Health Care in Italy: Part 1...
Archive post October 3, 2019…
I have a hobbling walk. I teeter in four directions. Quite a feat. Sounds and looks like… Ta-da-ta-dump. Ta-da-ta-dump. Ta-da-ta-dump. Ta-da-ta-dump. The upside of this is I may have a career in Hollywood, if the magi there find it in themselves to produce another Harry Potter movie, one calling for a character requiring a wide berth. Or, perhaps a new rendition on Sherlock Holmes. A clever though physically-impaired one. Could be new. And come on, time to unseat those versions of Roberto Downey Jr. and that Benedict Cumberbatch. Too much social media hoopla. The downside is everyone notices and makes comments. Of concern, they say. I wish they would leave me and my funny walk alone.
Well, I had thought that until I found myself in serious difficulty. My limp had remarkably deteriorated. A bent-over limp, if ever there was one. Teetering to topple over. I resoundingly blame it on the ramps & stairs of il Poggiolo, extensive yard work, and the Summer’s EXTREME heat. I began to live with constant pain, solid discomfort. And, the drugs didn’t work anymore! A dire situation, if I may so.
Five years ago, and against my natural & lazy wishes, I had a hip operation. The right hip. From barely walking back to plain ol’ walking. Then, as Fate chose to dictate, we got a Weimaraner puppy, Croesus. A companion for Nina-beena when Moses, THE MOST FANTASTIC DOG EVER, passed away. The New Entry was an atomic bomb of a puppy. Cute, affectionate, perhaps overly attached to me, Croesus pulled every bad-dog trick out of his pouch. I won’t list them. Too long. But, as he grew, one defect of character came to the tragic fore… pulls like Hell on his leash. Wrecked my back. Wrecked my left hip too. Plain ol’ walking turned into today’s bent-over feeble, teetering-to-tumble limp in no time at all. By the way, Croesus pulls less these days. He even stays put for me to lasso him with his leash. God Bless, for certain favors.
I insisted upon a practiced and callow disregard for my physical incapacities, despite the increasing quantity of comments of concern from family & friends and the every-now-and-then admonitions from You, il Dottore You. Beware of doctors though. They require that their messages be heard AND followed. Otherwise, they get cranky. You, of late. I continued to choose to resist. My feelings were these… It’s 2019. I think surgery is barbaric. I expect a miracle cure will be developed soon so I may avoid an operation all together. I can wait. Oh, no, no… no! When I crashed and burned after falling off a Milanese sidewalk, it became unavoidably evident that the proverbial writing had been scribbled across the wall… of My Life. I surrendered. Good that I did. The waters promptly parted in my favor.
A simple procedure.
First, I went to my general dottore. Told him of my decision to have the left hip operated on and my need for his help to do so. Wrote out a prescription for an appointment with an orthopedic dottore in a jiffy. Got in my car the following day and drove to the little hospital up in Fivizzano. Cover photo. There I sauntered up to the window at the ASL, L’Azienda Sanitaria Locale or, The Health Office!!!… for the nice lady with the jet-black hair, tons of bracelets and phosphorescent finger-nail polish on the other side to Search & Find me ASAP an opening in any local orthopedic dottore’s schedule. Choices were Fivizzano, Pontremoli or Massa, the Mother Lode of hospitals in the Lunigiana. The first appointment available was a surgeon in Pontremoli 7 days hence.
The hospital in Pontemoli is an example of Italian Communist filo-Stalin hospital architecture: cement, metal, ugly pale paint colors of Pee-pee-Green, Baby-Blue and Pepto-bismol-Pink but, mostly the Grey of reinforced cement. Strangely enough, the staff are rather congenial, if not outright friendly. Oh, and the in-house bar produces one of the best coffees in all of the Lunigiana. Who knew? The waiting room on the 3rd Floor was packed. 25 to 30 sick & infirm with orthopedic issues. I feared a long wait. God Bless, the Good Lord Above and his Host of Angels floating around Him for His invention of the iPhone. A life savor for long waits. Had to keep up with Brexit, you know? How was it? I was the first to be called!!! Imagine that? I sat down in front of a very grumpy dottore, belly-aching to his squadron of nurses about the waiting crowd outside. He had already been furnished with my details and had already punched them into the PC. There, on the screen were my series of X-rays and MRI’s of my left hip. Without a howdy-do or, a Buon Giorno Lei, he looked up and squared me directly with his eyes and shot out… No c’e’ nessun motivo per Lei di pensare di non fare un intervento sulla Sua anca!… There is no motive for you to think of not having a hip operation. Got it. Additional shots aimed in my direction were about who and where I would care to have this necessary operation, was given dry assurances the paperwork would be initiated to embark upon the road to surgery post-haste, and then, finally, a Buon Giorno as il dottore indicated with the inclination of his bald head that I should follow the attending nurse into a nearby consultation room. Finding the attending dottore e chirurgo un po’ antipatico, I decided there and then to seek a surgeon to do the deed. It’s the Italian way. The great thing about the national health scheme is you may go anywhere on the peninsula you’d care to… and, AT PRACTICALLY NOT COST AT ALL!!! I chose Fivizzano. Small, intimate, everyone knows me. I knew what to do to find My Surgeon. I was really, really nice to You. Marvelous dinners, listened to his convoluted stories and, scratched his bare back and wispy hair head as per goolie-goolie.
Sometimes something awful must happen for something wonderful to occur. Shortly after my encounter in Pontremoli, You’s Cousin from Torino arrived to pass the August Summer vacation, Ferragosto, with us at il Poggiolo. We had planned a large dinner party the night of. Our house is no place for this woman. Wears sandals, hates stairs & ramps, not keen at all about the local flora & fauna, especially, spiders and stinging bees. But, I was not consulted. Only commanded to be ready and able for her arrival. I rallied. You & I went to fetch her at the train station in La Spezia. Crazed Americans mixed in with Chinese hordes heading to the worst tourist site in all of Italy, le Cinque Terre. We brought her to il Poggiolo, giving her an apartment all to herself. Stairs included. I served an amazing meal of a delicate tomato & sausage risotto, a tossed salad full of fresh vegetables and a lemon pie for dessert. One tiny flaw to our intimate reunion meal was a small infestation of calabroni bees. The B-52’s of stinging flying insects. They were very concentrated at the lamp-light in the corner of the Loggia. Lethal if you dare to swat. Relatively benign if you don’t. She did. They threatened. She got up and promptly fell wrenching her wrist. She screamed. She screamed more. She screamed a whole lot. Then, she threw up. Neither You nor I together could get her up off the floor. She maintained screaming. We redoubled our efforts to position the screaming Cousin into a vertical position to then escort her post-haste to the Pronto Soccorso in Fivizzano. You drove and I followed after calming the dogs and cleaning the place up a bit. The Cousin was dealt with by the Pronto Soccorso staff with the utmost courtesy & attention. She had stopped screaming. But, since her tragedy had occurred at Ferragosto, the on-duty orthopedic dottore was in Pontremoli. The Cousin spent the night in the hospital… Thank The Good Lord. Her stay was assisted by a heavy dose of pain medication and a sleeping pill to boot. The next day, she was transported to the hospital in Pontremoli to be attended to by the on-duty orthopedic surgeon. He is now My Hip Op Orthopedic Surgeon.
You was instrumental in this. He can be a Chatty-Cathy at times. Usually when he knows who he is dealing with. When he doesn’t, he’s mute. Maybe more than mute. Who he was dealing with at the Ospedale di Pontremoli was a friendly, competent, and efficient surgeon, who braved The Cousin’s screaming… drugs had worn off and the new ones hadn’t had enough time to take effect… to tell her surgery was not necessary. The appropriate job was to re-position the wrist into its natural position. She wanted surgery. A drama queen. You tried to calm her drama by inquiring if the Good Dottore Chirurgo would be available to do my hip op. Ma certo!!! Dargli questo numero per fissare un appuntamento e ne parliamo… Why sure. Give him my number to make an appointment and we can talk a bit. He did. I did. We met. Spent an hour with the good dottore chirurgo. Thanks to him, I am now one with this impending op.
More to come…
Final touches...
Archive post September 19, 2019…
They aren’t done yet. Darn it. You know, rumour had it back at the beginning of July that the bridge renovation project had to be completed by August 10th. Terms of the contract, one informed person had told me. I can attest the re-construction work did proceed apace despite the OFF & ON soaring temps past 100 degrees Fahrenheit during the Summer months. Many of our community thought it would certainly be finished before Codiponte’s oldest sagra of all the sagras, La Sagra dei Pomi, for the first weekend in September. Come & gone. And the metal barriers are still in place and work guys show up at 8:30 to continue their labors. They are a noisy group. I cannot enjoy the terrorism of Codiponte’s church’s campanile ringing in the hours and half-hours from 7AM onwards. Darn it.
So, here we are, middle of the 09, and what is going on? Work-guys about to lay down more ripply stone pavement on top of the yet-to-be sunk gas & water pipes. And at an important AND historical juncture. Crossroads, so to speak, of the via Comunale lacing its way from the Medieval bridge to Codiponte’s piazzetta and the ramp leading past our il Poggiolo up to the sentiero to reach the Borgo Castello above.
By the way, the stone arch on the right in the left hand photo is the cornice to the now defunct sportello to pay the toll to cross the Medieval bridge. I’ve mentioned this before but, it warrants it again… Codiponte is dialect for al capo del ponte… or, at the head of the bridge… a traveller’s advisory of a toll to pay to cross the Medieval bridge.
I don’t fool with this ongoing construction site. And few do too. Occasionally, I look out the window of our salotto and see n’er a car parked at the start of the Medieval Bridge. There’s a kind of scenic overlook at that end. As predicted, and though the bridge is passable… barely… the folk choose to park on the dirt road which passes below the bridge. Ahhh, Concevience with a capital C.
I find it funny to watch the rare pedestrian risking neck & limb while crossing the bridge. A head runs just above the stone wall, and then, sinks slowly into disappearing as the person descends one of the arches, only to rise and fall again from view with the second arch of the bridge. A fun-house vision. Slightly nauseating too.
Meanwhile, no action to be seen over at the village’s piazzetta. There was a meeting of the minds between the officials of the Comune… or, City Hall… and the Culture Police on the day I departed Codiponte for Genoa and USA. Perhaps the people’s petition against the Medieval Bridge’s over-ambitious reconstruction has caused a re-think? I seriously doubt it. But, if I have learned anything about living in Italy, Hope & Patience are Virtues to hold dear and until further notice. Stay tuned.
Compare and contrast...
Archive post September 10, 2019…
I am in North Carolina… NC, for short. It’s America. Photo on the left. Bucolic, no? In about 9 hours, I will hop on three airplanes to come home to il Poggiolo a Codiponte. It’s in Italy. Photo on the right. Majestic, ne? Let’s compare and contrast, shall we?
The Similarities…
Life in an NC gated community sort of matches il Poggiolo’s gated community. Have to wave at the fellows manning the NC gate. Enthusiastic wavers. They offend easily though. Then they might call the police! At il Poggiolo, no guards. Just dogs. One barks. The other wags her tail. Got 3 gates.
The NC local folk speak English. Accent is a twang. On Good Days, I can fathom its wang-whaw. A verbal fingernails down a blackboard. Ouch! On Bad Days, I AUTO-DELETE. Too hard to figure what has been said. Or, from impatience. I dislike waiting for info. Takes awhile for the NC-ians to spit it out. Takes more time if they have dentures. A lot do. In Codiponte, Italian is the lingua franca for the locals. Barely. By habit, they habitually speak in an incomprehensible dialect. Imagine slamming verbs & nouns into mush. More mush, if missing teeth. And many are.
And with that, thus end the Similarities.
The differences are many more…
Views of golf course fairways studded with pine trees and scrub oaks against panoramas of the mighty Apuane Peaks. That Dog included.
NC has sandy soil. Perfect for golf course saw-grasses. Magnolias, azaleas and grass need hep’. Imported soil and fertilizer. A ga-zillions years ago, the place was under the ocean. Today, it is well above ground and hosts 51 golf courses. Horse farms have their corners of sand & pines too. Unmistakable scent of pine needles mixed with consistent & sopping humidity. Codiponte is surrounded by forests. A compilation of chestnuts, oaks, and a growing population of acacias. The last leaves a flowery perfume in the air near May. Think honey too. The greenery is occasionally interrupted by a castle keep or, a stone village. A ga-zillions years ago, volcanos were dominant. Their gracious bio-donations, so to speak, means you can grow anything with glee. Got to be ready to can or freeze the stuff so it won’t go bad. You can survive the Winter and avoid a trip to the supermercato.
In NC, you can choose from over 20 fast-food restaurants all within 10 minutes. 7 days a week. Not Chick-fil-ee. They close on Sunday. Management says you are supposed to go to church and rest. God did. Well, not the church part but, he did take time off to admire His Work, I suppose. Fast-food may not be your thing. When in NC, I try to limit visits to 1 or 2 times a week. I can feel the effects, if I succumb to the strong temptations to increase the number of visits. Like a school menu, Burger King on Monday, Bojangles on Tuesday… Biscuitville on Saturday!!! A heaven. My Loves are McDonald’s sausage & egg biscuits and anything over the counter at Chick-fil-ee. But, if ya’ got a hankerin’ fer sompin’ diff-er-rent, you can tootle over in your automatic drive SUV and get yerself som KFC chicken-pot-pie. Yum-yum. The folk in NC love fast-food. Lots a families. Lots of retirees. No time. They do drive-thru. Often there are 2 lanes! Normal restaurants are likewise parts of chains or, there are a few independent eateries which are considered -spensive. And apparently, no one cooks though many have fabulously large & well equipped kitchens. Sadly, there is ABSOLUTELY no fast food in Codiponte, except for maybe the past due-date panini over at the Scuzzy Bar. The nearest restaurant to Codiponte is a 30 minute drive away. Pasta is far better. The nearest authentic fast-food to il Poggiolo is in Sarzana, a long hour’s drive away. A McDonald’s. Breakfast though is a bust. Biscuits do not taste like those in NC. And, Italians really are not raised on breakfast. Caffe al latte e un biscotto ain’t breakfast. But, hey! The McDonald’s is open until Midnight! NC can’t come near that. 10PM.
TV is fun in NC. 405 cable stations. You have such a sense of control with the remote. Point and shoot. Very American. Especially of late. However, you must accept, right from the start, that if you are not into sports or episodic series about serial killers in high heels, then, there’s NOTHING interesting to watch. Netflix included. ZILCH. TV is disappointing in Italy. Or, it was the last time I watched. It’s been a while. I do not have a TV at il Poggiolo. I stream on a laptop. Or, hey! I read a book. What a novelty.
There are mobile homes in NC. In Italy, that would translate into a living in a tent or, under a bridge. Or, temporary quarters after an earthquake. If circumstances allow, you can have a house in any style you want in NC and, as big as you dare to build. A residential Disneyland of style & size. Who cleans these mansions? In Codiponte, Tuscany, Italy, you have three choices: a house in stone with a terracotta roof, an homogenized stucco house with weird roof lines and decorative grill work or, find a happy home in the stair-stepped Commie House above the village. A dream come true for some. Not me.
America, and NC is automatically included, is an irresistible drug of convenience, availability and choice. The true Gods of the nation. And, overwhelmingly so. Cars with automatic drive. I kept engaging the pedalled Parking Brake thinking it was the Clutch pedal. Went nowhere fast until I broke myself of the habit. AC is everywhere and at bone chilling temps. Don’t forget your sweater. A parka would be better. Huge multi-laned roads course hither & yon in NC, with left turn lanes… sometimes 2 lanes to go left or, right… and with assigned traffic turn-lights too. Grocery stores… did you know you can have low-fat Half&Half? I counted 16 varieties of potato-chips and peanut-butter? Gluten Free, Low Sodium, Low Sugar, No Sugar, Low Oil, No Preservatives!!!… and pharmacies are all open 24/7. You can buy car tires in Walmart, while you are waiting for your heart medicine at its in-store pharmacy. Starbucks on every corner. Drive-thru included. Go inside. The lines are shorter. Ditto for gas-stations. 9 brands of gasoline. 3 types of unleaded. Often they crowd.
American requires balls. Or, stamina. I am an out-of-shape ex-pat when there. But, after a few days, I adapt with gusto. Italy is put aside until I hit the catch…
Forget plain & simple in America. Nowhere to be found. A friend asked me to buy and bring back Crest Toothpaste. Plain, simple, ordinary Crest Toothpaste. She likes the taste. No problem, I said. That used to be important once-upon-a-time. Ordinary was thrown out in the 90’s by the marketiers. They perceived the market was ready and needy for more singularly focused dental-care products. Another God. All the better to capture attention in self-service stores. Americans run crazed about the slightest defect. Toothpaste for whitening, anti-cavity, total f**cking protection. Nothing plain, nothing simple, nothing regular, nothing ordinary. A toothpaste which is toothpaste? Nope. Not an interesting exercise in chemistry or marketing. It has to do something more… focus on one freaking dental-care issue per product. It’s a dupe. Toothpaste can only clean. Stop. Anything else is a fraud. Of no interest on anyone’s radar. Americans think differently. I persisted to pursue. I went to 9 stores. 9 grocery and drug stores, plus a Walmart. Walmart had the worst stock, by the way. Was told by a nice woman in a ill-fitting blue Walmart smock she had never seen plain, simple… Crest.
Italy, and Codiponte well belongs here, is blessedly the opposite. To NC and America, there are embarrassingly few choices. Different. Most cars are manual. That may change with the forced introduction of electric cars. However, electricity is massively expensive and for a car, will be more so than gas. Just saying. AC is for hotels. For Americans. Movie theaters are not AC-ed. Italians rarely risk eating ethnic. Suspect. And, why should they? Their cooking is genius. Why screw around with it or, risk diarrhoea. You know? A hamburger in Italy comes out of a micro-wave. Not hard to think why. Grocery stores are not open 24/7. Many close for the pausa pranzo at Mid-day or, afternoons one day-a-week. Starbucks are ONLY in airports… if even there… and you have to sweat to find a gas station unless you are travelling on an autostrada. But even then, you sweat. And, I would get laughed out of the country, if I were to ask for low-fat panna. Done. A paradise of plain, simple, ordinary wonderfulness. Familiar. Fast too. Nothing to ponder, debate, weigh the pro’s or con’s. See, grab, go.
End of the story? Not quite. I cannot wait to get back.
More on the Medieval bridge... Archive post September 4, 2019
A little hiatus. Sorry. An August vacation. It was necessary. I felt I deserved it. You too. I did not do vacation things, however. Nope. Too hot for that sort of stuff. I did not need to work on a tan, unlike a certain person I know. He’s now black, if you are at all curious. You never misses a beat to sunbathe. If I followed his lead, I would be a prime candidate for skin cancer. Anglo-Saxons are prone to this. Burn, freckly, cancer. Meanwhile, every sunny afternoon, You would religiously saunter down to the river…
with 2 green plastic patio chairs…
there is this architect/professor, Witold Rhsycincki, who wrote a book entitled Now I Sit Me Down: From Klismos to Plastic Chair: A Natural History. Yep. A real history. On chairs. Thrilling reading. The last chapter of the tome was on the plastic patio chair. A global item. Undeniably. I got the very distinct impression he is HORRIFIED by plastic patio chairs. Its global reach. Bali to Bournemouth fright. Yep. A snob. A chair snob. He adores the Barcelona Chair. Have you ever sat in one of those? How about the Breuer Chair? Both killers on your back and butt. You & I think plastic patio chairs are comfortable & chic. Of course, plopping batik pillows helps them achieve those two qualities.
a striped beach towel…
one I bought in 1998 in Florence and made from the heartiest of Egyptian cottons, resistant to untold numbers of washings over the years…
his smart-phone and a book he could have cared less about. You is a fast reader. And, never does he not finish a book. I ask him what he is reading and 3 out of 5 times he replies… Something rather tedious. OK.
I remained barricaded within the confines of la Casa Grande… cool, quiet, calm, and accompanied by two spoiled Weimaraners. One a convicted Kat Killer. Ahime’…
There were more important things to fret about. Such as the attempted resurrection of Codiponte’s Medieval bridge. What a botched affair.
Since my last installment…
The People have rebelled. Outraged. Over the bridge in its new resurrected state. Often Italians lose themselves in outrage. They become mired in excessive & constant conversation and thus, inaction. Not the Citizens of Codiponte! Several banded together and circulated a petition. Of course, I signed it. I like unity with others who have done the Math too though I did it way before anyone else. But, alas, I was not consulted. Neither were The People. Thus, outrage. Italy is actually a bully state. An authoritarian entity in sheep’s clothing. Hiding in isolation from the very folk it is supposed to govern… democratically. The bane of Our Times. The Citizens launched their salvo. The petition stated in typically Italian bureaucratise but, fairly concise, calling for the authorities to immediately address the grotesque defects of the Medieval bridge… fatiguing arches to trip down and clamber back up… twice!… bye-bye to lugging groceries or, your own body… annoyingly uneven & dangerous stone pavements, lethal stone projections of no purpose, eliminating an ugly plastic tube running across the balustrade from one end to the other, inadequate drainage, ditto for lighting sorely required to navigate the treachery of the bridge’s pavements at night. To repeat… old folk cannot cross the bridge, nor families with small children on foot or, in strollers, women in high-heels or, platform shoes, and ambulances cannot cross to enter the village. There is actually A Law on the books stipulating ambulance must have complete accessibility to serve its citizens. Not any more.
You know, as My Father would always say… There was a good reason something was the way it was.
Pretty much everyone in Codiponte and elsewhere nearby is pretty keen to have the bridge flat and with regular, even pavements and the rest. If the authority can do the pavements in stone, OK. If not, do something practical, safe, nice to look at.
We shall see.
The latest scoop is…
The Culture Police now want to re-do the pavement of Codiponte’s piazzetta. Any bets they will botch this up too? If they do, there’s going to be another p-e-t-i-t-i-o-n.
Piazzetta in Codiponte, Tuscany Italia… its future will be repaved in stone.
The short arm of the Culture Police...
Archive post August 1, 2019…
I have said this many times and I must say it again…
The Most Important Person in an Italian village is the mechanic!
In my mind, no other competes. Not the priest, not the barman, not even the butcher or, the green-grocer. Our Mechanic in Codiponte is a Savior. Besides the occasional and unexpected mechanical glitches or, the periodically annoying inspections for You’s AUDI and my Galloper SUV…. both old, old, old vehicles… Our Mechanic has repeatedly and unfailingly… come… to… the… rescue!
My most recent automotive adventure was I had locked the keys to my galloping Blue SUV in the ignition, with the motor running, and all the windows shut tight. Thanks to the Good Lord, I had not left The Dogs inside! The day was saved by Our Mechanic. He cleverly pried open the driver’s door frame and propped it open with a metal bar from his shop, leaving enough space to slide a metal clothes hanger bent and with a loop at the end and, ever so carefully lifted the door lock from its down and locked position. Then, asked for nothing in return. Probably, to be left in Peace. It was nap time when I sought his h-e-l-p. I had noticed he was snapping his pants closed as he came out the front door. I gave him bottles of wine. Told me the day after he had enjoyed the offering. Good for you, oh God.
Another important call to Our Mechanic for his h-e-l-p came from You to lug two cement statues bought at auction on the Internet to il Poggiolo and place them in appropriate spots in our garden. Dr. Bacchus and Mr. Hercules. Took You, Our Mechanic and a hired man from the village all afternoon to do it.
There are other stories of rescue but…
other persons carry n’er a modicum of respect or, consideration of Our Mechanic’s standing in the community-at-large. They likely live in cities. These persons-in-question are the lovely folk over at the Culture Police or, in Italian bureaucratic jargon, gli uomini del Sopraintendenza dei Beni Culturali. CP, for short. And they are. Read on…
They’ve been active around Codiponte since, the work on the Medieval bridge began. Sadly, Our Mechanic did not do his Math or, at least, look up from dallying under the hood of a FIAT. Concomitantly to the work on the Medieval Bridge and the presence of CP’s, he engaged the local Builder Boy-Toy… BBT… to resurrect a rock shack on the site of his shop. Why is anyone’s guess. Our Mechanic likes to spend money? BBT ably dismantled the remnants of the shack’s stone, built a new full height dwelling out of earthquake resistant bricks, and then, carefully faced the entire structure with the remnants and trucked-in stone. We have our suspicions about the trucked-in stone. Laws may have been broken.
But, all has seemed up-to-date in Kansas City. And has been for a while. Our Mechanic spiffed-up his shop with new windows & doors and a striking Blue & Gold & White exterior paint-job, added a park with a lush XXL carpet of green grass… I HATE him for this since, my grass is beyond brown, scorched from months of our recent excessive Euro-Heat and rare access to w-a-t-e-r… and planted a few tall cypresses and a lone tree, placed terracotta urns with dangling flowers and, dug a well to water said park. Had to have cost him a minimum of Euro 10,000 for the efforts of the machinery alone. I may not have mentioned this… Our Mechanic is also the richest man in Codiponte. Well, he may be out more Euro-bucks when the Culture Police gets through with him.
They shut his infrastructure project down.
Local Mechanic’s expansion project in a probable permanent stasis, thanks to the Culture Police.
Ooops.
The local and fairly reliable gossip from those-in-the-know in Codiponte said the CP’s informed Our Mechanic that he was supposed to first ask their august permission to touch such a hallowed stone structure. Naturally, providing drawn details of the envisioned project. He did have the proper Building Permits from City Hall. But, in Italy, it is very rare that the left hand knows what the right is doing. Further, the CP’s might have granted their approval to restore the building NOT with new anti-seismic structure but… BUT… BIG BUT…build the new shack straight up from the remaining stones and utilising other just-as-old stones for continuity concerns. Had to look pretty old. How lovely. Other Laws to break for the just-as-old stones.
Did these paper-shufflers not get the word on Our Earthquake back in 2014? These CP’s have their heads so far up their bureaucratic wazoos… well, as we know, they are renowned for tendencies of short-sightedness, prioritizing Rules & Regulations over plain & practical Good Sense and, bullying the small fry. Here’s a guy… and yes, he is Exalted-on-High in Our Estimation and in many others… wanting to make improvements to his property. He offered employment to the BBT and to his associate BT’s. Created a mini-economy-boon for the suppliers of the building materials to do his project. And thus, and also at the end of the accounting day, the project would have put a lot of 22% IVA into the coffers of the Italian Tax Authority. CP’s can’t do their math either. Kind of burns me up a bit. More so than the Heat. Oh, and the community would have a pristine stone shack to admire on their travels to & fro Codiponte. None noticing the anti-seismic bricks hidden by a well-done stone facade. Imagine I am now doing that gesture with my arms.
All work is stopped. Bureaucratic paper has been written. Our Mechanic will have to pay a fine. Best Case will be to negotiate a compromise with the CP. Good Luck. The Worse Case is Our Mechanic will have to demolish what has been built AND restore the remnant of stones as they were uselessly before. Our Mechanic will be out more Euros’ than he had ever thought to pull out of his portofolio. Tomorrow is a new day.
A Lesson for all concerned of our little construction scenario is… and I am sure it will need to be repeated…
Any encounter with Italian authority is a ALWAYS catastrophic.
The trick is not to have any encounters. Something Our Mechanic ought to take as a sound Lesson… the next time he gets an idea for improvements.
Unforeseen changes in Codiponte...
Archive post July 21, 2019…
The work guys are working away on re-building Codiponte’s Medieval bridge. All day and in its heat and under a searing sun, sporting no hats, using hot gas-powered equipment, the dust, dirt and grime. Heavy labors, indeed.
The current task for the work guys is in rebuilding the stone pavement of the bridge. The two roller-coaster arches paved and mortared with river stones. So uneven and wobbly is the new footway, Life in Codiponte will never be the same again. Few will be able to walk across. The elderly & infirm. Many more will not want to. Families with baby-strollers, anyone with groceries, and one American with a bad back, a bum left hip, and two Weimaraners on leashes. There may be others refusing the challenge of a bridge crossing.
I wonder if the Young Woman in City Hall, who pitched the bridge project to the EU and to ask for funds to do it, and those folk over at the Italian Culture Police had extrapolated the Math to foresee what the changes might be living with a renovated Medieval Bridge. I don’t think so. No, not at all. I’m not a fan of bureaucracies, in general, and the Italian ones, in particular. A thankless, stupid lot of rule imposing ignoramuses.
The Codipontesi no longer park their cars at the head of the bridge or, below it either. They can’t. Those two areas have mountains of gritty sand, stones, a beached bulldozer, stacks of scaffolding, a pre-fab office and a port-a-potty. Some park on the ramp A) leading to the river and where the trash containers are kept, in all their filth & icky glory. Let’s hope it doesn’t flood any time soon. A more popular location is along B) the dirt track which twists and climbs up to the Borgo Castello, the Option C) for a parking lot. No light at night though. The D) is the lucky option, if there is space available, on Codiponte’s piazzetta cum war memorial. Three squat poplars provide shade. And there’s even a spicket for water at the WWI War Memorial. Appears the seven car spaces are inherited and those so anointed frown upon anyone usurping one. I believe this new parking arrangement will be FOREVER! In the meantime, we can see what happens on the re-built bridge when it rains. Have seen no attempts at proper drainage. Brava your woman, bravo the Culture Police.
Diminishing demographics...
Archive post July 18, 2019…
The Guardian Newspaper had an article on the Internet a few days back on the dwindling populations of Italy’s villages and small towns. Struck at an unhappy Truth. You & I have witnessed it. Codiponte undeniable applies.
When You & I bought il Poggiolo ten years ago, the citizens of Codiponte we met were so proud of the number of inhabitants… noi 350 siamo a Codiponte, they would resoundingly state. You & I would politely ooo and ahhh. We could hardly say. Town seemed underwhelmed with folk. The impression changed though, as we came to know most of the inhabitants. Takes time. Appearances showed a pretty solid gamut of families, old and young, kids going off on the scuola bus. The Summer months brought more folk in to family houses relegated to vacations or, to visit i nonni. At times, seemed the village felt slightly over-populated.
It began to crest in 2012-2103. It crashed in 2014. Our earthquake. June 23rd at 12:30PM. No one died directly from the earthquake or the six months of terror like aftershocks but, the vile combo of post-quake stress and Summer’s 90+F heat took their toll. The campanile of Codiponte’s church struck often and repeatedly sounded a somber tune for a deceased woman and another for a man. A descending cascade of rings. The loss of many local souls. Many Summer only residents did not come that August. Too afraid. By the time of the village’s annual Sagra dei Pomi, on the 1st of September, the population was halved in our estimation. Succeeding years confirmed it. People just didn’t come back to Codiponte.
The young left too. We arrived in 2009 at the moment when 10 to 15 Codiponte teenagers departed for universities in Pisa, Genoa and Parma. 5% came back to live five years later. Others left for jobs in the Big Cities of La Spezia, Massa, Pisa and far off Florence and Milan.
Little here can stem the tide. Available jobs are at chain grocery stores and at mini-multiplexes of fai-da-te stores, like Brico Centre or, what remains of the construction industry in the Lunigiana. Poca roba. The government, bullied by one party hysterically merchandising fears of immigration and the other proliferating social media with promises of government the-check’s-in-the-mail… would help if the mails really worked in Italy… rather than creating initiatives to create or, bring jobs into the area. In the US, as a contrary example, the State or, Federal governments, will build a new and practical road and… Ecco! Jobs follow. Here the Tuscan Region threw money at an absurdly expensive road near Codiponte, which goes… literally, and I am not kidding… from nowhere to nowhere, not even grazing minimally the issue of routing marble & paper trucks around the dying town of Gragnola’s narrow center. The darn road does pass a paper factory. They aren’t hiring. A mounting hopeless case, I am afraid.
Italians naturally coagulate. A survival mechanism. Families, church, politics and work. I believe in that order too. Much has changed in recent years in the work world besides the lack of it. Once-upon-a-time, every profession or, Italian state concern had associations where members of a certain occupation or political persuasion… railroad workers, decorators or Communists… employees and even the general public could go, have a caffe’, read a like-minded newspaper, chat, play cards, eat a good solid meal. Some still exist. Everywhere in Italy. In Codiponte, one association still exists. The locals call it the Sordo-Muto. Italian for deaf and dumb. Sorry. Oddly, our area of the Lunigiana was prey to diseases and/or birth-defects, which robbed persons of their hearing or speech. It’s in an Italian log cabin. Has a make-shift bar, an abandoned bocce court, park benches outside. White plastic garden chairs di rigore. Open Sunday afternoons. The young of Codiponte hang-out at the Scuzzy Bar. The old men… and the one bar-gal… come to the Sordo-Muto.
A Sunday gathering at the Circolo Sordo-Muto in Codiponte, Tuscany Italy
Feeding the Massa's...
Archive post July 9, 2019…
Play on word there in the title. Massa is 1/3rd of You’s three part last name. The other two I cannot divulge. Strict Contractural Limitations, you see.
The Massa’s came to il Poggiolo for their family’s annual Summer Sweat & Eat Festa. I pleaded with You, the Master Organizer of the affair, to reschedule the meet as far away as possible from Our Current Heat. Alas... No way! They’ve already been invited for the 6th… came his reply. Nothing else for me to do but hunker down and…
clip the hedges… bushwhack where the lawn mower don’t go… trim and clean the rest of the garden… extricate The Dog’s bio-donations with a special shovel… cover the Fish Pond with caning, so the goldfish will stop succumbing to the reverberations of Our Great Heat… mow the lawn with the newly reconditioned lawn mower… make regular runs to the kiosk by Codiponte’s cemetery to fill IKEA glass bottles with fizzy mineral water then, lug them up our many stepped ramps to distribute them into the three frig’s here at il Poggiolo… devise a Summer Time Menu…. do the grocery shopping for said menu, which too will entail lugging seven or eight heavy plastic bags full of food & drink up our many stepped ramps… send the stuff, mostly My Stuff I was informed, occupying space on the table and chairs at la Casa Grande’s sala da pranzo to new and/or old homes elsewhere at il Poggiolo… and cook afternoons & evenings until The Big Day.
All was done. White wine and breathing meditations helped. Oh, and the night before, cooking & preparing from 2AM to 5AM! Then, back to bed for what remained of getting some sleep that night.
Unlike the Americans, who live in their artificial air-conditioned worlds and are immune to the rigors of The Seasons, the Italians acclimate themselves automatically to them. Little AC around. Instead, what I had busted my butt and cranked out of the tiny yellow kitchen of la Casa Grande, My Summer HQ, was a menu unfortunately geared to that other reality across the ocean. Hard to break old habits? Can’t say. Headstrong in times of stress. I should’ve known better. Cannot figure what came over me. Panic. Rallied with late additions… all’Italiana… saved me from witnessing A Total Disaster.
How about a few highlights of My Summer Time Menu?…
a stunningly delicious veal-loaf with a spicy hot glazing… a chicken salad with apples… a classic coleslaw. Like, how can you have a meal without coleslaw? Especially in the Summer? So important too for the lower sectors of the digestive tract… a cold cucumber salad with sauteed sausages, olives & yogurt… a lovely cold pasta salad with pomodori, feta cheese, onions, olives, basillico and stewed aglio… and, You’s contribution, which also should have been A Wake-up Call to de-Americanized My Summer Time Menu of a potato and tuna fish mould smeared with mayonnaise and decorated with olives and peppers doused in accetto.
And that was what the Massa’s ate.
Other items which appealed to their Italian Summer Dietary Likes were those late morning-of additions of cantaloupe melons with prosciutto di Parma, a salad of pomodori, mozzarella di bufala and fresh basillico and the previously wise choice… on my part, inspiration at the grocery store… of an array of fresh raspberries & blueberries served with gelato di panna.
The Massa’s touched nothing else.
Lessons learned…
The Massa Family, representing the Italians, ate sparingly, with much thanks to the number of degrees on the Centigrade Scale. They only touched what was readily identifiable, i.e. cantaloupe melons & prosciutto which, typically, they assaulted and devoured in a matter of minutes. Italians are keen for fruit between the Summer months of June to September. It is the country’s national dieta estiva. And, if you happen to serve qualsiasi pietanze estranea, i.e. chicken salad with apples, you had better send advanced notice via emails to all concerned. Otherwise, at the buffet table, you will hear conversations such as… Che cos’e’ questo? No lo so. Mi pare strano… sending the other participants to hunt for something on the table more suited to their Italian dietary Customs & Traditions. Worse than cats.
The most important Lesson Learned was the reconfirmation of a key point about Italian Life… It’s not the food… dummy… but, the company. Food’s the excuse to bring family & friends together. I will strive to keep this in mind for next year’s do. In the meantime… I must get over the offense taken that The Dogs…. born and raised in Italy… did not touch my cold pasta salad either. In cahoots with their Italian brethren? Could be.
3 words: heat, ladder, plastic...
Archive post July 3, 2019…
Heat… I don’t think I have ever been so hot. This is a much shared sentiment. We are still in the midst of this heatwave. Codiponte, Lunigiana, Tuscany, Italy suffer. The temps are still high but, not like their headlines in last two weeks of news. Ditto for the humidity. Causes repeated costume changes after every adventure outside into the heat. Yet, the real bugaboo is the quality of the heat. It is not European. We could handle that, if it were. No. It’s African. An intense, heavy, searing… and, frightening heat from the Sahara. Difficult to tolerate. I feel to be incinerated. Then, stewed. Odd combination and not pretty, I’d like to add.
Got NO AC at il Poggiolo. Never thought to put it in. There ARE pre-AC Methods. They work too, if you’ll trust them. One must, however, let go of the ambition to be cool means to be in a deep-freeze. Learned way back from a stint in Florence during one extremely hot August to shut the shutters & windows and wait it out until 6PM. Read a book, watch a DVD. Best advice ever from a landlady. But, life calls me outdoors. Bank, grocery shopping, carpooling the Dogs for a w-a-l-k…
Have nearly stopped them. Those two characters disappear into the thick, cool underbrush… and do we blame them?… and come back carrying dead body-parts of a deer. No, thank you. Or, they trundle out of the car and then stare at me like I have just fucked up. Sorry, for the French. So, we return home to their life splayed across a cool terracotta floor, while a fan whirls air over them. Trips in the car… in general… have been suspended until further notice. So few car parks have shady parking places. And, it’s embarrassing to see The Croesus-person’s head poked out an open car window… all the car’s windows are open… and see his tongue flapping. Nothing one should project publically. I don’t want to be construed to be a Bad Mommy.
There are establishments with AC humming. My favourite grocery store is one. Lovely to be so caressed by coooool air while selecting tomatoes. Not bad either just to let others jump the check-out line while one savours the chill. People are nicer in AC. Less combative or anxious as on the road to & fro. And… Thank God… once the groceries have been lugged up the many ramps of il Poggiolo, there is plenty of ice water & beer in the frig and a fan blowing on me too.
Ladder… you all can say what you want, I don’t care in the least. Setting aside any opposition, I do feel quite strongly and am justified in relating to you that I should not have to read an instruction booklet to figure out and assemble a ladder… for cryin’ out loud… so I may attend to my urgent gardening tasks at elevations above my normal reach. Am I asking too much here? My Philosophy on this Topic is as follows… please make note:
everything should have ONLY an ON-OFF Button… or, be so clearly and directly CONSTRUCTED, so that thinking, studying or, dickering into the thing’s inner-workings WOULD NOT BE NECESSARY AT ALL. Lines must be drawn. In the sand. Sand, please.
So far to date, the challenge of the ladder has defeated me. I don’t take defeat well. Dr. You knows all about this and from the very infancy of our co-habitation. One fine day, he asked for a piece of tin foil to wrap something… a half of an onion, I believe… before putting it into the refrigerator. I pulled out the long box of 25m aluminium foil yet… and for the Life of Me… I could not detach the foil from its own roll of foil. So frustrated by this idiotic reluctance to give way, I summarily threw the entire roll of foil… in its long box too… out the Kitchen window. Rather impressed with its trajectory into the wild blue yonder. Done. Solved. Let’s move on. Sadly, I cannot do any such thing with this ladder.
This may be taken as ungenerous of me but, the ladder in question was a gift. Does it’s mechanisms look obvious to you? I am not interested in heavy-lifting or, shifting parts and pieces up & down… or over. The thing is confounding. And, have you seen the Instruction Booklet? How clever. It folds up to join the other 37 languages offered. Nevertheless of that keen advantage, it’s a back & front cryptic-cyber of tiny print AND symbols to explain what to me is A Mystery… and will likely stay A Mystery: how does the damn thing work? Oh! And guess what? Dr. You categorically refused to touch the thing! Probably afraid I’d hurl it off il Poggiolo’s Scenic Overlook. Could be an idea.
Plastic… this is going to be quick… One of many aspects is plastic’s malleability. Not so with the Chinese version used to wrap rolls of caning I had bought at the new Bricofer store. The store is very giallo and is practically across the street from my favourite grocery store, where I recently discovered that I am entitled to a Senior Citizen Discount of 10%. How about that? The three rolls were semi-denuded of their plastic Chinese wrappings. The stuff was crunchy, crinkly, brittle. No wonder. Better to have had none and kept the rolls round with huge Chinese rubber-bands. Oh no, not a good idea… at all.
Codiponte updates...
Archive post June 25, 2019…
Lordy, it’s hot! Boiling. Un forno. I sweat profusely just sitting on the Loggia at il Poggiolo sipping an iced-coffee and minding my own business. Many showers and costume changes of T-shirts. The Italian Civil Protection Folk predicted EXTREME HEAT last week for the middle of this week and boy, it has hit! All of Mid- to Southern Europe is affected. When I came home from lunch at 2:00PM this afternoon, it was 105F degrees in my courtyard. That’s 40.5C. Imported African heat.
The Dogs were bizerk crazed to go out. I said no. Neither has thought to alter the Fall/Winter W-a-l-k Schedule to adapt to the Summer Heat. Creatures of habit. What happens is… I take them out so they will have the sensation of the hot wind brushing across their Weimaraner hides, i.e. Total Liberation!!!… and the smoke from their paw-brakes is clearly visible, when they realize the HEAT on the Medieval Bridge is way beyond a tad too much. They rigorously keep to a shady spot. Hugging the walls of the old bridge. Waiting rescue. I give them the Good Word… Casa!!!… and they gallup back to the relative COOL of la Casa Grande’s salotto. Deed done. Not that they demonstrate much patience to wait-it-out until the COOL of 7PM or, later. Dogs.
Photos left to right: Nina looking back to insure I will, yes, cross over the last part of the Medieval Bridge. Safety in numbers, I believe. Where she is standing has been filled to render the dip more gentile; a fond view back towards il Poggiolo on the other side of this public works project; Me and The Croesus-person admiring the view from the bridges now altered ramparts in the early evening sun. Please note whose tongue is flapping in the heat. Dog.
Work on the Medieval Bridge has resumed. Apparently, the Culture Police deliberated and found consensus on a Plan. Three workmen started Monday at 7AM and were gone by 2PM. If they had remained longer their brains would’ve fried. Why they don’t wear caps is only your guess. Ditto for today’s schedule and imagine the same for tomorrow and on until this Heat Wave subsides or, moves elsewhere. To Russia. Or, by a miracle, the guys finish the work ASAP. Learned from a neighbor that the work on the bridge and any associate structure must be finished by August 10th or, thereabouts. The C.P. risk an Arrivederci for the funding of this exercise in public restoration. Certainly, all needs to be spiffy for the Sagra dei Pome in September. Surveying the work done, the decision of a Plan involves lessening the roller-coaster effect of the dips from the two arches of the bridge. It will still be very hard for anyone relegated to walking with a cane to managed the up, up, up, and the down, down down, twice in a row, and survive the trip, in my mind.
On another front…
no abatement to the Watering Battle with la Signora Accanta. I am watering sections of the garden at il Poggiolo all the night through. The plants & grass are bearing up as can be expected with this elongated but less effective nocturnal program and also, despite the adversity of our EXTREME HEAT.
More on these and other topics later.
Parched Earth...
Archive post June 20, 2019…
I’m going to be up-front with you all… that faucet in the left-hand photo is illegal. Possibly, not really. Maybe, yes. Perhaps, unlikely. Hey! We’re in Italy. World of greys.
Gaia, the infamous Water Company in these parts, turns a blind eye to such breaches. And good that they do. Risk of a rebellion. High quotient of vegetable gardens needing watering in the Lunigiana. And the flower garden dear to one lone American over in the corner.
The other photos demonstrate the current state of Mother’s Earth at the garden of il Poggiolo… if it had more water, it would mature all the better… and of her precious Plant Life. Grass and trees. A fledgling cherry tree planted three years ago tragically bit the dust just days after someone BIG, and unidentified, found the switch to turn up the Daily Max Temperatures three weeks ago. Poor thing had not grown its roots down to where the wet is. Meters below, these days. We have about a yard of what appears to be soil posing as cement. Severe Drought Phase Numero Uno. We have not had a regular, consistent and deep soaking rainfall since 2014. Yep. I am a believer. It’s Global Warming. Access to any source of water is of dire importance… for all of us.
I paid good Euro’s for that faucet and the water connection from it to the stream below a next-door neighbor’s house. That same neighbor… she lives in the G*d-awful yellow house which glows at night it’s so yellow… invited us to join along with the other select members to have access to the semi-illegal aqueduct. Not sure money was exchanged between the others since, they are all family. That’s Italy.
Weirdly, the same stream provides the water Gaia accesses and then charges us their astronomical prices for H2O. We don’t drink Gaia’s water. And, we don’t water our plants with it either. Showers… military showers only!!!… and the dishwasher. Why? Ain’t safe. The stream water is shoddily filtered in a large concrete tank up stream a ways. When it rains, water out of our taps is brown. Not my favourite colour. Just to tell you. The spill-over flows right on over the open top of the tank and into the stream. A very minute amount runs into the tube for which I paid a mighty sum. Got it? Easy Math. Up ahead, it becomes really difficult for someone.
The arrangement at the moment of passing Euro’s into the hands of the neighbor was: She waters at night, We by day. OK. Fine. No problem. You & I know how to follow rules, treaties, agreements, etc. Another, apparently not. The neighbor used to barrel through a breach in our prickly hedge to turn off our faucet, so she could water her Plant Life… at 8 in the morning!!! That stunt irritated You no end. Since one the custom is acquired, never is it relinquished. And that is the Law!!! No kidding. Possession is 9/10th’s the Law. When the Dog Fence was installed last Fall, she had her cute, cute, cute boy-toy builder son install a Master Faucet. Now, she just conveniently turns off the communal water at the Main, steps from her front door. I discovered this little convenience when we met on the ramp to the Medieval Bridge two days ago…
by the way, work on restoring the Medieval Bridge has been suspended by the Culture Police. Uncertainty as to what to do next. I know but was not at all consulted. You is furious. He wasn’t consulted either. But that is not why he’s mad. Says the C.P.’s are idiots. I have an opinion on that assessment too but, it would not be helpful. Barely a bridge remains until.
Kindly enquiring of the neighbor why we have had no water from our faucet, the woman said we had been watering too much. Not good. We must water less. We have to conserve! What? But, Dear Signora, if the over-flow runs out of the tank and into the stream… and only a minute amount flows into our collective tube… and the rest… THE LARGER PART!!!… flows into a river, and another river, and still yet another river, to then flow into the Mediterranean Sea, how does one conserve… water? Her reply? We water too much. Basta! And she continued on to wherever. Am I crazy here? I think not. There is No Debate.
What will happen… a someone BIG will intercede… is the stream, as it does traditionally every Summer, will dry-up. There! Conservation done. For us and for everyone else too. A strange sort of vindication. And that folks is Italy too!
Our little Caesar...
Archive post June 16, 2019…
I suppose, I ought to consider myself lucky when You-know-who makes a dinner declaration that it is not along the lines of… I need some new white shirts! How unexciting. Thankfully, such a pronouncement has never brushed pass his Italian lips. Instead, You mentions… as per the other evening… and stated between heaping mouthfuls of a stunning risotto d’asparagi e salami di cinghiale I had labored over, the gnawing desire for a statue… A Bust, no less!!!… to keep company with the two cement & fruity festoons lately bought & brought from one of his forays of flea-markets in a distant Italian backwater. I did not automatically reply. I don’t ever. This is mean of me. Yet, knowing You as I have for the last twenty-one years, he’d badger me anyway even if I did reply. Why ruin his fun? His ever ascending crescendo of any current obsession normally spans cene, pranzi e colazioni, and drives to run errands, to grocery shop, fill-up with gas, call on neighbors. I don’t even get a Good-night Kiss without him broaching the subject one-more-time before a smooch.
You had been on a week’s vacation with us of the Codiponte Dog Team. I rewarded him for several long days spent tending to our garden here at il Poggiolo with a drive to Forte dei Marmi and our favourite though -spensive garden ornament emporium… www.recuperando.com. The car had not come to a complete stop and You was out amongst the many statues, gates, obelisks, wrought iron furniture heading to the bust scaffolding/shelving in the centre of the outdoor establishment. He hankered for a caesar. Now, who do you know who has that for an ambition? God gave you ten fingers to spare. Well, I found him his caesar. Made from an impasto of cement & marble dust. Handsome.
Sadly, the imperatore looks to have suffered acne as a teenager. But let’s over-look that by saying he also resembles the great Italian actor, Vittorio Gassman. It’s the nose, folks!
There was a minor debate about the color not complimenting especially well the darker, richer cement impasto of the two festoons. I am happy to report My Aesthetic Judgement prevailed. Oddly, You did not harp upon the Question of which emperor was he? I stayed mute. Won one battle. I was on a roll. And, I didn’t loose another, as the Roman gentleman now conveniently graces our courtyard’s wall. Mark it down as yet another yard ornament for il Poggiolo’s garden. Come to think of it too, I’m lucky You doesn’t want to collect The Seven Dwarfs!
May to June flowers...
Archive post June 5, 2019…
Happens every year. Not especially like clock-work but, generally, yes. The garden of il Poggiolo becomes an ongoing explosion of flowers, colors, and different floral forms from late April through May and into June. Exhausted by that effort, the roses, lilacs, peonies, wisteria, broom et al lay low during heat of Summer’s heat, giving another good show in early September. Just in time for Codiponte’s Sagra dei Pomi.
You & I can’t figure it. How come this amazing flower feast? Rains have come but, have been sparse and sparing. Humidity has been far more present. Can plants suck water out of air to produce such a lively spectacle? Little to get from the cement-like ground. We have let the question be. Instead, I am proud… not sure about You and his constant criticisms over my style of giardinaggio… of how the garden is maturing. Bring on the flowers…
Home sweet Home...
Archive post May 25, 2019…
Ten years now, You & I have inhabited il Poggiolo. We closed on the house in May of 2009 and here we are heading out of May 2019. In that time, we have survived the emptying of my bank accounts to re-build the place from top to bottom, dealt with the shenanigans of Our berserk-but-bravo Builder who, after encounters using many other local builders, ranks as The Best of the Bunch. No wasted memories on the earthquake back in 2014, a phenomenon I hope never to experience EVER AGAIN!!! And what a nagging pleasure it has been to see the tripling of our real-estate & trash taxes, not forgetting the pummeling we take monthly now at the hands of ENEL electricity, Beyfin gas and Gaia water companies. You avidly pursues accumulating stuff and at an amazing rate too, I might add, yet miraculously, he finds them good homes in our home. While I either let our garden’s plants grow unencumbered or, unwittingly kill them off, because I got knocked in the head by a branch. And finally, The Dogs have taken over… You would say wrecked… any comfortable furniture regardless of location or end-use. No truer mark of a Home.
There IS this nagging thought though that we did not get a few things right with il Poggiolo. It’s a periodic musing. And, blessedly, I don’t have to take tranquilizers to numb the regrets. Nope. I am brave. Fearless, Reflective. Learn from Our Lessons…
April & May’s cold temperatures have reminded me… we did not successfully tackle heating. Cannot calculate the number of discussions You & I had with Our Geometra on how to warm il Poggiolo from November to… this year… June. Our General Reconstruction Concept or, GRC, devised shortly after purchasing Our dilapidated Tuscan Farm-house, was to have a Winter HQ in La Casetta… the Medici-style house below the bulk of il Poggiolo… installing radiators and a gorgeous enclosed fireplace in its Second Floor salotto. The former meant connecting the water heater to a whoppingly expensive gas line. Hard to be conservative with the thermostat when a nameless person is ALWAYS cold, if the outside temps aren’t 90F. The rest of il Poggiolo would be Our heating-less Summer HQ. Who cares about it then? Reflection and the current weather has conjured this meditation… There should be heating throughout.
Che era non sara’…
Our discussions on heating alternatives at what was then the current technology, and now ten years old, lead us to confirm and reinforce Our General Reconstruction Concept. Budget and time issues, mostly. There were always problems with the alternatives and pitted against a heavy gas bill for five to six months each year seemed an acceptable way to beat the odds. Here’s a run-down…
The orientation of il Poggiolo’s roofs did not lend itself to solar panels, Thank God. Ugly things. Expensive too. Even just a couple to heat water turned out to be a No Go. Cost versus productivity thing.
Putting in a huge gas water-heater connected to twenty+ radiators throughout the complex was beyond The Budget. Besides upping the building costs… we were Boys on a Budget… to add the luxury of steam heat, the monthly gas bollette would have been prohibitively expensive, nearing the territory of…Yikes!!!
Back in ‘09, the oncoming fashion to heat was pellets… think crushed wood chips… and their special furnaces. A boom ensued. Back at Our Ranch, You invoked… Over my dead body. I agreed, which forestalled You’s drastic resort.
Our geometra discouraged us from putting in a central furnace with the option of using firewood or pellets to heat water for showers to dish-washing and to make radiators warm throughout. He ruined this alternative for two firm inconveniences… no three. 1) Would require a tone of firewood and how to get it to where you want to put it was iffy at Our House. Il Poggiolo is not easily accessible to tractors though they can arrive at Our Back Door. 2) The wood has to be stacked near to the furnace. Fine. But, Our Geometra said wood and furnaces are a messy lot. Not fine. 3) The darn thing has to be stuffed and primed with firewood or pellets at night when the furnace kicks on to heat as temps dip. Neither You nor I thought we would be up to negotiating 4) all of the above.
So, we are paying the Beyfin gas bollette. You is happy to have 72F degrees. And, we are waiting for Destiny to intercede with Our Geometra and yet another builder to put in two fireplaces in La Casa Grande. A home is not a home without a hearth. We will have four, eventually for Our Home Sweet Home.
A view with histories...
Archive post May 25, 2019…
I published the above photo looking out our main entrance at il Poggiolo on Instagram the other day. Miraculously, it got 21 likes. No one bothered to comment beyond liking. Naturally, this tally pales considerably against the 10,723 likes for an Instagram post the very same day of a red Vespa parked in front of a contrasting wall of ochre stucco, probably last slapped-on 250 years ago. Degrado fa bellezza. Might it be more the wall than the Vespa? Chissa? Does rather indicate what people are keen on. Stone ain’t it. But, hey! There’s a lot of histories in my photo…
Hundreds of years ago, Our Favoured Village of Codiponte was nestled on the other side of the Aulella River from where it and Our il Poggiolo stand today and where now stands the Pieve di Codiponte… AKA The Village Church… and a row of houses, one giving refuge to the Scuzzy Bar… at the base of that big, lumpy mountain in the background. That Big Lumpy Mountain… no one has ever mentioned if there is a name attached… is missing good part of itself. Long ago, perhaps at the beginning of the Christian Era, though certainly after the Fall of the Roman Empire, the mountain’s mass above the tree line of olive groves and forests slid down after days and days and days… and days of torrential rains. In a jiffy, old Codiponte was wiped out. Obliterated. Gone. A truly catastrophic occurrence.
The mountain is kind of bald looking, isn’t it? The forests below the tree line, apparently, are inhabited by cingiale… or, boars. Hunting is very important in these parts. A sport every Wednesday & Sunday of the weeks between October & February. Occasionally, a hunter and part-time pyro-maniac, sets fire to those forests to flush out the cingiale from their dark eyries. These jerks… for lack of a better and gentile title… never take into consideration the local winds. The fires do not destroy the forest but, rather thanks to the local winds, burn up and incinerate what greenery has cropped up above the mountain’s tree line since the last incendio… or, forest-fire. Lots of excitement though when a fire erupts. About every two to three years. Helicopters, Canadair turbo-props and lots of fire trucks & vans from Aulla… 30 minutes away… arrive to combat the fiery menace. These various services create a kind of wonky ballet on the ground and in the air but, they do save the day.
Codiponte is in a nearly enclosed valley but for the Aulella River. It meanders to the Mediterranean Sea through a species of canyon the locals refer to as la Gola… or, the throat. A dirt track which follows the river was transformed into an asphalted provincial highway in the 60’s after the devastating floods of ‘66 & ‘67. Are you old enough to remember Florence in 1966? The government sagely saw fit to bring the Lunigiana into the Modern Age with the new infrastructure. Before, you had to drive twisty-windy roads, often only well worn dirt roads, over the mountains between Codiponte and the Mediterranean Sea. The village’s valley makes a wide open bowl. The part towards the course of the sun has olive trees, as shown in the photo, and the part in the shade, chestnut trees. You made you money off the former and lived off the later. Both important for the folk, once-upon-a-time. Not so much today.
The closed up stone house in the photo and opposite our entrance arch was not always so spiffy. Typical of Italian village houses, it’s on two floors. The Ground Floor for the animals… out of view and now has the main entrance to the house, its kitchen and a microscopic seating & dining area… while the Second Floor… its secondary entrance gate is seen in the photo, which today has the house’s only bedroom & bath … is where the inhabitants lived, ate, slept, other. Before the current owners… a unpleasant couple who begrudgingly say Buon Giorno to You & I, if they don’t bolt in the opposite direction when they see us!!!… bought the place and spiffed it up. Sometimes the owner’s grown son from a previous marriage comes with his dog for long holiday weekends and for Codiponte’s sagra in September. He’s nicer. Way nicer, thanks to his Mother. The previous inhabitants were a woman who raised her two children in the house. It was a dump. Dilapidated, leaky roof, cardboard stuffed in the windows, dirty and unkept. Gossip describes her and her family as the poorest in Codiponte. Hard life. Not helped by a job-less, ignorant AND violent husband. He took His Stuff elsewhere.
The ramp, which climbs past the spiffified house and il Poggiolo’s rock retaining wall on the right in the photo leads up to the Borgo Castello. The Codipontesi got smart after the disaster of the sliding mountain and built the new town of Codiponte on top of a hill behind il Poggiolo, along with a castle and a perimeter wall. The later maked up part of il Poggiolo’s courtyard. Over time, the village outgrew its perch and slowly built down to where the village stands today. Progress. In stone.
That’s about it. Now you know more than you did before. Isn’t history fascinating?
Our weather in May...
Archive post May 21, 2019…
We have had the most boring weather this month…
Days of heavy grey clouds. One would have thought rain or, a thunderstorm might erupt. Mostly just spray. Left the garden unworkable and the streets slidey slick. I can count two days when it actually did poor down water. One of them was last Sunday. Spent it curled up in bed with a good book. Nice ambition. T’was ruined periodically by two cabin-fevered Weimaraners. They hounded me to go out. Once out, they hounded me to come back in. The humidity has been exceptional. And lingers still.
Unexpected cold hit too. Not only low-low temps in the early morn, a couple of notches above 32F. Freezing. But at mid-day? There were a few mid-week days when the thermometer struggle to even reach 50F, at 2PM!
Winds blew in and stayed. In all directions. From the mountains and from the sea. Did you know the Italians have a unique name for each wind direction? Yessiree. None use the name, Mariah. And, Thank God. What blew our way bent trees at 45 degrees to the horizontal with huge gale-like gasps. Explosions, comes to mind. Trees would gently sway with a benign breeze and then, suddenly, rip and tear at themselves and each other from the violence of a lengthy gust. Some tall leafy giants did come out of the ground. The Dogs & I saw a few on Our Morning Walks in Nature.
The Loggia of La Casa Grande is a fairly protected space… warm too… and a nifty one to watch Mother Nature do her thing, caused by or despite Global Warming, while not suffer any untidy consequences. The show beyond was often way more interesting… also slightly disturbing… than the Internet.
Not so inside La Casa Grande. Historically, at Easter-time, I transfer myself with the canines in tow from La Casetta, Our Heated Winter HQ, and set up Summer Base Camp in La Casa Grande. 2019 was no exception. The Bunny Holiday has often been the kick-off for warm Tuscan and Spring-like weather. Blue skies, big puffy clouds, birds tweeting, bees buzzing, You sunbathing out on the aia. I think after 10 years of this seasonal re-location, I may use the word historically rather than say, habitually. Both would apply, however. Oh, My Lord… I came so very close to chucking the interior high temp of 50F and returning below to La Casetta. 65F is ideal. I could see my breath. The Creosus-person would have been ecstatic had I done so. He slept under wool blankets or my feather comforter. Absorbing my body heat underneath with him. Nina-beena curled into a tight ball in one of the ratty poltrone to gather a modicum of h-e-a-t. It’s been tough. But we are toughing it out.
Manna . from the EU...
Archive post May 12, 2019…
Mentioned a few times before…
Codiponte is the local dialect for… At the head of the bridge… notifying travelers, pilgrims & merchants in the post-Fall-of-the-Roman-Empire of a toll to pay at the village’s singular & important bridge. It was the only one around allowing folk to continue to the Garfagnana, Lucca and on to Rome.
There have been several Codiponte bridges over the last millenium and a half. The last was built in 1978 and is referred to as The New Bridge. Or, at least, that is how You & I call it. Others say, The Casciana Bridge. Casciana is the town with a scenic overlook of Codiponte way down below. The New Bridge is a typical ode to 70’s heavy concrete and enormous I-beams spanning the Aulella River. Saves people from driving or walking over the next-to-last bridge erected sometime in the 17th Century to reach the villages above Codiponte, i.e. Casciana. It is the very one You & I and Our Neighbors use to get to the proverbial other side or, the parking lot. There is the vestige of a yet another bridge, the Before-the-next-to-last one, today acting as a terrace to a neighbor’s stone batiment of a house. They rarely use the it.
Today’s Next-to-last-bridge has two lovely stone arches, a Madonnina in the middle to commemorate one span swept away in the devastating floods of 1967. The 1966 flood which swirled Florence to Nightly News destruction hit Codiponte too, but town & bridge resisted. Not so the year after. The bridge is a sure-shot to car or house. Old ladies with canes, three-wheeled Ape’s, FIAT Panda’s and tractor’s often cross over it to fast-track into or out of the village. From afar, it is a pleasing monument in weathered stone and lichens. Walking across it is a reminder of how ugly asphalt can be. Well, no more…
A Young Citizen of Codiponte, a recent graduated from Parma University in the management & safe-guarding of historic monuments & stuff, found gainful employment to do just that at our City Hall, in Casola in Lunigiana, Our Mother Capital. One fine day, tending to her duties, a letter passed across her counter from the ministry of the European Community concerned about the continent’s vast array of historical & cultural monuments, small or large. The gist of its communication was, the ministry was disposed to launching a whole bunch of Euro funds in anyone’s way, if they/it could demonstrate a worthy cause, small or large. Our Young Citizen got fast to work. One of her proposals was our Next-to-last bridge in Codiponte. And, it was accepted.
You & I knew nothing of this until one day last summer, a Committee of Suits was seen gathered at the Next-to-last bridge, along with Our Young Citizen and others not in suits but, jeans & giubbotto’s from hailing from City Hall.
Then, last week, we could not leave our cars at the parking lot before the bridge. Its space consumed by large equipment, a portable latrine, scaffolding, an aluminum sided-shack, other. Some things were later moved. Quickly following though was a sun-glasses clad hunk manipulating a ditch-digger. Here is what they dug up…
A Medieval stone roller-coaster.
Our First Reaction was… Oh! Che bello!!! Second Reaction was… How in the Hell is Terasina going to cross the bridge even with her cane? Third was… How in the f**k are we going to cross with our groceries? The Dogs love it. New earthy smells. The best avenue was to move onto hypothesis of the bridge’s history according to Our Esteemed Local and historian…
Originally, the bridge was shorter and with only one arch, the one nearer the houses along the banks and below il Poggiolo. The Aulella River was not as wide as it is today. Problem with rivers and flooding is the flood waters often alternatingly ricochet off its banks. Someone got fed up with how the river was managing flood waters at Codiponte and changed the river’s flow. And, a second arch was added. It got washed away in 1967. A Madonnina was built in the arch’s reconstruction to commemorate the event but, you had to step up to leave flowers or a lighted candle.
Forgot a Reaction… They can’t leave this roller-coaster pavement, can they? We will know soon. Met another Esteemed Local, who told me a meeting of Suits and City Hall senza is scheduled for tomorrow to find out what next. Another bridge?
Spring improvements...
Archive post April 19, 2019…
Our Spring Home Improvements campaign continues apace…
Our painter, a diminutive & congenial fellow, came and tackled a peeling wall from humidity and/or water infiltration, filled in several cracks never repaired after the earthquake of 2014 in the Salotto of La Casa Grande and one nasty issue of…? Issue of…? An issue of an unhinged paint-job up in the MBR of the Appartamento Azzurro. The first and last are the most annoying:
we have a mystery humidity issue on the wall at the corner of the stairs in La Casetta. I thought water was a trickle down effect. Ronald was wrong and so was I. Apparently not always. The hypothesis of Our Painter for the flaking paint and rippled plaster & paint is caused by a sub-terranean drain pipe, and one not part of il Poggiolo’s drain infrastructure, which passes along and well below the wall of the stairs from our neighbor’s aia… or, courtyard, to the sewers below us all on this side of Codiponte.
I remember, way back in aught-9, while the Builder Guys were re-building Our Collapsed Great Wall at the entrance ramp to il Poggiolo and digging the trench-to-China to isolated the complex from the muggy soil around it, of discovering a vast and layered network of water pipes running below what would eventually become Our Terraced Garden… filled with olive and flowering fruit trees. Sorry. Sounds like an advertisement. It is. The weaving course of pipes looked more complicated than the LA interstates lacing through that city. The painter sanded, chipped, and dug out the disturbed area of wall, administered a sealant, plastered three layers of nylon netting and stucco, followed with You’s adore Sage Green paint color as the finishing touch, once the plaster had set & dried. The next day, a stain of humidity. Better but not best. We are now obligated to watch for further signs before re-addressing this issue. The Official Speak.
The latter is the sad & confirmed result of doing things on the cheap, gainfully aggravated by a collective ignorance and time worries from both myself and an available handyman commissioned to… do… The… Job. What’s the ol’ adage? Beer before wine, you’ll be fine but, wine before beer, and you’re sick for a year? Well, for paint, the admonition is… nothing catchy comes to mind… Don’t EVER mix paint types. The walls were originally covered in a lime-base paint… calce. A near perfect & natural substance which allows i Spiriti e l’Anima delle parete to breath. A fact I did not retain. It was many years ago. In came the handy-man to re-paint the Apt. Azzurro, post-earthquake, with Our Gorgeous Antique Blue in an acrylic-based paint and what happened? The calce rebelled. Like the walls are busting out underneath from suffocation. One entire wall’s paint-job of acrylic is lifting up AND off, for cryin’ out loud. Cannot tell you the embarrassment when I showed Our Painter the situation. Another adage and entertainingly explained by Cher’s pumber father in Moonstruck… You have to spend money to save money. Got that lesson down now. The painter and I have postponed this last Paint & Paste Project until the new windows of the Azzurro Apt. are installed.
Il Poggiolo is missing it eyes! Blue, they are and will be once again. A couple of windows & doors of La Casa Grande and Azzurro Apt., in all directions but, most evident from the aia, are now boarded up with plywood panels awaiting the restoration of their original structures. Two operai came last Monday and carried off the near-death array of windows & doors away… from the effects of wind, rain, cold and searing heat off the aia’s stone in our Summer heat-waves. Il Poggiolo now looks like it’s been in bad fight. The house will have to stay that way until after Easter. It will not be at its best for the On-the-aia Pasquetta Picnic on the Monday after Pasqua. The good news is we will be set up for that Commie Holiday, May 1st. At least that!
Hurtling towards Easter...
Archive post April 12, 2019…
Two thing are heading for a collision in these late days of April. One is Easter, which lands on our 2019 calendar’s doorstep on Sunday, the 21st of April. Rather late. It’s a problem.
The weather gets weird around Easter. Always has and always will and no matter the date. The contadini here in Codiponte do fret over the late planting of their orto’s. Avid calendar watchers. They and everyone else also fear a sudden and severe Easter cold snap. Worse still, rain could happen. Keep in mind, Italians are not keen on sudden, cold, snap, and rain. They are for Easter. It was once the top on the Christian religious charts. It’s been displaced by overwhelming commercial interests promoting instead Christmas. Spirit & mystery against the almighty dollar/euro/peso/other. A sad commentary.
Lot of days to muck-up too for the long Easter weekend. Il Venerdi Santo on Friday, Saturday to scamper to the grocery store to load up, Pasqua Sunday for Mass and un pranzo con agnello coordinated with dishes full of artichokes, peas and potatoes, and finally, La Pasquetta, on the Monday after Easter, for a picnic outdoors. What a boon. A Monday off. Doesn’t happen in Italy unless Christmas falls on a Monday. The day after Easter is the most problematic day of the long weekend holiday. The gents here want sunshine & warmth to eat un panino con prosciutto crudo, lay around in an lounge chair soaking up the beneficial rays from Sig. Sole and be left in Peace… outside. A sudden or even consistent rain shower would ruin la loro pace pasqualina. The later for sure.
The other is the developing 10 day weather report. The first is unavoidable. The second is a product of prediction which, as my Mother always said, is a false art. False art or not, the current forecast does seem a bit uncertain. Mildly said. Pretty shitty, in others words. It depends on your interpretation and import you’d give to the little icons running down the screen of your iPhone. I have a weather.com app which tells me the weather for the day and for the next 7 wherever I am to be found. Don’t you love to be surveilled? Or caught? And by a gadget? Numbers run down the blue screen and are matched by the dates of those 7 days. Not good. 90% of the icons are puffy white clouds with slanted blue lines… meaning rain, how cute!… shooting down from underneath for today through Easter. The 10% is for today’s weather. The sun was only out in the first hours of our day today. Here is the later story…
What to do? I don’t have pop-corn OR, a good movie to watch. HATE my books too. You’s coming to Codiponte for an extraordinary 13 day It’s-Easter holiday. Days off slung between the bridge of the two weekends. Those slugn holidays are Liberation Day from the Nazi’s and Commie Holiday of May 1st. You may already know the grim news. I ain’t telling him. But, if it’s crummy outside, I won’t be able to endrenture him to yard work. He’ll just have to settle for putting in order the La Casa Grande or other locations, like his Kingdom. His BR is a mess. Then, guests are due in too. Why didn’t they book Sharem el Sheik? So terribly inviting to say… how about if we just hang out?
Nostaglia...
Archive post April 5, 2019…
Met friends for un pranzo di lavoro. Euro 10. 11 bucks and change. Can’t beat it. Two options for each course: il primo piatto… THE PASTA DISH!!!… A or B, il secondo… THE MEAT DISH!!!.. again, an A or B, un contorno… THE VEGETABLE DISH!!! which can run from white beans to an actual veggie… vino, acqua & pane. A nap afterwards. We all chose spaghetti with muscles, then went our individual ways for il secondo but, we all selected meat. No other choice. Fish is rarely on a menu in the Lunigiana. One ristoratore told me to go hop into the sea if I wanted fish at his establishment. Sorry. We are in the Lunigiana. Pork, beef, veal, lamb, in any form, are the mainstay of the diet here.
Requires a knife. A serrated, pointy one. Not too short nor too long. No Williams-Sonoma cleavers, please. Adore the old type of a wood handled knife with flat-head steel nails to hold the complex of blade to handle. Black, of course. There’s something cheesy about a natural bleached-wood or stained handled knife, particularly for dining. Props for too many photo-styling sessions. Bet they never knew what they were really intended.
I love the art of manipulating a knife and fork to meat, especially when attached to a bone. A challenge. Often an adventure. So civilised to use the point to extract to taste by what was formerly attached by grissle. It’s what has a lot of flavor. Took a bit of practice when I was a kid. Wanted to go straight to eating with my fingers. My Mother was vehemently contrary to that tendency.
Learning the use and occasions for cutlery in Italy was my first embarrassing moment upon arriving in my adopted country. We Americans, I’m sorry to say, are barbarians, when it comes to when or, upon what you use a knife. We just attack. Questions, which rarely come, are for later. I was seated at a long & lovely table with eleven other folk of various grades, inclinations, occupations but… ALL ITALIANS!!!… in a magnificently vaulted ceiling Sala da Pranzo… or, Dining Room, in an apartment high above Lungarno Serristori, FIRENZE!!! Forks to the left, knives to the right. Cannot remember the actual order of the numerable and delicious plates, well beyond A or B. At a certain moment a kind of luxurious multi-layered frittata landed before me and as soon as our Hostess began, I dove in by cutting with a fork AND knife. Everyone came to a stop. Complete silence. All eyes on me. The woman seated to my right lent quietly toward me and gently suggested ditching the knife. Solamente la forchetta, caro. I did. Dinners resumed. My brow beaded with sweat. The dictate learned? In Italy, knives are ONLY used on meat.
I was at another dinner recently and full of bubbling & funny around-30 women. Five Americans. I started to translate the waiter’s discussion on the night’s menu when I was detained by raised hands and voices… I’m a vegan… I don’t eat meat… I can’t eat cheese. All news to me. Five raised hands wiped out 80% of the Italian menu. Few options left. The ristorante’s forte are a simple bread one eats by filling it full of fresh salumi and/or cheese and the other is a slab of meat seared & served. The creativity of the five plus the waiter, we managed to avoid a culinarily sad dinner.
Two thoughts came to mind… the knife is a has-been, if the overwhelming consensus at a dining table was for vegetables. No more challenges. No more adventures. No more Civilisation??? Only hope is to classify la scappetta as di rigore politesse with a piece of bread, like we Southerners do. And the second was… do we just chuck into the garbage pail l’intera cucina italiana??? I was in shock. Now, days later I am reverberating with nostalgia.