I've used in the US with dear friend Leah in Mill Valley, and still the amount of natural pigment in my hair causes her to worry. It will take a couple of days for the color to settle in, and so we'll wait patiently and hope. While I was there, Dino and Stefano and Angelo worked to close up walls, patch intonico (plaster), and take out the wooden cement forms for the landing. I so love the landing; so love Sofia's name and her tiny footprints, as if it's our version of Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. I want to do something different with tomatoes; the usual has become boring. So I slice the tomatoes thickly, very thickly. Then I dip them in French breadcrumbs (very crunchy, but only found in France) after dipping them in egg beaten with chives, presemelo, salt and pepper. There was batter left after dipping lean maiale (pork) cutlets and sautéing them in butter and olive oil. I used a new pan for the tomatoes, but add butter and olive oil. They were especially delicious, and we have a couple left to eat cold for another meal. When Dino and Sofi picked me up, Sofi's left eye was closing, as though there was something inside her eyelid. Sweet little dog; I put drops in her eye, before and after pranzo, and the eye looks better, although she is looking a bit sad. After a long dolce fa niente this afternoon for all of us, I'm hoping she'll rally as she usually does. Stefano won't be back until tomorrow morning. We sleep for an hour, and Sofi's eye is better. I was quite worried. Poor thing, we left her here while we walked up to mass, but returned in an hour or so and she was especially mellow after a full tummy of crocanti per cena (dry food for dinner). Tonight I walk up to Coro practice, for this one is a major practice with Rafaelle and Angela from Attigliano, to prepare us for our debut on Sunday evening. Dino and Sofi will walk up later so we can hang out while the kids are doing a treasure hunt in the borgo. We need a light for Raffaelle's portable organ, so I call Dino, and he arrives with a book light, which is perfect. He walks in the door with Sofi in his arms, and she's so excited to see me that tears come to my eyes. Dino takes her back outside, for she can't calm down. Practice continues extremely well and the light is just right.
August 13 
Although it's Friday the thirteenth, the day is nothing to worry about in Italy; it is Friday the seventeenth that Italians worry about. Today the sky is hazy; devoid of color. Might as well get up. Stefano is expected to finish some work, but calls to say it will be on Monday, and Dino wants to process more pomodori; the San Marzanos are expected to arrive at the little Bomarzo supermarket today. Dino has learned a trick: at this time of year when all the plentiful pomodori are ripening; markets sell them at really low prices, to get rid of them before they become over-ripe. We drive to Viterbo with Sofi to shop, and run around a bit, but do find a great place to have the balustrades made, and the owner is there, although the place is on vacation. We'll return on Aug 30th or so and Dino is already the owner's friend. Perhaps I'll do a story about how artisans fashion balustrades. Dino tells me the process is interesting; somewhat like the way woodworkers fashion turned legs of wood. By the time we reach the Bomarzo supermarket, the few tomatoes the grocer had were sold. No hurry. We have a late pranzo and take a nap, only to wake up at ten minutes before mass at 5PM! I rush up by myself, while Dino gets up and puts the painting in the car. We've had bouts of rain off and on, so he drives up and has an umbrella with him. Good thing. Bravo, Dino! Outside the church afterward it's pouring rain, but like Gene Kelly, he escorts me along the puddles under a big umbrella to the car. He backs up to the gate of the school and takes the painting in under the umbrella, while Francesco and Mauro are putting the basic pizzas in the pizza oven, cooking them 30 seconds or so and they'll be cooked to finish them tonight for lots of us. We'll probably be eating inside, and it will be hot, but the painting sits high upon a stand probably meant for a TV and it will be fun to see people's reaction to it. Francesco told me he already saw the painting on the internet! Va bene! Back at home we relax for an hour or two before going up for pizza. Dear Sofi is alone again, and we walk, as the sky seems pretty clear. What? The manifesto said that the cena would be at 9 PM, but it really began at 8:30; when we arrive the tables and benches are full of people outside. There is room for us to sit across from each other next to Claudio and Michelle, so that is what we do. Cipolla (onion) pizza is what there is a lot of, so that is what we have, served plates of them already sliced. It's quite good, and the type of pizza we think we will serve at home when our oven is installed. I look about us and see so many people we have grown to know over the years. It's difficult to sit down; time and again I pop up and walk over to someone else to talk. Many times they follow me inside to look at the painting. The evaluation is that the painting is good, especially of Andrea Perini, although Andrea Filiberti does not look as real. I think I used a little blue on his face, as artists do when using orange paint (it's a complimentary color), but did not on the younger boy's face, and that has made the difference. Will I alter it later? I'm not sure. The painting stays in place for a day or so until the rain lets up. I show Erica the painting, and ask if she'd like to paint with me. Yes, she would, so I bring her out to see Luigina and tell her that Erica and I will do the painting of her with her granddaughter Michela later this year. It will be fun to spend time with Erica, and is another thing to look forward to. We walk home and are in bed at just about midnight, although the joyous Mugnanese continue well on into the night.
August 14
We sleep in a little, then after breakfast leave Sofi for an hour to spend with Ivo and Nadia and Andrea in their home in the piazza. Ivo knows more about the people in the village than almost anyone, and while we are there shows us a very old photo album of family members and friends of the Filiberti clan in Mugnano. Within its pages, I'm struck by the image of an old man, dressed in a striped suit and posing for a photographer. I'd like to paint his image, so add that to the list. Dino takes his photo:
We don't know the name of the man, and perhaps never will, but that won't deter me. What will deter me is the growing list of characters that I want to paint. I think it would be fun to have someone living in Mugnano from the 1800's represented. Come no? I look up at the shadow box of memories framed on the wall next to me from our first year of marriage; one where Dino and I are each shown as young children. Wouldn't it be fun to do a painting of us together as young children...Dino with his arms folded looking out and frowning...to me on my knees making castles in the sand, and as I look up at him my face lights up. I'm not ready to show you the photographs just yet. When leaving the square to return home, Gino walks up to us and tells us he thinks the day is "come Autumno" (like fall). I respond, "il mio bicchieri mezzo pieno" (my glass is half full) and he nods, in agreement. I fix a different salad of tomatoes and marinated thinly sliced red onion in wine vinegar, calamata olives, chopped celery (especially the leaves) and a hunk of buffala mozzarella with drizzled olive oil to eat with the breaded pork that is covered by a fried egg and anchovy. Dino loves pork fixed this way. Va bene! He works on the Mugnano tree in the afternoon, and before we know it, it's time for mass. Four masses in four days are a lot, but it's good to be in church, surrounded by people we know. How life has changed for us in these past twelve years! We're early, and wind picks up, although at the moment we do not expect rain. MarieAdelaide and Rosina and I are the only Coro members at this afternoon mass, allowing me to sing with gusto and joy to encourage the others to join us. Some even do. But during the mass the wind is very strong, and while he's seated, Don Renzo looks skyward as if to wonder if something profound is about to happen. Afterward, Elena agrees to sit with us at the little square next door, although she and I are a bit struck by the enormous wind; a wind that seems to form funnels here and there. At one point, she looks up to the tower and to clouds quickly moving behind it, as thought the clouds are still and the tower is moving. It is a frightening scene, and our mouths form "O's" as if we're in Kansas one hundred or so years ago. "Where are you, Auntie Em?" Elena knows some of the information Dino is seeking about her ancestors, and when he's through, tells her he'll print a copy of her family and ask her to ask other family members as well as see what documents she has in Rome that might help. The piazza has many people milling around as we reach it, and many of them look confused and windblown. Dino tells Augusto and Vincenza that it is all their cacciarata (gossip) that fuels the cyclone of wind about. Vincenza puts her head back and laughs. Dino asks Augusto a couple of questions about his family, the Cozzi's, and he adds a few more names. Even here in Italy, it is difficult for people to remember back past their own grandparents. On the way home, Dino admits this project is tiring him; it is like pulling teeth, family by family, to acquire more information. Perhaps it is time that we return to the cemetery with out printouts and see if we can glean anything new. In the meantime, perhaps he'll speak with the Ecomuseo Board to talk about them furnishing a computer to access all the members we have already found. The number is creeping up to that 1,000 mark! We have blue sky after we've been home for an hour or two, with billowing clouds, mostly in the distance. Tonight I have Coro practice, and there is a gastronomia of dolce (sweets); one I've not contributed to this time. Time is just getting ahead of me, and I don't want to stress. But then, there's no need to.
Here are a sample of cakes and people enjoying the tasting and eating of sweets, along with Annarita, who wins first prize with a dessert very much like the dessert I make from a box of Cameo(!) lemon torta mix.
At around midnight, Chia's fireworks erupt, and they're visible from out bed. Evidently their budget is small...not even Sofi minds the noise much; it's over soon after it has begun.
April 15 There's plenty of sun and just a whisper of a cloud, so perhaps the rain has stopped for a while. I'd like to weigh in on the prospect of a Muslim Center close to Ground Zero in New York City. Following the Muslim Imams of Canada who remind Muslims everywhere that Islam is a religion of love and not a religion that endorses killing of others, if Muslims everywhere profess the same beliefs, respecting their fellow man/woman everywhere, I'd endorse the center. It's not yet time. There have been so many decades of hate and proclamations against Americans, no matter their religion, and that need to be overcome. There's that respect for one's fellow man/woman again. It's difficult to forget the signs of hate toward Americans for decades shown in the news. This morning in the car we listen to an interview with Barney Frank, Congressman from Massachusetts, who, with Ron Paul of Texas are endorsing lowering the military budget and closing bases in friendly countries and bringing the boys and girls home as well as reducing the deficit by a mile. Americans complain a lot. That's what recent studies show. Perhaps it's a sign that we have the right to express our views. This concept of Barney Frank and Ron Paul appears radical, and perhaps that's just what we need. Lets hope the committee organized to find ways to eliminate the deficit in ten years place some importance on this idea. Sorry. I don't write much about America any more, for I feel so far removed from it all, but that's precisely why these ideas take hold in my mind and in my heart. I still love the place where I was born. We're early arrivals at Bar Nando and Il Pallone Superconti on this day, for there is no mass on this morning; instead there will be a mass and procession tonight. I'll wear a white dress, and that's not exactly the dress we're asked to wear. We're asked to wear white tops and black pants or a skirt, but I want to wear this dress. But should I? We'll see.
It's another nap afternoon. I walk up to practice at 8:30, forget my scarf and turn back around. By the time I reach the church again, I'm hot and feel as if I'm red-faced during the service, although it is a lovely one, with us finishing our singing with a Gregorian Chant (Salve Regina) to Maria, led by Don Renzo.
Two men seem to guard the scatola (box) containing the precious cocomero (watermelon), and it is as though the whole bench is filled with cocomero; some frowning, wearing slacks and sport shirts, some in their natural green and white stripes with no expression at all...a funny sight. 
Mauro lifts the striped orbs one by one and slices them "just so" as though he's a butcher and these are his prized fillets. Left standing on the table, soon the space is empty, as we in no assigned way pick them up one-by-one. There is one black bag, gently folded over the back of a chair to accept semi (seeds), but except for one man who stands right over the bag as if it's his very own, and me collecting the seeds from my piece one-by-one and sliding them into the bag, everyone else in the piazza seems to swallow theirs. We talk awhile; then walk home to have tall drinks under the moon and return to bed around midnight again.
August 16 Sofi seems better; so much so that she wags her tail as if it's on a spring and stands "this close" to a round clipped box, sniffing and moving her nose just a little too deep. "Be a good girl!" I warn her from the bench, where I read in the sun, and she moves along the gravel; this time to the base of the caki tree, where she always thinks her friends are hiding. Dino has returned to his physical therapy in Orte, and although he wears his brace as much as he can, he continues his morning treatments for another week or so. After a walk up to Annarita to learn more about her family's history, we drive to Viterbo to the vet and to shop. Sofi needs her shot, and I'd like one of them to take a look at her rear where there may be something to watch. Oh, Sofi has an abscess. That drained, we're given instructions to wash the spot with salt and water and then apply a salve of Gentalyn Beta, which we have, for several days. It's a good thing we took her to the vet. Back at home, we all take a nap. There's a cena at Sasso Quadro tonight. We did not attend last year's event, because we did not know that we could drive and Dino cannot do any strenuous hiking.
After directions on Dino's iPhone and counsel from Enzo, we drive to Bassano and take an unmarked stradabianca (white road). When we see three women walking we stop to ask, and the directions are typical. "Sempre dirito" (always forward); after taking the first left. So of course we come to a fork in the road and then what? If Yogi Berra were here, he'd tell us to take it! Boh! The road is Via Bassano Mugnano, <
...and Dino thinks we should turn left. So we do, and a certo punto (after a while), see Francesco's car parked. We sit there for another while, and Dino tries a couple of paths, but none are the correct one. Later hikers arrive and we see that there is a place where we should have taken a right into a field to park. So at least we've arrived.
Hikers lead us to the spot, and it is a marvel, lit up with judy bulbs on a wire above a rock formation from which we can take photos of Mugnano...and our house! About one hundred or more gather here for the cena (dinner), at €10 per person, of
Here are photos of the event, during which Dino takes out his binder and is able to add more names to the Mugnano tree.
But as we left Sasso Quadro in the car on that night, I was heartsick; worried that the dog would be abandoned again, as it appeared that the boy's mother did not want to take her home. Somehow it all worked out, for the Mugnanese are a friendly sort. Look for more photos of Susie and Sofi soon.
August 17
As if I don't have enough projects, I take out our photos, separate them and Dino and I write names and dates on the back of each one. We really should put them in albums; but for now they'll be classified in boxes with tabs.
There's been a response from Don Francis, but he wants to give the painting questions some thought; for now, that project is on hold.
I have a different idea for Marissa and Nicole...It has to do with sewing but not quilts. There is a kind of ruffle made with wire, and I want to make yards and yards of it, to add to normal things to make them more special; more French. A few days ago we watched Lady Gaga for the first time, and I'm enthralled by her costumes; I have some ideas for things I can make for the girls, and that means more tessuti (fabric), that perhaps we'll buy in France.
Although it's not at the level of previous years, the heat is still enough for us to want to take a nap in the afternoon...or are we just enjoying ourselves? Take your pick.
We take a walk up to the borgo and visit Loredana and Alberto on their terrace, where we all have bicchieri di vino (glasses of wine) and biscuits and admire their lovely view. Sofi admires the space, too, meandering all around and sniffing for her friends.
August 18
Dino returns and picks me up to drive to meet Don Renzo in Bomarzo to photograph him. He does put on the garments he will wear in the film, but we will also go on site to photograph him in context. Before then, I will do a number of sketches, and will go over them with him. I'm thinking a tall canvas, not particularly broad, and the painting should not take as long as other paintings. We'll see.
Tonight we take a borlotti bean dip, taco chips, and black chocolate cupcakes. Candace prepares a wonderful quiche, and there is plenty to eat and drink while we watch a movie. We're home just after 10 PM, and make plans to go with them to visit Bambi at the wildlife shelter next week. The shelter is a good subject for a story, too. Dear Bambi...we are told she will be reintroduced to the wild and that is what these people do.
Look for the story on Italian Notebook. But then, if you subscribe, you'll have the story delivered right to your email address. IN is on summer hiatus in August, but beginning again in September, stories are published five days a week. What? You don't yet subscribe? If you have fears about the subscription, email me with your concerns and we can talk about them. Otherwise, click here to go directly to Italian Notebook and sign up. Thanks.
August 19
Unfortunately, after viewing the photos we took earlier this week, there are none that are really useable. Don Renzo is a master at the pose, but unless his expression is his own, and has something to say, I'm not really interested. Capturing one's moment is what I really enjoy doing. I will do a number of sketches, anyway, and during the filming of the project in September we will take some more.
The morning is cool and clear. It's certainly not similar to August days in past years. Dino's trips to Orte each morning continue for another week or so, but on the way back he stopped at the geometra. Bad news is that the permit won't be ready until Monday for the cemetery. Good news is that any muratore can do the work, so Stefano can do it for a much better price, we are sure. That means, get on his schedule.
Earlier this afternoon, Dino received the photo for Alberto who died on August 7th, so look at the posting of August 8th for his photo. Thanks to his grandson, and to Claudio, his son, for the fine photo. Again, our condolences for the entire family of this very much loved man.
August 20
Today should be hot, and while Dino is in Viterbo I work on Italian Notebook stories, not going downstairs for cappuccino until 10:30; outside a loud tractor groans away and I think it's Enzo's, for the sound is near his house. I close the front shutter of the bedroom, to hold the room in the cool morning air.
Using the incredible and crunchy breadcrumbs from France by the company Tilipak, I bread a piece of persico (perch) and cook it in a padella (pan) on top of the stove. What we eat is moist inside but so crunchy that even Col. Saunders would approve!
There's time for a nap and before we know it we pick up Helga and her friend to take them to the Folk Festival in Orvieto.
We park down below and find ourselves climbing a couple of flights of stairs, instead of an escalator, as they have in Perugia. When we find the space, there is a stage similar to the stage in Soriano for the Jazz Festival, and sit at the long tables while listening to music. One group, the group from Northern Umbria who we have heard before, played and danced, although the audience did not join in. I think Orvietani are a sophisticated bunch. Now if they played in Mugnano, that would be a different case.
When a group of Italian folk musicians played, children danced and ran around in front of the stage, and that was fun to watch. Food was fair, beer and wine were better, and before driving home we walked to a gelateria on the Corso for dessert. The night was practically balmy, with no need for sweaters. We like it like that.
August 21
Dino drives off to La Quercia to take a few more photos for a particular story. When he's concentrating on something, nothing gets in his way. He's a great photographer, and in charge of the photos that bring each story to life. Yes, he's one great guy. While I wait for his return, I do some sketching of Don Renzo. It's good to draw and I love it.
We've taped Chaplin's "The Great Dictator", made in 1940, and although it's described as a comedy and social commentary, I can imagine millions of people at the time offended by it. It's quite an interesting film, with some innovative touches, but it is somewhat sad to watch. Dino kept his eyes open for most of it, then we stopped the tape; it is for times such as these that taping a program is such a handy thing. Time for a nap!
Dino waters outside after the sun lowers in the sky, and we watch the end of the film. It's not on my top ten list; but there were some very interesting parts.
Today's humidity continues high, and the grilli (cicadas) won't let us forget it. I think I misunderstood them all along...they're complaining about the heat and the humidity; otherwise they enjoy the day and stop their yakking. We have not heard them much this year, but tonight they seem quite angry. "Take a Milltown!" my mother would say.
August 22
Weather continues to be hot, but under the wisteria it's as if we're in another world.
We eat our last tomato from the garden, with excellent buffala mozzarella and basil from the garden. Remember that all mozzarella is not buffala. Containers marked mozzarella are not necessarily the creamy variety that melts in one's mouth. Some have no taste and are springy in one's mouth.
Sketching, fixing pranzo and naptime are a daily occurrence here. Tonight there is a South American themed festa at Castellio di Santa Maria in San Michele in Teverina, hosted by Serena. The family are friends of ours, and have been for eleven years, ever since we followed signs to the castello (castle) one September morning and met Diego, Serena's father.
Tonight there are six of us to join the group: Helga and her friend, Ana, Frank and Candace and us. What's with the expression so many Americans use when speaking about their friends..."Me and so and so..."? What happened to English grammar in the schools? Yikes! Dear friend, Donald, you'll certainly have an opinion on that one.
Serena is really beautiful tonight, but then she is a lovely looking young woman. Surprised by the large turnout of about sixty people, sitting around the pool and feasting on her menu without even a hint of pasta, she seems delighted.
I ask Helga, who has stayed at the castello and also has eaten a number of meals there, what the service was like, and she told us that it was excellent. I know that Diego is a very serious man, wanting to make sure that his guests are treated in the kindest manner. She gives the place very high marks.
Do remember that if you want to have a meal there if you are not a guest, you must reserve in advance, for it is not officially a restaurant. Serena and Diego will create a menu for you, or will serve you something of your choosing...one Thanksgiving while Serena was still studying with Paul Bocuse in France, Diego made a turkey for four of us, although tacchino ripieno (stuffed turkey) is not on any Italian menu.
It's worth noting that Italians are a warm and friendly lot, happy to welcome stranieri (strangers) to their country who make even a small effort to speak in their language. Showing up after being invited is another matter.
Bella figura (to make a good impression) is important to them, although showing up after being invited to an event is not as important as attending one that might have better food, or better conversation. We'd call that brutto figura (making a bad impression), and it's a recurrent theme in Italy. Italians don't want to say "No". So they believe it's better to say "yes" and not come, if a better invitation arrives for the same day.
Tonight's view of the calanche (gorges) from poolside is memorable, and I write a story for Italian Notebook about them. Hopefully, Serena will provide photos and we'll give her photo credit, so that people around the world will look at the castle's web site and consider staying there, or at least having a meal there. Here's the web site. Take a look:
The music afterward is excellent, mostly South American, with a guitarist and an accordionist, whose beautiful squeezebox is smaller than most. I was hoping for some music from Naples, for that is where Diego is from, but tonight's music is excellent, just the same, although a request for a tango reaches deaf ears...
Serena's classical training shows clearly here (Paul Bocuse in Lyon, France; the Ritz in Paris, and a couple of summers at 5 star Italian resorts) and the focaccias are the best taste and the lightest in consistency in memory. Surely I'd love to do some baking with her...
August 23
The NYT has an interesting commentary about what's wrong with the Muslim communities in the Middle East, and how the U. S. found itself thrust into a quagmire because it wanted to help one side. It's worth reading.
How to help warring factions put down their guns and live in harmony with each other won't happen in our lifetimes, I fear. It is worth taking a brave stand, President Obama, and begin by reading Tom Friedman's commentary written on the 21st.
Sofi sits with me on the landing outside the front door while I read sitting in the sling back chair we dyed dark blue earlier this summer. The canvas looks a little worn, the color a faded dark blue. Our first attempt at dying in the washing machine was a hit. Even small changes give us a thrill; bit-by-bit, everything gets done. So why not work for a while on another story or two?
On this warm evening the moon is so full it can hardly contain itself. I wonder what goes on up there when the moon is at different stages. But I don't wonder for long...it's too humid tonight and the grilli just won't stop yakking.
August 24
Soriano in summer time (2 towns away) means the beat of drums after dark. At the end of September is their Castagno (chestnut) festival, and they're practicing for their roles in the related opera of sorts. I hear them and then don't; hopefully they end earlier than usual. The sound is that of the beat of American Indian tribes heard in Old Western Movies. Yes, the old spaghetti westerns as well, for which Italy is famous.
Here's some info. From the www about spaghetti westerns:
What is a Spaghetti Western? Basically a Spaghetti Western is an Italian-produced Western, or an Italian-Spanish co-production - Italian financed with the principle cast and crew being for the most part Italian - although these films in fact attracted stars of all nationalities.
While much of the filming was done in the Italy, usually at the Cinecittà or Elios studios in Rome, the movies were primarily filmed in the Andalucia region of Spain and, because of this, many of the supporting cast and extras where Spanish. Andalucia was used (in particular the Tabernas desert around Almeria) due to its striking resemblance to the Mexican border, even down to the whitewashed villages.
Due to the international cast, and on-set language barriers, the films where usually dubbed afterwards regardless of the language of distribution.
It is because the films are primarily of Italian origin that the critics adopted the phrase 'Spaghetti Westerns', initially as an expression of derision.
No, thank you, we're here for the animals! Italians are so very friendly, and remember how important it is to offer guests something to drink. Getting to know one another is really the bond that makes any time spent with people we don't know is best begun this way...
Oh. Sure. We're Americans. We jump right in. This time it's already quite hot and they all seem a little weary of the sun as well. So the tour begins at the Fallegnameria, the woodworking shop, where everything from signs to furniture to doors to aviaries are made here. Dino wonders what kinds of things the wife of the woodworker has at home...It's beautiful work.
The story of our visit is in tomorrow's journal...
I want to paint a civetta (little owl) for them, from a photo we're taking, as thanks for their attention and kindness this morning. Add that to the top of the list.
I'm really not feeling well, and Frank tells us that it's food poisoning based on my symptoms. He tells me that I could be eating the same food others are eating and it will only affect me. Let's look at it this way. If I'm the only person who became ill out of the sixty or so people at the castello, that's not bad.
I do not take a nap in the afternoon, and Dino wants to know if we want to go to Viterbo with him this afternoon. There are sheets to buy for the rental house in Tenaglie and things for Sofi, so sure.
I feel ill a couple of times, but arrive home feeling all right. The night ends with a moon that just won't give up its fullness. Any seeds planted around now will be healthy, healthy. So what about the rucola? It's the second day, and still nothing appearing on top of the earth in the planter. Can you hear those seeds sprouting as you read?
Today is the anniversary of my mother's death, twenty-one years ago. Almost daily, I find a trait that I did not know that I had of hers. These days it is the strange cough, strung out like a taut rubber band, although I've never smoked except when I was nine...that's another story. She's here with me, not judging, and I give her a hug as I write. Good night, Mom.
August 26
I think the cicadas sleep in late, for at 8:30 they're still silent, although plenty of birds chat away while I close the front shutters of the bedroom, in anticipation of another hot day.
I check last night's laundry, hung out just before dark, to keep us on track by using less electricity and gas during daytime hours. It's almost dry; the new towels hung out and soft to the touch. We'll take them with us this weekend to the rental house, when checking to make sure that both units are ready for their renters.
Rosina calls down to me, smiling; she utters a phrase I can't understand as if she's speaking to a friend, who is really the air, and includes the name "evanne-y", perhaps it is her sopranome (nickname) for me. Dare I tell her that when I was a child my nickname was Peachie? Uncle Herb named me that the first time he laid eyes on me. He told my mother I had skin like a peach. The Italian pronunciation of a peach is pesco, which sounds pretty harsh. Let's let that be our secret, at least for now...
I work on the story of our visit to the animal recovery center yesterday. Here are some names for you, in the event you plan to be outside in the forests of Italy and come across some birds you'd like to identify:
I'm a bit stuck on the pellegrino...so let's learn a little Italian...
To think of it, Italians really are resourceful, and their use of language is an ideal example. Let's compare a sentence using the word 'skin':
Well, if you sing the words quickly, you can fit them all in. How would the entire stanza sound?
So sing THAT to a person you love.
Now I ask you... Isn't this a more enjoyable way to learn the language? Stick with me, not that anyone will be able to have a philosophical conversation with you in Italian. But then...
Boh! I've just seen the word pegamolde, and no wonder it's such an ugly word. It means imitation leather. Who comes up with these?
Pasta is on the menu here today, for several of the jars of tomatoes did not seal correctly, so we'll be using them soon. I'll use a bit of the tomato passata in the borlotti bean dip to make later for cocktails in Maria Elina's garden. First, she has an appointment with Dino and Roberto, the geometra. When they're there, perhaps Dino can wrest a permit approval or two from him. The beat goes on...
Another hot day... another nap. This time I'm full of energy, reading away while Dino snoozes, or tries to. Maria Elina picks him up, and while they're meeting the geometra I fix the always popular borlotti bean dip and feed Sofi.
There does not seem to be a good cream or ointment for mosquito bites here. We use Sarna from the US, but I'd like something stronger. Our pharmacia does not have anything that will cure the feeling I have of crawling out of my skin. That's why I stay inside during the early evenings, when zanzari (mosquitos) seem to flourish.
Maria Elina's garden is also a secret garden, and it's a little jewel on the backside of the Orsini Palazzo. We take our dip and chips in a wicker basket and a little dish for Sofi's water; then spend an hour or two drinking champagne and munching on dip and chips.
The weather remains very warm, and the walk back home a treat, with a breeze to help us move along. We'd like to see Ivo to wish him an auguri(congratulations) for his birthday, but he's nowhere around.
Sofi has so many foxtails from the garden; although it's normal, I pick up ten or more from her coat. She lies next to me on the sofa and licks my hand while I gently search for them and pull them out. Tomorrow morning, Silvia will check her coat and cut her nails while giving her a once-over stripping of her fur. Va bene! I don't think it's easy being a dog...especially a little dear one like Sofi.
August 27
Maria Elina arrives at ten while Dino is still out, and it's a chance for girl talk...something I hardly ever do these days. It's not that there aren't other women friends around; it's that it's difficult to conduct girl talk in Italian. I never thought I'd look forward to this silly endeavor.
After Silvia and Maria Elina leave, Dino wants to pay Pietro a visit, so we all drive down there and right away the prosecco is opened, while Sofi searches for lucertoles, ignoring a bit of the bubbly spilled on the pavement. It's really good to have our dear friend back home, and he'll be here until after we leave for the U S late in the year.
I'm writing a story about cement, used first by the Romans, and come across a word pozzolana, but can't find a translation for the word, even after asking Al Gore.....
We're back to Italian lessons again, so here's some mighty interesting information regarding the word pozzo:
A pozzo is a well or a shaft, pozzo artesiano is an artesian well, but you knew that. A pozzo dell catene is a chain locker on a ship; pozzo di scienza (that's me) is a fountain of knowledge...now if only any of it were useable...pozzo di ventilazione is an air shaft; pozzo nero is a cesspool; pozzo petrolifero is an oil well; pozzo trivellato is a deep well, and last but not least: un pozzo di is a barrel of...
I suppose you're not really interested in singing again; this time "Oh, we ain't got a barrel of money..." so I won't translate. Try to use the pozzo words in conversation this week and see how impressed your friends are with you.
Duccio and Giovanna stop by for a visit before we all drive to Girasole in the Hotel Umbria for pizza. The place is located just below the pool and the pizza is identical to that served porta via(take away) from their first location in the Attigliano square.
We meet Mauro, who is a young waiter who lived in London for a year or two and now lives in Giove, and little Lorenzo, who brings the water dish for Sofi out himself and also tries to feed her a little. Since he's three, it will take him a while to feed Sofi without fear. But not long...
We're back home before 9:30 and sit outside on the terrace for a while and indeed it is lovely, especially in the fresh air.
August 28
We drive to Guardea with Sofi, and sit outside Bar Giubbini for colazione (breakfast) so that she can be with us. A group of ten or more bicyclists stop as we stop, sitting near us outside the bar. They are not young...only one appears to be below fifty, but that one walks inside to buy a liter bottle of Coke. One may be as old as seventy or more. The others order caffé, and wash it down with Coke, so they'll have the caffeine hit with Coke and also a jolt of coffee.
At the rental house, we check the inventory and also make sure everything is in order. It is. When we leave, Mari arrives, who is the cleaner, and does a wonderful job making sure everything is just so. The rentals are really good units and you can check them out at VRBO.com:
and
Back at home I'm not well again, and the heat has knocked the wind out of me. So we decide not to attend the annual ancient music concert this afternoon in Celleno...our memory tells us the room is quite warm. We will, however, attend the Cinghiale (wild boar) sagra tonight in Guardea.
While checking out the music concert in the archives, to see if we were there last year, I come across my great recipe for peaches from the garden with Amaretto and fresh cream. My recollection is that it is a signature dessert. We'll try to remember to serve it soon...
Dino could not sleep last night, worrying about the design of the balustrade. So he and I stand on the landing and discuss it and agree to a few changes to simplify it still more. We'll rush to the man who is fabricating it first thing on Monday morning. Hopefully we will reach him in time.
That means that the peperino slabs will arrive next week as well for the stairs and border of the landing. I still do not know about the front of the landing...
On the way back from Guardea this morning, we stopped to see Tony and Pat's bar, near their pool, which has just been completed. It is a masterful job, done by Salvatore, and we'd have him do the roof of our loggia, except that he gave us a price so much out of sight that we had to omit him from the potential list of muratores (stone masons) immediately.
He's a creative sort of guy, so leaves lots of room in his bids to add work the client has not even imagined, and this leaves the client over the moon with delight when a project has been finished. Since we plan everything out just as we'd like in advance, we'd like the creative ideas to be ours, and think we save lots of money this way. That's also why Dino is such a great project manager. If we had more money, we could probably do wonderful things working with Sandro, but that's not the case these days.
Maria Elin and Olaf arrive at 7 to go over ideas for their trip back to Norway by car via France, and then go together to Guardea to the sagra de cinghiale (wild boar dinner). The town of Guardea goes all out for its sagras(public dinners), and this side street is lit as we walk along. It looks like Christmas, with white bulbs gleaming above us, as if we're royalty. We find out table and explain that this town is the place where Dino got his name.
Pappardelle al cinghiale (wild boar) is a specialty in this region. The sauce is served either white or red, and we all choose red, and it's a bit spicy, but a compliment to the strong meat. Afterward Maria Elina drives us to Walter's in Sipicciano for gelato, and then home. Sofi has behaved quite well, and loved being with us, especially because I fed her under the table (bad Mama).
August 29
Rosita asks me when I can teach the Coro the hymn for Don Renzo. I tell her tomorrow night, if there is Coro practice then, and I'll make copies of the music and play teacher for a part of the evening. Va bene!
When coming back from shopping, the malaise returns, but perhaps it's a little virus. At least it's not a headache... and I don't see double any more, at least for now.
While Dino watches the Formula 1 race on tv, for the first time this year, I sit in the kitchen and draw cupids on a balustrade. I'm going to do a painting of them playing together, one hanging its legs over the side, as an additional part of the presentation.
I found a book that I did not know that I had that showed dozens of them playing around a long balustrade, and if they want me to paint the ceiling of the church in Isernia, this is an option. There could be a balustrade painted around the borders and the sky opening up to heaven with Saint Peter Martyr in the center. Come no?
If I can pull it off, it will be a sweet painting that I can also sell. Yes, everything on the site is for sale except a couple of pieces I want to save.
Pietro and Helga come by for prosecco, with sliced peaches from the garden in each glass. It's a lovely way to sit and watch the purple sky and clouds against the setting sun. Helga will return at the beginning of October and perhaps by then we'll be citizens.
August 30
At the yard, the two men are Stefano and Stefano, although they are not related. We are welcomed into the office at the top of a staircase, and Sofi sits with us, on my lap, her nose resting on the edge of the desk as we decide the details.
Although autumn does not arrive for almost a month, the sounds are a warning. Better get ready for winter, the little imaginary bird cries out! Today there is not even a sound from the cicadas, who are probably whipped around by the wind. Yesterday, Dino found two of them making whoopee on top of the sheets set out to dry. He whisked them away.
Dino has left to meet the first renters of the day, and to take them to the rental apartment. Later in the day, the second group arrives, so he'll make two trips today. He so loves meeting new people and helping them settle.
Sofi needs to be taken to the vet; the spot on her behind looks infected. We'll drive to Viterbo while everyone else is having pranzo, for that's the best time to go.
I print out copies of Amazing Grace, both in English and in Italian, for that is the gospel song that my Coro buddies want to learn. Laura rang the doorbell last night to make sure I'd bring the music. Si, certo! (Yes, of course!)
We'll begin by speaking the words, so that their pronunciation will be correct. I usually don't want to interject anything American into the Italian culture; this time I've been asked to do so. Tonight will be fun.
There's another story in the New York Times about buying guns for militant groups around the world, and I'm reminded of the story I wrote to you about on August 11th. I have always been an idealist, and if I had known what I was doing before the fact, I never would have agreed to count out those hundred dollar bills four decades ago for Alberto Lumauig, then the governor of Ifugau, a province in the Philippines, who is still alive and in the Philippine government. Am I worried that someone will come after me? No. If it's my time, it's my time. But if I suddenly disappear, you will all know why.
Perhaps that is why a raging wind continues to warn me; I am not deterred, even if the cicadas are.
Tonight, Coro is lots of fun. We practice Amazing Grace in English and there is a lot of laughter. Piano, piano (slowly, slowly). We'll take on two stanzas each time. We do, however, rock back and forth like Gospel Singers. Oh, how I wish we had robes to wear...Come no?
Yesterday, we listened to an NPR story while in the car, about the history of management consultants, and in a way their beginnings were a bit of a sham. We know the sweet book and movie, Cheaper By the Dozen, and it is this elimination of wasted motion that Dino espouses.
He confesses to me that he goes about his life in this manner, accomplishing more than one task at once. I, on the other hand, love to smell the roses these days, finding myself happily watching a butterfly when I could be dusting a chair in the garden.
Would you believe that I was a management consultant for years? I feel so far away from it, as though I have washed my hands of the work. Yes, I love to help others, but the daily drudgery is something I do by rote. It's really not drudgery, so what am I saying? Snapping freshly dried sheets in the air over our bed to make it, writing to you, cooking a meal, inventing a new recipe...it's all a joy.
Then there's that memory thing, that we choose to laugh at, for what it means we'll deal with...tomorrow.
I do love the organization thing; moving papers off the desk as if they're lines on a "to do" list; organizing photographs and recipes, but there's always more to do, and I think of unfinished business joyfully these days. My glass is almost always full, now that my family business nightmare has come to an end.
On this last day of the month I smile as I think of cousin Cherie, whose birthday IS today, and I wish her sunshine and lots of smiles.
Across the street, Pia and two men arrive to weed-whack their little plot of land, and to cut firewood. But there are still no cicadas; devoid of the sandpaper sound they make, the air is strangely silent, until a taut string is pulled and the wacker makes its "I'm coming to get you!" sound...the grass shuddering in its wake.
We're having excellent success growing lettuce - probably because we have sprinkled broken eggshells on the soil...(lattuga, commonly referred to as insalata) in planters:
Pietro joins us for pranzo; he's brought amazing figs from his garden and I'm about to conjure up papardelle noodles with gorgonzola and figs. It's a heavy pasta, but over the moon delightful.
We have plenty of peaches, so why not a plain green salad and the Amaretto and whipped cream and peaches in sorbetto glasses for dessert? Of course we have prosecco and wine... This afternoon will definitely be snooze city around here.
Well, Sofi warns us that the electrician is here to finish the wiring work for the new gate and intercom system. He's alone, without his father, who has just returned from the hospital. Life changes, and life continues... Sempre Avanti! ...the neighbors tell us.
As Dino helps Stefano, I bring the journal up to date, and perhaps tonight we'll even post...or perhaps not.
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