Passing Passions
This tale of mine is chronologically out of order. I just noticed. I can supply A Good Excuse. I am sopped with antibiotics. I’ll explain…
traditionally, I fly to the US to see my now 95-year-old mother for Thanksgiving. Easter too. My twice-a-year visits work as a convenient time to rally the troops of my sister, brother, and their families… dogs included… for a Family Reunion. We are a noisy, rowdy bunch.
Now, I have lived in Italy for 38 years. This is an exact count of my years here. I do not lie. Not this time. I say or write 40 because I believe round numbers seem more important. The Ancients did, so why not me? 40 days and 40 nights. Saying 38 makes me feel like I have messed up somewhere. It’s time for some Math: 2 trips a year x 38 years = 76 trips back ‘n forth across the Atlantic. For 15 of those 38 years, when I was in the shoe business, I flew to the US at least once a year on business. Some more Math: 76 + 15 = 91 trips. There’s more. When my Dad was ill… dying… sadly, died… I flew to NC every 6 weeks to relieve my valiant sister & brother of alternating every 2-weeks driving from their respective homes in Atlanta to NC to give our Mom & Dad a hand. Equally valiant individuals. Mom’s pay-back is she rocks at 95. Our respective back ‘n forths lasted 18 months. Still some more Math: 18 months has 78 weeks. Divided by 6 weeks = 13 trips across the Atlantic. Felt like 130, thanks to the airlines, airports, and theTSA. Now, back to the main equation: 91 + 13 = 104 trips flying over a cloud-covered body of water with AZ, LH, AF, SR (today LX, because the American managers of Swissair (SR) ran the airline into bankruptcy), KL, or BA. None of these airlines are worth their salt for what they charge. Not by a long shot. And don’t get me started their on hubs. I dare you to change planes at JFK. I dare ya’!
So, we are nearing the point of all this. I am about to knock on the door. And here it is: I got sick on 80% of those 104 trips. No, sorry, it warrants uppercase and bold, too… I GOT SICK ON 80% OF THOSE 104 TRIPS!!! Colds, bronchitis, flu… pneumonia!!!… near-death diseases.
The latest episode was last Thanksgiving 2024. During my first full day in NC, and before the invasion of my family, and when my Mother and I had not even drunk a full bottle of Chardonnay nor had made it through the second of two Lassie movies showing on TCM, this ghastly sore throat hit. WOAH!!! A fierce, unrelenting, diabolical case of sore throat. Let me add raw and mean, too. Yes, bad. Took me thirty minutes just to get the nerve to swallow. Quickly thereafter, laryngitis set in. Probably, gave the world some Peace & Quiet. Not for me. This malessere… or, feeling pretty shitty… expanded with a tour of my body, throwing throbbing headaches, sniffles galore, coughing, coughing, coughing, searing pains in my lungs, and severe muscle cramps around my rib cage. No fever, though. Maybe a bit of fever. My medical state killed my fun, both at Thanksgiving and a hop to Atlanta to see dear & faithful friends. I had to cancel most functions there. Not the cocktail party, however, or a visit to the High Museum of Art to see Alicia Keys + Husband’s knock-out art collection, but all other appointments were canceled.
I came back to Italy, picked up the Dogs from their sitters, and made an emergency stop at my pharmacist’s for Tachiflu. It’s an Italian miracle drug. Makes sense, no? I started to feel better by evening fall. Days after, I resumed Life. Not for long though. Cut short. GOT SICK ALL OVER AGAIN!!! Same symptoms, especially sore throat and laryngitis. No more Tachiflu. I had to turn to good ol’ Bayer Aspirin. Did what it was supposed to do. Also stayed inside. I messed around on Netflix. Deplorable trash. Mostly flicks about psycho-killer qu’est ce sais. Meanwhile, the Dogs HATED being shown to the courtyard senza di me. Apparently, they are not keen to perform their bio-functions unless I am physically present.
The Dogs… You have to be with us!
Me… What for? To watch you?
The Dogs… they gave me Their Look of Displeasure.
Those two could not care a whiff, if I was coughing, coughing, and coughing or, due to keel over dead. Their only interest… a singularly selfish one… was the security of me standing around while they did something.
I got better. Sort of. Tinges of sore throat and laryngitis. I managed to get through Christmas and made it to New Year’s. You came down. We celebrated Christmas separately. By the way, Il Natale was wonderful. Got well fed and nurtured, nor did I have to do any work, though I did offer. No one wanted me in the Kitchen. WONDERFUL!!! New Year’s was a different event. I did have to cook You and I a New Year’s Eve Dinner. We celebrate Amateur Night at Il Poggiolo. This year’s end, no one wanted to be with the crazies & drunks out in their cars OR to meet the Carabinieri at a road-block. I served a stunning meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans dinner. By the time Beirut erupted at Midnight, I was sick… again. I mean… I WAS REALLY SICK… AGAIN!!! There was fever, too. The previous array of symptoms kicked in. I had to tough it out for days and days until Italy inched past Epiphany to see my Dr.essa. Her waiting room was full of folk suffering the same malessere. Even the Dr.essa admitted she had had this scourge, including a relapse or two. Ha! €70 later, I went home with an antibiotic the size of a Boeing Triple 7, teeny-weeny cortisone pills for the coughing, coughing, and coughing, and other medicines to boot this flu into another far-off location. I had hopes. It took a while. Today, I feel and act like a squeezed sponge. The various meds wiped me out. Still, I do feel better, but for the occasional mental blips.
I apologize for any inconsistencies or continuity issues with my story. I am moving on with it as is. Che sara’ sara’.
Suffering video terrorism, a recalcitrant real-estate agent’s lack of communication & project management skills, persons way past the bridge… and well they should float on their merry way to the big ol’ sea… et al, enter my German Friend. I’m a fan of the Germans. As a civilized people, I believe they are excellent at taking a bull by its horns and dragging the beast attached into the middle of the ring, pointing a finger at the macho guy in the overly tight & flowery embroidered suit, saying… Gore him! The shocker, in my case, was I was the bull. The ring symbolizes selling Il Poggiolo. As for the bloke in the tight suit, he in no way resembles the now-fired recalcitrant real-estate agent. A handsome stand-in? A figment of my imagination. My German Friend did think it lame of me to so benignly consign the task of selling Il Poggiolo to such a n’er-do-well. She spoke from personal experience, too. He had let her ball drop with a friend’s urgent search to find and buy a second home in our mutual neighborhood of the Lunigiana. My German Friend reiterated my error. I am used to this. Then, setting to rights my situation, she proceeded to offer the following suggestions:
A) contact professional and more reliable real-estate agencies with wider coverage of the marketplace; B) double their task by tagging the sale of Il Poggiolo to a purchase of another property of my fancy, preferably not too far away. She would miss me otherwise. Oh! And C) get on it ASAP. I did.
And this is what I discovered: Il Poggiolo is not Luxury. It’s not Mom & Pop, either. I looked at Luxury announcements on real-estate websites dedicated to that sort of property and thought… Why would anyone in their right mind want to live in a place that looks like a designer showroom or a chain hotel? Everything spiffy, nothing out-of-place, cavernous spaces with anonymously grand furnishings, and of course, views and gardens and infinity pools, for cryin’ out loud.
Some photos…
On the opposite extreme, every culture has its peculiar, though to them standard, ideas of how una casa ought to be. The bulk of the Italian Moms & Pops live in apartment buildings, even in the Italian suburban sprawl. An entire multi-generational family often inhabits the whole building: the grandparents on the Ground Floor, the first-born child on the First, second-born on the Second… makes sense, no?… the aunts & uncles above, etc. A typical mid-stream Italian villetta… a free-standing middle-class home… with a bit of fenced-in and gated yard looks weird, possibly schizophrenic, jacked up for a semi-daylight cantina, balconies here & there… those in front are naked, the ones in the back have drying laundry, mops, bikes, etc…. oddly canted peaked roofs too high for only one floor, yet look strangely too low for a second though some squat windows parading under the house’s eaves to say there is. A few large windows below tell you… for the Piano Nobile… that un salotto to una cucina and a couple of camere dal letto are on the floor plan. All these elements are reminiscent of a classic Italian palazzo. The Mom & Pop category fills innumerable real-estate websites. Gutter sites. After an hour of sliding past crappy photos of exteriors of yellow-painted stucco edifices built out of every building material known to man and with bronze railings, too, one can add the attraction of a BBQ out on the terrace contained by a grassy lawn, and not to forget the photos of interiors sporting constantly white walls, grotesque fake leather recliners, and sofas in wood, copper pots hanging upon the only full wall of the Cucina. I am forced to rebel by shutting down the laptop, transfering my thoughts to smoking a cigarette. I don’t smoke.
A photographic medley…
What to do? Il Poggiolo does not fall into any category. Eccentric does not exist as a real-estate category. Peccato.
I did contact several global real-estate agencies, many American: Coldwell-Banker, Engel & Volkers, Keller Williams, Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and ERA!!! I am so lame. I thought ERA stood for the Equal Rights Amendment. Nope. It’s real-estate.
I sent off emails with photos, a written description of Il Poggiolo, its location, and a history, too. I was immediately contacted… like, WOW!… with a barrage of requests from each for ownership documents, floor plans, and other items. Don’t you want to see the place? Nope. Docs first, visits later. I got bored and moved on.
No one took the bait of selling mine and to buy one of theirs.
Back to cruising the gutter sites. Did not last long. There was nothing worthy. I decided Mom & Pop was not for me. I dallied with alternatives. Oh, hey? How about un capannone… large sheds… renovated into an interesting home? Plenty of space for a studio! There would also be plenty of space for an indoor Winter garden, too. I also mused upon a vacant restaurant & hotel, yet thought You would probably go into over-drive trying to fill the umpteen thousand square meters of the complex with stuff. STUFF!!! Over-my-dead-body. And, lastly, I fancied, for about a day and a half, an abandoned marble statue factory cum showroom with some land too. However, and so typically, the deciding factor was the phenomenal asking price of €820,000!!! and a wreck with 4 walls and barely a roof. No thank you.
Shortly thereafter, the Heavens opened with, at the time, a brilliant idea: I’ll buy land and build a new home. Yes! The Heavens opened up again with an even more brilliant idea: I’ll build a prefab. Yes!!!
I went mad with excitement. MAD WITH EXCITEMENT!!! To think… a rolling piece of land with the Mediterranean Sea in the distance set with one, two, or three boxes of reflective glass. Super cool. One could be a Studio, LR, DR, Kitchen, and a service Bathroom or Laundry Room/Bath. Somewhere, there would have to be a big fireplace. Another box would be my Bedroom & Bath, perhaps, with a covered porch or Loggia. The third would be for You. You see, we do not sleep together. He doesn’t care for my snoring. Neither from the Dogs. I’m not keen on his sleep-talking. I feel I must reply. Nevertheless, You would be free to pack his box as full as he would care to, like a shipping container… BUT NOT ANYWHERE ELSE!!! This fantasy went PUUUF!!! as I confronted the issue that living in a box would be….? Like living in a box. Nope. Prefab joined the ex-chapel and the 60’s beach villa previously archived. Still, the prefab designs press all my buttons, but one. Oh, well.
Onwards.