First Impressions... the Autoscuola Fivizzanese
Help me out: I can’t decide just what special element of the Autoscuola’s classroom makes me Gasp & Swoon the most? Might it be the board & batten panelling? Has always left me with an uneasy sense of what it must be like to live in a mobile home. Or, could it be the wood’s slightly soured cognac colour? They say age adds character. Then, lots of character. But, the caffe-latte diamond shaped ceiling tiles are decidedly Vintage. You know? Must be those manly beams. So hard to decide. However, no time to muse…
Did you get a load of what’s been bolted to the walls? Lord! Mother!! Mary and the Baby Jesus too!!!
I don’t remember ever having had to study so much stuff for an Illinois Driver’s License. Happened at Summer School before I turned 16 in September of 1967. Class was once a week: 30 minutes to study The Rules of the Road… a slide projection entertainment coupled with a hand-out of a 25 page shirt-pocket sized pamphlet with the same information in picture form and big print. They were distributed indifferently by our teacher… a football coach moonlighting… to the 39 other soon-to-be-16 year olds, frothing at the mouth to drive Daddy’s Chevrolet; and another 30 minutes for actually getting behind the wheel of a late model Pontiac donated by the local dealership. A scary machine. In 1967, Detroit became enamoured for the soft-touch, floating accelerator pedal. 70 mph in the beat of an eyelash, if your right foot even so happened to hover close to the thing, much less actually applying pressure to it. I knew this from previous personal experience…
We lived on a private lane, Fisher Crescent Lane, in one of those innumerable northshore suburbs of Chicago. So, I would get in my father’s late-model Buick Le Sabre… a slick automobile in a fantastic & lustrous blue-green paint… and drive around the quarter mile loop, picking up kids screaming to catch a ride… Come on! Frosty’s driving…
Yes, I was called Frosty. Lasted from birth to shortly after I turned 16 and had a Driver’s License to prove my age. An adopted aunt, Kay Britton… her husband was naturally called, Uncle J.D…. he was my Father’s solid Right-hand Man at the company they worked for. He was the smartest man I have ever known. Rubik’s Cube? Solved it in 37 seconds! Then he went off to fix himself a dry martini at the bar back when houses had such nooks. Those two adoptees spoiled us. Well, Auntie Kay did mostly. Gave me my first cigarette… a Benson & Hedges… my first flute of champagne… always a chilly Piper Heidsieck… and taught me to ingest Beluga caviar spread with butter on a chic-y cracker encrusted with bits of rye without making an ugly face. Oh! And she told me to stop wearing socks… especially, white ones… with my loafers. Said it was a grotesque notion of fashion she could not tolerate. Very California in her tastes. One grim Chicago day, Auntie Kay suddenly felt the need to rebel and did so, summarily declaring the “y” at the end of my nickname murdered & buried for posterity, and proceeded to call me, Frost. Met with almost universal approval… bar one. Frosty was imposed by my mother. Thought it cute. It wasn’t. I was a downtrodden kid hearing too many times to count classmates sing, Frosty, The Snowman. Out of tune. Still rings… distantly… in my head. Again, out of tune. Additionally, besides Mom thinking it was cute, Frosty, was approved by my 4 Star Brigadier General grandfather, whose best friend in The Entire World… Head Coach at the University of Colorado, where The General was also a regent… was called Frosty, short for also bearing the name, Forrest, like me. Thankfully, the new nickname stuck until I stopped despising, Forrest. Took 10 years. But, I did it. In the meantime, my full name of Forrest Charlton Spears… sends Italians into a twirl of Oh! How prestigious sounding… was much abused by my mother, when circumstances dictated by-passing Frosty, usually after she had discovered some gross infraction on my part, such as, bringing home a very sorry Report Card. Once her storm had passed, Frosty was restored to use. Anyway…
One day on tour in the Buick Le Sabre, I drove up the driveway to the Bush Family Complex of mansions… tenants too on the private lane… yet, no relation to those later Bush’s. However, I can say, the Senior Grandmother Bush, who lived in Mansion Number 1 (top house in the above photo), was equally as frightening as that white-haired woman married to the 1st Bush President and mother to the little dippy Bush 2. Kids and dogs trailed behind trying to catch-up to get on board. Space for all, kids! In piled a bunch of under 10 year olds with a couple of their dogs. Put the car into D for Drive and off we went. However, at the very same moment of departure, the two dogs got into a fierce and rather noisy dog-fight. Startled, and suddenly overwhelmed with driving AND having to separate the two combatants, plus any child in between… talk about over-load… my right right foot just happened to grace the accelerator pedal instead of the brake and in no time I had cleanly obliterated an entire 20 foot long boxwood hedge at the entrance to the fierce grandmothers son’s Mansion Number 2 (middle manse in the above photo), a sprawling Tudor monstrosity. Family of 7 kids. The place had wings. I am sorry to report to you all, I did not go and immediately make known the disaster to a Responsible Adult inside the Tudor sprawl but, elected to go home… post haste. News travels fast. No sooner had the Buick been put to rest in the garage than… Forrest Charlton Spears!!!… was heard to shatter the Peace of Home and Fisher Crescent Lane.
P.S. My Dad went out and bought a previous year’s Ford station-wagon in pistachio green. Who has a car in that colour? Must’ve gotten it at a good price. He felt it a safer bet… Ford and the particular model he drove home with was a bit behind the fashion for the latest pedal-tech. I was also discouraged… mind you, not prohibited. The Times were different back then… to drive around. Our maid was sometimes inducted to be my Automotive Chaperone riding shot-gun to shoo and/ or threaten the chasing hordes… of any type.
The high school I was attending at the time I turned 15 for a Learner’s Permit was crazed about actually driving an automobile. Rules & Regulations were secondary. Signage? Basically: STOP, YIELD, and a bunch with arrows, and even better, countless indications written in English: ONE WAY, DO NOT ENTER, WRONG WAY, SPEED LIMIT 15. A definite bitch for people who do not understand written English. Tough.
In Italy, you have to know signage AND everything remotely attached to car, driving, streets, insurance, etc.…. AND I MEAN EVERYTHING… all up on those classroom walls. Appears to be a lot of clutter but it ain’t to Baldo. It’s his mission to explain.
Now, I can happily relate I did manage to make it unscathed to the next theory class.
The Hump was totally out of the question. I came via back roads from Codiponte until I reached the infamous Highway 63 upon which lurked those two Carabinieri agents. Did it for a mere 1/2 kilometre and then veered off to the left… oncoming traffic permitting… to slide down another back road un-repaired with shitty asphalt… lots of pot holes… to sneak up to Fivizzano from below and behind. Un-noticed. N’er a Carabinieri. However…
Tuesday is market day in Fivizzano. All the parking spaces are snatched-up by 8:00AM in the vicinity of the Autoscuola. Luckily, my stealth routing had brought me to a shady street with… Hark!!!… spaces available and just a 10 minute walk to class. Early, I stopped to sip a cappuccino at one of 3 bars gracing the main junction of Downtown Metro Fivizzano. A hot bed of activity on a Tuesday morning. I go to this one particular bar because the staff are young, smiley, and have either pink or yellow hair. The cute ultra-tall bar-guy, who is utterly indifferent to my flirting, is included. Yellow’s for him. Then, I climbed up the short distance along Via Roma to the Autoscuola Fivizzanese. Had to squeeze past a pack of 18 year old boys gathered at the entrance, like gnats. So, what? It’s not cool to go inside, take a seat and wait for class to start? Apparently yes, and not a second before, as a solid black block of NIKE. The girls breeze right on through and into the inner sanctum of the classroom, their long straight hair trailing their behinds in crotch-threatening short short-pants gripping young thighs. Do the guys bother to take note of this pulchritude? No. They chat while staring down at their iPhones. Our civilisation may be doomed.
Sat down and was struck silly by…? By…? Well, by the unexpected interior arrangements. Starting with the 26 coloured posters of cartoon depictions for street signage, engine parts, search & rescue administrations, vehicle types, railroad crossings… one is even named after a saint, Croce Sant’Andrea. What can I say? It’s Italy. My favourite, and especially after witnessing Baldo in action flipping levers to turn certain lights on or off, of a mock relief of what I believe to be a 1970’s FIAT Tema sedan. An ugly vehicle. The Electric Light Show is to indelibly mark the cerebral cortex of 18 year olds about the intricacies of which light serves which purpose in prep for the menacing Driving Test on the horizon. By the way, there are 3 purposes. For everything with 4 or more wheels. But, I don’t care to elaborate because, I actually don’t remember. Must consult my notes.
I do want to talk about the Autoscuola Fivizzanese classroom furnishings…
An esteemed friend once remarked after a few days visiting with me in Italy that what the country really needs is to add 6” to all its dimensions: door heights, parking space widths & depths, grocery-store carts, chair widths, to name a few. The later is particularly galling. An hour and half sitting in the Autoscuola’s seat designed for midgets borders upon entrapment. Maybe, manslaughter. No room to squirm. Causes cramps. Practically impossible to extricate oneself once contained within its miniscule confines. The width, length and height of my 215 lb. body, one nourished on the American notion of 3 square meals a day, of which one rigorously must consist of a meat item, some potatoes and a perhaps, by a fluke of the wayward cook, a vegetable, the other two meals are obligated to be high in carbs & fats… does not correspond in any way, shape or, form, to the ergonomics of said Autoscuola chair … with the flip-up writing tablet. There maybe another term for tablet. Tray table comes to mind but, it seems incorrect. Nearly impossible for me to artfully slip out of the chair without taking victims. And, to have upholstered the 30 or so chairs with a knobby lip-sticky salmon coloured fabric so stretched to the end of its elasticity over the black metal frame, it is either nerve wrenching or, the mark of a ID genius. However, the fabric also clings AND attaches its linty fall-out onto my dark blue jeans. The Responsible Interior Design Person could be Baldo’s wife. He may not be married. Did not see a ring on the indicative finger. His mother, perhaps?
Before I push on… you must forgive me… I am more than a bit of an alternative kind of guy in my design tastes, as my Dear German Friend discovered upon You’s and my first encountering the interior confines of hers and her husband’s historic Tuscan farm-house… board & batten paneling to the nth degree in every room, on every floor… and more than likely installed in the same epoch as the Autoscuola’s… but… but… but, the black plastic tape holding various Autoscuola chair parts together is sincerely a charming detail to warm my renegade aesthetics. Ad hoc is my call sign. The slick surface of the tape clinging tightly to arms & legs defies, perhaps, the basic Laws of Engineering. A wonder and that it has lasted… resisted… for so many years of stress. Marvelling at the thick beige strips of tape is just the distraction I need as I attempt to deal with the stress of memorising what’s-what with the 5,323 signs & info off the 26 posters as the Baldo Show starts. Oh! He just sat down at his desk.
Sig. Baldini... Autoscuola Fivizzanese
A God-send.
Fleeing the scene of my Carabinieri disgrace, and noted by many, I headed North turning right onto the driveway leading up to the local hospital, the site of my original intent for the day. I stopped and Google Map-ed, Autoscuola Fivizzanese. I had a general idea it was on Via Roma, a bland, almost desolate looking street climbing along a ridge from Centro Citta’ Fivizzano towards yonder peaks, the Apennines. A brief word about streets & stuff in Italy…
Back in the Olden Days… after the Fall of the Roman Empire… Italian towns were either perched on top of hills or surrounded by fortress walls. Defence tactics in Troubled Times. The Italian peninsula was ripe & easy pickings for marauding bands of Huns, Visigoths, Lombards!!! Oh! And not to forget Saracen pirates and gangs of home grown thieves canvasing the countryside for prey. Lucca is probably the most famous Italian walled city, however, there are thousands of others in Italy equally charming and/or, more so. Montagnana, for instance. You eat & drink splendidly. There are Palladian villas spread about nearby. Etc. The wall option had gates and each were traditional named for the town you would reach… preferably traveling by daylight… passing through a particular gate. All roads lead to Rome too so, 99 out of 100 times, there is a Porta Romana… Rome Gate… and the street’s name to match: Via Roma. Ecco! Fivizzano’s Via Roma is a numbing affair: straight, tree-less, with mini-sidewalks, shoddy or empty stores, and an array of architecturally anonymous apartment buildings and houses in mild pastels of salmon, Tuscan beige and rose. Smack in the middle of this urban context is Autoscuola Fivizzanese. There’s a single street sign cluing people to a Reserved Parking space for the autoscuola.
Continued on up the drive to pick up my blood work results, and then drove over to find Sig. Baldini on Via Roma, Fivizzano Massa-Carrara, Tuscany, Italy, Europe, Other. The Dogs were ready for home. They had had enough.
Found him lounging inside a small hatchback idling on the Reserved Parking spot, though half his body was dangling outside the car. Must’ve been for his cigarette smoke. The other occupant was a wispy-looking 18 year old manning the steering wheel. Hands, 10 and 2. The 2 would be 14 in Italian. Looked terrifically bored. Also, the kid was entirely of black: black hair, black framed glasses, black short-sleeved T-shirt with some unidentified black mess emblazoned at chest height… a re-evocation of Punk from 40+ years ago? Vaguely recalled lightning bolts in yellow and orange and red… and black shorts in a black FIAT. He’d gotten black down pat. Contrasted with his never-seen-sunlight parlour. Couldn’t see his shoes but, I bet’ ya they were white Adidas. Brand of choice for Italian boys under 25-er’s these days. I also would bet ya’ a good many Euro’s his mother dresses him and does so with her preferred Italian Mom uniform colour: black. For her, it would be: black floaty tunic-top over black leggings and black strappy sandals with a 10” thick sole and tiny silver sparkles glued where space and/or straps might allow. If any one thinks Civilisation is going down the tubes, it’s this dressing in black, which is doing most of the pushing. However, I didn’t need to distress myself further with the blackened neo-nato. I turned to the dangling man wearing a faded red Coca-Cola T-shirt. No surprise, actually. It was Sig. Baldini, in partenza for a 40 minute tour with the neo-nato and, more gloriously, the owner/operator of the Autoscuola Fivizzanese. He asked me if he could be a service… a rough translation from the Italian… waving a lighted Marlboro in the direction of the stencilled sign on the school’s store front window. Glass needed a good wash… and perhaps, disinfection too…
Yes, signore, if you are Sig. Baldini.
I am indeed… and who are you?
Forrest… Forrest Spears.
Piacere. You’re an American?
Yes. It’s my accent, isn’t it?
Pretty thick. Your Italian is good. What can I do for you?
I need an Italian Driver’s License… ASAP. I got nabbed by the Carabinieri a half hour ago. No Italian Driver’s License. The officer strongly suggested I come and speak with you to know what getting one would entail.
Time. Some money. That’s later, however. Patience. It isn’t going to be a quick thing to do. What have you been driving with?
An American Driver’s License.
Of course. Sorry. You live here, you have a residency permit?
Yes, for nearly 40 years. We’ve a house in Codiponte now for the last 14 years.
How old are you?
Soon to be 71.
Caspita! You don’t look it. Are you sure?
Well, I might’ve been able to prove it to you had the Carabinieri not taken my American Driver’s License.
Feeling a little naked?
A bit, but mostly, I am feeling my 71 years.
Well, I have to tell you, you’ve been lucky. OK… give me your mobile number and I’ll connect you to the school’s Whatsapp chat. You’ll start with theory… Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10AM or at 5PM. Your choice. About 20 lessons is the circuit. The practical driving lessons come after you have passed the theory test. I doubt you will need much for the driving part. I am guessing you have been behind a wheel since you were 16?
!5 with a Learner’s Permit.
How are you going to come here? You can’t drive legally now, you know?
Yes, that was made very clear by the Carabinieri. I live alone. I have to drive. I’ll run the risk. Take back roads to avoid patrols or road blocks.
Well, forget the hill roads from Codiponte to Fivizzano. The last road is closed for bridge work.
What? Where exactly?
Above Fivizzano.
Hmmm… well, I guess I’ll leave the car and walk down.
It’s going to be a long walk. And it’s hot out or, have you not noticed? You never know with you
Americans.
Oh, I’ve noticed. How long a hike?
I’d say… 3 to 4 kilometres. Maybe more.
Nothing to do but tough it out.
See you on Tuesday?
Yes, sir. At 10AM.
Look out for the Whatsapp and just follow the instructions.
Thank you, Sig. Baldini.
Folk call me, Baldo.
Thanks, Baldo.
The Dogs and I went home. N’er a Carabinieri in sight. Whew!
I licked my wounds with bastoncini di pesce… fish-sticks… for lunch. The Dogs got hotdogs… their absolute favourite treat. They do not have to be told to sit. You thinks I am poisoning them. Too many spices and salt. Bad for their digestive tracks. Weimaraners hanno digestione delicata, Forrest! I think doggies biscuits are a poison. Billed on the outside of the plastic packaging as wholesome nourishment for all types of dogs. DO NOT LOOK AT THE INGREDIENTS.
I started to worry. Road scare. Carabinieri hiding everywhere waiting… waiting to nab me… again. Arrest, Fine, Deportation. The State absconding with our homes. And… I hate change. I just want to be left alone… do my art…with the Dogs always present and You on the weekends. This is not how I imagined my Summer of 2023 would be… damn-it!
During Nap-time, the Whatsapp arrived. The notification squeals were so annoying. No Peace. 10-12 messages and alerts all afternoon. Italians love chats. They cannot not conversate. Is that even a word? They love “sochial medeeah”, Fasseboook, Teeek-Towk, etc. Reminders of these media ploys exist are rife on Italian TV, radio and websites. Often times written in English bold enough to upset your wide-screen TV’s spirito e anima.
I worked on worrying.
On the anointed First Day of Driving School, I rose early. Felt that repeated caffe’s would buck me up for attempting to be stealth in an old, beat-up Hyundai skirting detection on my nervous way to Fivizzzano by going over The Hump on a series of asphalted mountain tracks until… as previously warned by Baldo… I cannot go any further, due to bridge work. Gotta walk.
Drove and drove and drove up and across The Hump and just as I felt near to Fivizzano… excitement of nearing The Big Town?… I ran into huge cements barriers painted with red diagonal stripes cutting off any progress. Beyond them, there were some sweaty, dirty looking men labouring along side a tall jack-hammer contraption spewing oil & fumes and beating the be-Jesus out of a bridge’s pavement. Hmmm. No space even to park. Damn cement blocks! And with barely room enough to turn around too. I got out of the car to better survey the situation. The clock was running. 9:39AM. A woman passing-by stopped to asked me what I was up to? I said I was thinking of leaving my car and walking into Fivizzano. I had an appointment there. She scoffed. It’ll take you the rest of the morning to get there. And if you do park here, the vigili will ticket you. I Vigili are Municipal Police in dumpy uniforms. Large thighs and protruding tummies do not help their uniform’s look… of Authority. They point and write out tickets. You don’t need to look beautiful to do that. Or smart. Whereas the handsome Carabinieri are an advertisement for Italian Law & Order in their get-up. Go back the way you came is my advice. Suddenly a white FIAT Panda with two unshaven young men skidded to a halt, apparently, to join the conversation. Nope. One, the fat one not driving like a maniac, had a question. He waved his tablet in the air to announce this. Asked if the road just up the hill a few yards away would lead them to Fivizzano? The tablet says yes! The woman said… No, not in your FIAT. It’s a dirt track… after some houses. But, pointing to me standing next to my old, beat-up Hyundai, he might be able to. Decision made. Off sped the two, grinding the FIAT’s reverse gears as they went backwards up the hill until they could managed a reckless manoeuvre at the road where my hopes of getting to Fivizzano in time for auto school met the local road we were all on. Happily out of danger now from those two renegades in a white Panda…
FIAT Panda’s are cult cars in Italy. Not all. A few. Mostly Panda 4 x 4’s. A simple boxy vehicle yet, they do grandly scream UTILITY!!! far beyond their size and demeanour. 70’s & 80’s version. A cracker box on four off-road tires and able to tackle all sorts of roads. Not terrifically fast. Never were envisioned for autostrada’s. Who cares? I want something which can tackle dirt tracks, up, down or all around. With Dogs. And remain in one piece. I want one. Badly. Military green, please. Bloody expansive. Everyone wants one. Cost today is 10 times what they once cost new. Genius car. To start one, you have to prime the engine with an internal rod. Builds biceps. Otherwise, a no-go. FIAT still makes them. Not the same. The cult models are exemplary products of a Soviet Five-Year Plan. In fact FIAT consulted with the Soviets to build a People’s Car. Today’s look like they have taken to an all carb diet and little exercise except to take nonna e nonno to the supermercato Sabato mattina.
I consulted Google Maps. Not a particularly clear representation of any road leading from YOU ARE HERE to HERE YOU WANT TO BE. Not in Default, Satellite or Terrain modes. I remained valiant and decided to try. Can’t miss the First Day Of Driving School. Certainly not. The patchy asphalted track slid quickly down through an encroaching thicket of woods towards a small group of white-washed stuccoed houses. Late model Audi & BMW SUV’s parked in iffy spots. Foreign tags: D for Germany, NL for Holland, DK for Denmark, of all places. The track became barely wide enough for my old, beat-up Hyundai after the first group of houses. Then, the track became dirt and it introduced a chaotic array of twists and turns…. hair-pins spinning past 270 degrees… and through more woods. More clusters of shoddy vacation houses. Ditto SUV’s. Road had deep ruts, like from an ancient wash-out and then, it just stopped. No! It disappeared. Hell!!! I could go no further. Google Maps told me the road was to the right. What? Through a crawl-space between two houses? Nope. How do I get our of here? Meant 10 minutes of inching back ’n forth and back ’n forth and back ’n forth to get my old, beat-up Hyundai SUV turned around and head up the way I had just come down. Hopefully unscathed. The clock had stopped. It was 10:13AM. Class had started at 10AM.
It would have needed another 30 minutes just to make it back over The Hump and to hit the risky State Highway 63… nightmares of Carabinieri at every turn. I drove back home. Along the way, in a shady spot, I stopped and sent Baldo a Whatsapp of my no-show. Sorry. Immediately got a Tranquillo and a thumbs up. He must’ve been mid-stream with his lesson. Darn!
I nurtured my First Day of Autoscuola… a Failure… with a prosciutto cotto e formaggio grilled sandwich, potato-chips and a watered down Coca-Cola. Called You to share the morning’s adventure and took a nap. Thursday is soon to come. Fall back and punt but not on Highway 63.
Nabbed... an instruction manual
I was nabbed by the Carabinieri.
The Dogs were with me.
It was a bright, sunny and oddly mild morning in late July. I was on my way to the hospital in Fivizzano to pick up my blood work results from the previous week. I am at the age now when I am often at the hospital in Fivizzano for one thing or another. All the Staff knows me. Many come from or, live in the village of Codiponte where I call home too… with the Dogs, and You-know-who on the weekends. I am, despite my earnest efforts to work on my accent speaking Italian… alter, might be a good verb here… glaringly American. Crowds automatically accumulate around me. The Italians are fascinated by us Americans. What’s not to like? Well, perhaps A Bad Question these days. Or, I suspect the Italians are afraid of missing something imported from America or, yet unheard of and possibly useful from the same source. Courting me might give them the jump on their fellow citizens. Chissa? There are also rumours circulating I am related to Britney Spears, poor twisted thing. I wonder who spread that? The Carabinieri based Casola in Lunigiana, Codiponte’s administrative Mother… a mini-capital… often drool and certainly touch pack to ask how Breeetneeey is and will she ever come to Italy? Couldn’t say, boys. Not any time soon. She’s busy with her divorce. You might like the video on YouTube. Involves lingerie. Apparently, the two man squadron of Carabinieri… from Fivizzano… who flagged me down with la paletta rossa at an intersection of an innocuous side street just before the big curvy bridge, had not been informed of my supposed illustrious connection. Little shared communications between Le Forze della Protezione Civile? Seems so.
I was a lone duck.
Before I go on, let me mention a few pertinent aspects, which may serve in reading this blog post…
1) Any encounter with Authority in Italy is always… ALWAYS catastrophic. The Good News is there are degrees of catastrophe. Did you know this? I didn’t when I first came to live in Italy almost 40 years ago. Regardless of the degree of disaster, it’s best to: a) GO WITH THE FLOW; b) DO NOT CONTEST ANYTHING; and c) DIVULGE AS LITTLE INFORMATION AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN!!! These procedures are far & wide easier for the Italians to manage than for an American encumbered with two Weimaraners or, other foreign persons about… with or without accompanying animals, boy-friends, other. Starts in pre-school, to be terrorised by interrogations conducted by la maestra, who’s interested in hearing only The Right Answer. Continues on until the little tykes grow up to a full height adult Italian… males generally at 6’ (182cm) and females around 5’4”(164cm). No more totally squat Italian people… as they attempt to extricate themselves of years & years attending university. Bad enough high school… or, liceo… lasts 5 interminable years. Each generation of Italians are thus well versed in staying mum.
I might add...
a sociopathic sideline to the above is, a sort of Italian Mental Reasoning, if you will: a) you may not personally know the person interrogating you, etc.; b) you can only hypothesise what he/she/it will do with the info you have mistakenly blurted out; and c) as a consequence, your life may suddenly be forced to make a hard left turn. All can be conveniently condensed into the following Universal Italian Declaration… YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYONE BUT FAMILY. Take note.
There will be further ones shortly. Be patient… A Virtue. Hang on… another yet, Lesser Virtue because, it requires physical & emotional skills not often available. And, be alert. End of the Virtues.
I stopped my 14 year old Petroleum Blue Hyundai Galloper SUV as instructed.
The Dogs went ape-shit.
I have been working on this unfortunate canine behaviour through the auspices of a Dog Trainer, a Dog Whisperer, thanks to YouTube… un sussurratore di cani… since suspended from my service. The cause? 40+C degree heat raging in my adopted land. Would it make any difference if I were to write 40C = 104F? Appointments were scheduled at 7AM, in the frigging morning. Only time temps were tolerable. Bright, sunny and oddly mild days of late June were sideswiped by successive African Heat Waves and given names of Greek mythical characters. That combo’s a mystery, I know. What was that fellow’s name who carried dead folk across the River Styx? For instance. The necessitated early hour meant I had to arise at 5AM, give or take some, in order to have time to resurrect Body & Spirit with several cups of Intenso Caffe N.8, and to elevate those of the Dogs with an early breakfast of croquettes & canned dog-food. Yum-yum. They were more than delighted. Afterwards they usually run into the garden for a few minutes to attend to their bio-needs followed by retireing to their respective sofas for a rest. Enormous surprise on Wednesdays & Fridays for my dear Creatures around 6AM… Let’s go! That’s the official statement.
Would you like to know the unofficial? I am happy to tell. You-know-who is totally ignorant. Mum’s the word…
I got fed up being told I was doing it/all/everything WRONG. And as the pendulum swings, practically nil right. The Whisperer’s admonitions espoused while I was being instructed to do silly little exercises involving doggie biscuits, such as, tossing them onto the scrubby turf of a bug-infested field abutting an autostrada became too much. All of it. There’s more…
The Trainer’s body-language and tense tone of voice conveyed a creeping sense he thought I was a total idiot and completely inept at handling a dog, much less two. His instruction was conducted with one-dog-at-a-time. Maybe for convenience sake… his, certainly not mine… since, my life is attached to two-dogs-at-a-time. I fantasised suggesting a meeting in Downtown Metropolitan Sarzana, a hip Italian town, so I could hand him the leashes of my two Dogs and see him try to trot around the main piazza tossing doggie biscuits hither & yon. To inspire and educate? No, to bait and control, more like.
The Dogs and I are now adjourned indefinitely in the interior cool of Il Poggiolo as heat-wave after heatwave sear steadily, continually… outside.
Inside the cool & dark… it’s manual air-conditioning, it works wonderfully and it costs nothing, folks!… I discovered an Italian woman… un sussurratrice di cani. Fountains of curly hair on top of an anorak and a dog on leash… via Instagram. I bought her program. What SOLD me? 1) She spoke only of what to do, not the myriad of what-not-to-do’s; and, the basis of her Dog Training Philosophy to successfully change the behaviour of an errant dog/s comes is to do it in small doses. Start with leash work in a protected area and slowly graduate to ever larger spaces until, when enough progress has been shown… mostly to understand why my pockets are packed with doggie biscuits… and go out into the great big world outside. Simple. We’re working on it.
However, the woman loves to talk. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. What Italian doesn’t? The Italian language was designed for conversation, though it initially was built as a written one. Dante. But I don’t have all day. Nor the inclination for 24/7. Emails arrive every day. With videos. Offers to upgrade or buy dog stuff. I may bag it and resort to white wine and leisurely strolls with the Dogs in il Poggiolo’s 25,000 square feet of garden. Dogs are thrilled when they hear me call… Let’s go into the giarden.
And before I forget… these Dog Whisperers must be in the pockets of the doggie biscuit manufacturers, liberally dispensing their edible products anywhere and as often as possible.
Meanwhile, the Carabinieri hosting me at the intersection which I now fear to tread near illegally…
The Dogs elected to watch once they got it I wasn’t going anywhere else soon.
I had to ask permission to get out of my SUV. It was given and, immediately, I was on a one-to-one with the older of the two Agents in Service. The Carabinieri Command are rigorous in maintaining a buddy system, usually pairing a more mature Agent… squeezed into his Dark Blue britches & Black boots & short sleeve Blue cotton shirt decked with various patches… with another and much younger gay porno gorgeous hunk Agent… who’s also squeezed into his Dark Blue britches & Black boots & short sleeve Blue cotton shirt decked with various patches… but, Bless The Lord… fills the uniform out splendidly. Italian men. Nice legs. Soccer. Beautiful skin. Olive oil.
At this point now, we must proceed with the real meat-ball & spaghetti of being stopped by the Carabinieri at a un posto di blocco. However, a couple of informational pointers…
A) Extreme politeness is essential. Italian Formal Form. Lei. The Carabinieri do not want you, nor do you want them to be your best buddy. Si, signori… No, signori. Stop. Good Luck with their English… Mayee eyee hav yeur documentz, pleeez?
B) There are no discussions. Etched in marble, this one.
C) The Conducting Agent asks the questions, you reply. Do not dally.
And the first question was to convey into the hands of the more mature Conducting Agent the car’s documents and mine. BEWARE: you may never see these ever again. This applied to my State of North Carolina Driver’s License. Confiscated. I got a receipt. Lucky me. The confiscation was probably supposed to be a catastrophic act on the Agent’s part. Hardly. Once back home, I got on my laptop, surfed to the NC Driver’s License website… Department of Motor Vehicles, actually… and promptly ordered a replacement. I had stated Stolen… in Italy. 10 days later, the new license showed up at the local & scuzzy bar of Codiponte… Le Poste Italiane are furiously reluctant to deliver mail to my address. It’s easy to get to. The mostly female couriers make a pit stop at the bar, dumped the mail, down a caffe and hit the road back to HQ… and this after my dear & aged Mother had dutifully driven to the local US Post Office to mail the darn thing … to Italy.
You may know this… the Italians have a genius gesture to celebrate a victory of this sort and is far more demonstrative than that vulgar English single-finger thing. While musing upon the laptop’s screen of…
Your North Carolina Driver’s License has been successfully ordered. It will arrive in a few days. Thank you for visiting the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles website. Have a blessed day.
What?
I instinctively raised my right arm and simultaneously crooked it in the general direction of Fivizzano and slapped my left hand into the right arm’s bend. BAM!!! Message sent. Fat lot it will do me though. I am still illegal. Cannot drive legally in Italy anymore with a North Carolina Driver’s License. Fine. Feels good anyway. I’ll live dangerously. You have to as a foreign resident… in Italy. I hope & pray to the Mother Virgin Mary I won’t get stopped at another Carabinieri road block.
The car’s docs come in a dog-eared and sun-bleached green plastic pouch… must be the age and not the sun… full of every insurance receipt from the car’s birth, ditto for the tag’s renewal and the vehicle’s matriculation booklet and a stained instruction manual visually hinting it has never, ever been look at. I certainly haven’t.
The more mature Conducting Agent seemed satisfied and returned to the open hatch of his FIAT/JEEP patrol car where the gay porno gorgeous hunk Agent was busy fooling with stuff. Paper. Booklets. Tablets.
The real fun was underway, yet, it must be confirmed…
D) All Italians love documents. The fancier the better. Functionaries of the Italian State in particular, ie Carabinieri, judges, toll-booth jockeys. Must drive them wild these new-fangled plastic credit card sized driver’s licenses, health cards and Permessi di Soggiorno… a residency permit.
Like a game show, I waited the results of the investigation into my documents. This is THE REAL GAME OF ITALY. The objective is to see if what one doc says, balances out with the info of the others. Didn’t take long to know…
I had been caught.
I was driving a legally registered car in Italy. Tag and tax and insurance, all up to date. Good boy. However, punching into their tablets my full name, the agents discovered my Permesso di Soggiorno was unlimited and issued many, many years ago. Doing the Math with the help of a Carabinieri HELP manual, The Regulation said I should have already been driving around Italy with an Italian Driver’s License. I wasn’t. Ah, hah!!!
The more mature Conducting Agent strolled over to where I was standing attempting to maintain my Weimaraner’s cool demeanour. He assumed his VOICE OF AUTHORITY.
We have ascertained that YOU HAVE DONE WRONG. You are in conflict with Italian Law.
Why have you been driving without an Italian Driver’s License? THE LAW SAYS YOU MUST HAVE AN ITALIAN DRIVER’S LICENSE BY THE END OF THE FIRST YEAR OF YOUR RESIDENCY.
I feigned ignorance. Lame I know but, you must remember…better to be brief.
I have to stop here. I will be brief. In Italy… the responsibility to know stuff… any stuff… all stuff, no matter legal, cultural, Catholic, and even perhaps what a Kardashian wore to Wembley… is YOUR TOTAL RESPONSIBILITY. The Italian State will try to do its best but, it’s a lot of stuff. Are we to take pity on them? Anyway, the onus is on YOU. Another note.
So, now forward again… this part of the adventure brings us to a crucial legal point which separates us Anglo-Saxons, British Empire, American Declaration of Independence, etc. from the Italian State which, for thousands of years, has been repeatedly pillaged and raped and conquered by successive foreign groups, from marauding Huns to one of the most influential and equally devastating, Napoleon. His Little Italian Adventure in the early 1800’s brought a new notion of Law to the Italian peninsula. Basically, Nappy wanted to subject the Italian Peoples with his NEW! NEW!! NEW!!! AND MODERN TOO!!!! Code of Law… the Napoleonic Code. Yippee? What a meglomaniac. His self-named Code is in two parts… as I have understood it:
1) Every Italian law, thanks again to Napoleon, is minutely written to include any AND all possibilities of infraction, so there is NO QUESTION that when you are declared guilty by un giudice, you are. This fits well with the Italian’s instinctive fear of being fregati… ripped off, tricked, the shame of fraud, etc. But then, and since we are talking about Italians, they read all the fine print,… one of the few peoples in the world to do so… seeking any void in the ponderous laws, which would let them get away with murder and/or, infractions of the road.
2) However, and I probably should have put this as Numero 1… YOU ARE GUILTY UNTIL YOU PROVE YOURSELF INNOCENT. Please note: YOU must prove YOURSELF innocent. Good Luck. Again, the Italian State stacks the cards against it own citizens. And, Americans can sue their government. Italians cannot.
All of the above is illogical to me. Maybe to many of you too. The obvious… to me and any other Anglo-Saxons about… ridiculousness of this point-of-view irritates. It’s not fair. And, furthermore, it creates a shitload of problems because, any accusation has the weight of condemnation. How about that?
Wheres… WHEREAS Anglo-Saxon Law is based on precedence. Our laws can often be pretty darn specific…. purposes of graft, probably, to protect those illustrious creeps over in the United States Congress… but, for instance, Thou shall not commit murder can be replied with… It depends… and there you are. Can be a mess though. Enough.
Suming-up... no way getting around it. I was nailed.
The next 20 minutes of my ever shortening life was spent nodding to the dictates from the VOICE OF AUTHORITY. He had soften up a bit once he knew he had me. OK. And, I actually did not find this encounter unpleasant since…
I was lucky. The two Agents could have arrested me and socked me with up to a €30,000 fine. I got one for €100. I paid it immediately to get a discount. Nice, no?
I was amused the two Agents had to study the Carabinieri Self-help Manual… both the paper and tablet ones. Thought it rather endearing. I mean, what Italian can really fathom the country’s interminable Rules & Regulations AND its legalese? Another blog post perhaps.
And, the two Agents were polite to me. I was calm, polite and well behaved too. We found ground to put up with each other. Plus, I was impeccably dressed with really cool Premiata trainers never seen before by either Agent. Of course, I had bought them in the same place as my Driver’s License. Ha!
Thus, I was given a bit of kindly advice by the more mature Conducting Agent to head subito… forthwith… to the local driving school in Fivizzano and talk with its owner, Sig. Baldini, about what will be in-store for me to procure an Italian Driver’s License, and before heading home temporarily protected by a slip of paper issued by said Italian State Official, the more mature Agent, allowing me to this one deviation. After that, I must walk.
While I was away...
I went to Rome. Five days. Two and a half with You, and another two and a half with an old American friend. A recent widow. Plays bridge. Played a lot on the cruise ship she left to meet up with us in the Eternal City. If you are a fan of History, you probably know that Rome has been invaded, sacked, and despoiled a number of times. Visigoths to Charles VII of France to those creeps from the last World War. A long & wide arch. The latest is Mass Tourism. A voracious river of folk. You can’t or, wouldn’t want to image what Rome is like today. Happily, the city still stands… eternal. Meanwhile, back at our Genoese ranch, the Dogs were left with a substitute filling-in for our usual dog-sitters. The two brothers went to Spain for a cousin’s wedding.
Two unexpected things occurred at il Poggiolo during my absence: it got hot and it rained. I had mowed the lawns and weed-whacked where the mower cannot go at some point prior to my departure on a Freccia Bianca train… the Italian TGV… and in preparation of our gardener re-seeding the terraces he had re-built last year. Winter, its dead leaves, lack of water and the drying winds from Siberia… Thank You, Mr Putin?… had ravaged our grassy landscape. Mowed and whacked, everything looked clipped and orderly. Hopeful.
However, I have came back to this…
Forgot to mention the 10-Day Weather Forecast: rain, thunderstorms and, occasionally, heavy stuff until the middle of the last week of May. It’s the Moon’s fault, if you follow the Phases of the Moon.
Bumper crop of grass, I’d say. Weeds, pretty little wild flowers hovering over leafy and equally wild stalks and massive clumps of an insidious cow grass, intermittently graced by what we really want in the category of Grass: Zoysia. We may never get it. A combo or climate change, my occasional bouts of laziness and let me throw in Madam Moon too.
I was amazed. So green, so tall, so abundant. Wish my bank account were so. Power of Mother Nature, when heat & rain are mixed. In our case, suddenly. The welcoming scene alarms my sense of that phrase, clipped and orderly. However, deep down inside me, there is a rebel and having grass shoot up nearly 15 cm in the space of a long weekend has brought it out. I’ll have enough time to enjoy, perhaps even contemplate the transformation for the next 10 days. I have forewarned You. Due in at any moment. Oh! And it’s raining now. Pazienza.
Forgotten photos of il Poggiolo...
The wreck of a house cleaned-up before the four-year re-build…
Spring 2022, when travelling resumed after two consecutive years of Covid-19 Lockdown…
When an Italian friend heard I was going to be in Charleston, South Carolina, where she lives half the year with her American architect husband… of some note, I might add… and the other half of the year perched with him in a terraced villa-with-pool high above the Mediterranean Sea outside Genoa, she asked if I might like to give a talk to her Italian culture group, the Dante Alighieri Society. They’re everywhere in the world, like mushrooms in forests after a rain. I said, No. A typical knee-jerk reaction. Probably hadn’t had a glass of white wine yet. Always improves my receptivity. While I am at it and FYI…
Do not hazard to chat-me-up before I have given the International High-sign that I have sipped dry my second cup of coffee of the morning.
The Italian friend did not take my reply as even remotely acceptable. She remained undaunted. Adamant. Pursued a change of heart with the following flattering enticement… Hey! You could tell the story of your fantastic house in Tuscany. The members will eat it up. You’re living The Dream, you know? Yes, I’ve been previously informed…
A cousin of mine, alighted in fair Codiponte from Addis Abeba on his way to his home in Boston after attending a three-week international conference on Health Care, took one look at me leaning against a beat-up and dusty Hyundai SUV with our Weimaraner hanging out a back window and parked below il Poggiolo, only to holler… Look, dude! You’re living The Dream. Have not been able to shake it since.
The tide did eventually turn in the desired direction on the Italian friend’s fantastic flattery. Still, I equivocated for an extra few moments for dramatic purposes. I like suspense, especially when I have fatto una brutta figura… have embarrassed myself. Yet, perhaps, I just wanted to savour the reverberations of my No before relenting with an enthusiastic… Yes! Actually, the clincher was I had had a congenial idea sprouted during negotiations between that No and Yes! An idea on how-to. What was it? Well, I could draw My Italian House Story with Magic-markers on a big newsprint pad while simultaneously projecting pictorial documents, ie photos, from my vast archive off my laptop. By the way? Where could those photos be?
When did you last take a photo with a roll of film? I haven’t since 2009 with a handy-dandy pocket-sized Olympus film-camera dangled from my neck. Bought it just before You & I had purchased il Poggiolo. I was interested in shooting trash & billboards along the streets of Genoa. Found a better subject personally documenting every phase of restoring the wreck of a Tuscan farm-house we had put money on towards a second life as Our Home in the Lunigiana. How Times have certainly changed with the advent of the iPhone and its camera. Happened mid-stream through our adventure of funnelling €€€’s to builders, electricians, plumbers, painters, etc.. The hard-core construction photos, however, were in print-film and I wanted them for the more mouth-watering part of my talk in Charleston. Somewhere in the house were piles of them. Eureka! happened when I successfully unstuck a drawer of a desk in the Casa Grande, the main part of il Poggiolo.
What a shocker. Apparently, I had DELETED them from my memory. I had to sit down. Then, a question barrelled to the fore as I leafed through the pics… What were we thinking?
Taking a large step backwards to 2009, I want to share a few glimpses of what You saw on his first visit to il Poggiolo a Codiponte on a cold Saturday, the 10th of January 2009. I had had my first visit on the previous Thursday, ridiculously forgetting the Olympus in Genoa. We made an offer after the tour that Saturday and it was accepted on the Monday after…
A second salvo from a overlooked photographic Memory Lane were the those pictures taken in late May of 2009 after the Builder’s Boys had cleared il Poggiolo of all the trash, litter, debris, filth, and icky other stuff… in and around the house & courtyard… and had carted it off to A Somewhere I don’t ever want to know about…
2009, 2010, 2011 and 2012 were the years devoted to re-building il Poggiolo…
And now for you to see the fruits of those labours or, what the dream is all about…
And so, a tasting of the past and present, of forgotten and remembered, of a house and home, il Poggiolo a Codiponte.
A gardener's hands...
I do not biter my nails… anymore.
My hands are ruined. A yearly event. The culprit? Spring yard work at il Poggiolo. And, my consistent refusal to wear gloves. What can I say? I like the feel of Mother Earth and its fauna. However, the consequences are lacerations from shards of glass from a long chucked beer bottle back when il Poggiolo…. abandoned for years… was a stealth receptacle for the Citizens of Codiponte to vent their anger against the former owner, a woman from the town above Codiponte, who had inherited il Poggiolo AND HAD NEVER SET FOOT IN THE PLACE!!!, sharp edged rocks because they have nothing else better to do, iron wires left to rot just under the surface… What? left to enrich the soil?… shavings from terracotta roof tiles, which are more deadly than the glass, and other fun stuff: syringes, metal bands, wood stakes. Oh! And let me also direct blame towards the local water… what little we have going since, there has not been any Spring Rains of note. Water in the Italy, in general, and locally, in the Lunigiana, is quite hard. I have delicate Anglo-Saxon skin. A fluke of My Birth. The liquid is full of chalk. Acid chalk. Coupled with the hard water are the super, extra-concentrated and nearly gel-like detersives in the giant family-sized plastic containers. Chemical Warfare. My skin is raped of its natural oils and moisture. A Modern Day concept of cleanliness? My hand’s skin is dried to the point that bits of skin try to flee the scene of the bio-crime. Naturally, I cannot resist the temptation to chew at a finger or thumb too of some itzy-bitzy piece of skin or, two, unhinged by the above circumstances which, only makes matters worse. Would you like photo-documentation? Take a gander at the above photo.
None of the above explains in visual terms the cramps and soreness of holding pruning shears during warm afternoons of what I most enjoy to do in the realm of yard work: pruning. Raking does come in as a close Second. Both rival each other in the Satisfaction Dept. Quickly identifiable results. And too, I find the twangy noise of a rake gathering dead leaves and twigs and my Kleenex’s fallen out of my trouser pocket into transportable piles extremely meditative. Or, the start of a Country & Western tune, if I were so musically clever to dream one up. Pruning has more abrupt sensations. A brief cracking. Ecco! As the recalcitrant limb falls to Earth.
You is horrified by this off-with-their-limbs tendency of mine. I think he actually enjoys berating… criticising… condemning!!! me right after one of his Giardino Tours of Inspection. I dislike this sense of superiority…. or, do I mean his Democracy in possibly defending the Innocent?… towards what I am forced to do with il Poggiolo’s Plant Life. It’s not him at 5’ 4” whose head gets severely gouged by a low hanging olive branch. So much for Peace. And is there not A Gardening Rule on the books, which states trees and bushes and things actually appreciated having their Dead Stuff hacked off? Though, as for the live manifestations of Mother Nature, it might be prudent to leave well enough alone. Let things grow. Go sip a cappuccino or, enjoy a chilly white wine. Our Future is so uncertain now. But what happens when letting things grows means loosing a precious view or, provoking too much shade for the other members of the near-by Plant Life, ie our grassy terraces… to flourish too? Once, however, You did not maintain his Cool, while I whacked off the tops of a high… a very high… hedge planted to protect the interior of il Poggiolo exposed to the harsh Garfagnana Winter Winds on the Eastern side of the house. It was killing the grass below. On another point, that hedge… or, any hedge, for that matter…might reach such a height that any thought of lowering it would be eliminated just by the obvious logistical concerns, ie climbing a wobbly ladder too low to reach its tips. You screamed and he hollered, and then, he promptly left in a clipped huff and went back to Genoa. I continued until completion of my task at hand assisted by our ever true Weimaraner, Croesus. I trimmed and he watched and sunbathes. Took 36 hours before You called me. C’est la vie. Shave and a hair-cut, two bits! But my hands! After a day’s efforts in Pruning… or, Other, I could barely hold a fork to eat the post yard work and one of my Most Favourite Feel Good Meals of bastoncini di pesce e patate al forno. Buon Appetito!
A Saturday of sunshine...
The last Thursday of March, it was overcast and cold. A grey day which later supplied an annoyingly weak form of spray for all of about 37 seconds, ON & OFF. If we have to do without sunshine, at least, couldn’t Climate Change give us abundant rainfall? Our garden needs a long drink of H2O. As for the last Friday in March, there were morning clouds opening up to a breezy afternoon of filtered sunshine. Still fairly cold. We stayed inside by the fire. The nine foot sofa can just about hold two dogs and two guys. On the First Saturday of April… NO JOKES, please… it was nearly 80F degrees. Fine frying weather. You-know-who, our two Weimaraners, Croesus and newly adopted, Anthea, and me, got to work on our respective tans. While graced by the Sun, we did what God had intended us to do on a Saturday afternoon: reading for us two-legged creatures and incessant barking at alien neighbours and UFO noises by the four-legged ones, our own in-house Protection Squadron.
Humans normally go slowly from white to tan, hopefully with protection 50 slapped on to forestall the risk of a sunburn. However, You goes from already black to way much more blacker, even with Protection 50 abundantly applied. It’s why he always gets sequestered by TSA when arriving in the US of A. You’s operandus primarius is his abbronzatura… or, his sun-tan. The consequence of being an eye doctor sequestered in darkened rooms with folk who have glaucoma or, other eye-sight issues. The dogs haphazardly evolve their hides into an ever paler version of their inimitable taupe chic. As for me, I just burn & freckle. Ahhh, the joys of being an Anglo-Saxon in Sunny Italy. Wish I could roll around on warm stone and rise up beautiful. Not to be. And, sadly, too much wine.
There is no better place to pass a hot, sunny, and blessedly quiet Saturday than out on our aia. Google Translate tells me that the three-letter Italian word aia means barnyard. Not any more. What with a wrought-iron pergola and draped grape vines, a terracotta topped table & chairs, an iron chaise with more cushions than even a Pasha could want, plus six Baroque-y cement vases at every quadrant, all when the warmer Seasons are about. Like having another room in your home. And the largest one too. The aia is il Poggiolo’s Summer HQ for our daily life: dogs sleeping it off in the mornings, pasta lunch under the shade of the pergola to buffets of assorted salumi e formaggi e vino d’ogni colore for early evening aperitivi and on to dinner parties lasting past Midnight. Then to bed elsewhere in the complex. There are nine of them.
But back to Saturday’s idle… You propped his 5 foot 8 inch frame on the latest flea-market acquisition of a shoddy white adjustable cabana lounger… circa 1970’s. He aimed it directly at the Good Ol’ Sole to read his paperback book. You is a voracious reader. I fear he knocks-off three books in a week to my half of one or, perhaps, more likely, one quarter of one. Sometimes, feeling lonesome or overlooked to You’s preference for the Sun, I attempt to strike up a literary conversation during what I have since realised is tacitly construed by You to be A NO TALKING SUNBATHING PERIOD, by enthusiastically asking what he is reading. I get a garbled reply of some title in Italian…
A word about translations between Italian and English book & movie titles. The translations are hardly literally matched. The difference can strike one as being an invention or, a disclaimer. For instance, Joseph Heller’s book, Catch-22 is translated as Paragraph 22 in the Italian. Does paragraph imply an impossible situation in Italian? Might be. Ever see how an Italian law i s written. Catch-22.
I opt for an immediate closing with one quick question: whether he’s enjoying the read? N’er a grumbled response can hide a definitive, No! The poor record. Few Yesses given.
I instead nestle my ample Scottish backside into a rattan wonder-chair…. wonder, because it has wonderfully survived so many cold & muggy Winters in the cantina and not shattered into nothingness… to read a well written and fluid biography of George Washington obliquely positioned to the Sun’s rays. I can use my good right eye to read and shield myself with the book, out of shot of the sunlight. My late breaking Read List of arduous non-fiction tales have lately ended up by Page 37 to be only vanity products, entailing years of paying for massive research, bought-for literary consultancies under the call for organisational H-e-l-p!!! and publisher’s theoretical editing for the likes of Dame Antonia Fraser or, that megalomaniac journalist-media-entrepreneur-person, Arianna Huffington. These gals and others apparently couch the need to make a splash by scribbling away upon ever frigging tidbit of their biographee’s life & limb. Means my arms wear-out holding a 608+ page tome against the Sun, risking a black eye or, a bruised cheek, in the process. I do not want to know what the person ate for breakfast or, what occurred in the vicinity of their birthplace two-hundred years before. Though ranting, I did learn that President Washington had constant problems with his dentures. But that was it. What I do want to learn and savour, possibly, is for someone to distill ALL THE INFO into a viable and entertaining and illuminating description of who the person was. The Best Bio to date has been a two-hundred & fifty-eight page biography on Sir Winston Churchill. It rocked and I was given a great idea about the gentleman to carry with me for the rest of my life. Thank you.
And, because I am a superior Mommy to our Adored Canines, both insist with various motions of body language… stray looks of turned head and energetic tail wagging… that the only acceptable spot for their mattresses is to be laid nearly on top of my person. And, if not, then right next door, say, at my feet. It’s called worship.
The afternoon passed with n’er a sound of motorcycles barrelling up the SR 445 towards the Carpanelli Pass and the Grafagnana beyond nor, hikers trooping past our back exit to take in the derelict Castello di Codiponte above & behind us, and other disturbances. No. Only Anthea on the alert for Neighbour Aliens and Noisy UFO’s. Disappointingly, Croesus, now has learned to follow suit. The World does not require two Weimaraners barking up a storm. Poor Neighbours. Both women came out to tend to the laundry flapping in the easy breeze only to be audibly assaulted by first a 23 kilo Weimaraner outraged by their appearance in her presence and secondly by another weighing in at 36 kilos. C’est la vie. The current tactic in our household, however, is to approve whole-heartedly Anthea’s barking, bathing her in warm approbations of… Good Girl… It’s all right… You’re so Brave, so Fierce, so True… if only a certain person would aligned himself with The Program. Most of the time she stops and comes for a back scratch. If not, then, as the Anointed Mommy, I have to yell… at full volume… BASTA!!! Shuts her right up. Back scratch? Doggie cookie? A lay-down on a mattress? Anthea choses all three.
A couple of us sought shade. Not You. The man stuck it out until nearly 6:00PM. I eventually repaired to La Casetta to begin preparations for our Saturday Night Dinner. You is so lucky to have me as his Chief Cook & Bottle Washer. Besides, the Sun seemed to be permanently stuck at 4:00PM over yonder chestnut tree decked hills. Felt I had already gotten sun-burned. This would not have been the case, if it were not for Le Ore Legali…. or, Daylight Savings Time… recently instituted last weekend. Not a fan. I see NO REASON to ruin a lovely & bright Spring Morning to instead have DARKNESS at 7:00AM, and then, to be subjected to the terrorism of ENDLESS LIGHT past 8:30PM and soon to be way beyond that hour. But, enough, our Happy day of Saturday Sunshine turned into a Happy Saturday Evening with steaming bowl of pumpkin & potato soup and toasted pieces of brown bread perched on our laps before a fire. The dogs previously fed snore on the sofa between us. I love this time of year.
Mystery all'italiana...
A bit of a hiatus from posting regularly at Italian House Blog. Sorry. Let’s blame it on Lockdown. Easy enough. But, oh! Not actually doing Lockdown but, Lockdown as an unavoidable topic of daily conversation, news, written discourse, whatsapp cartoons anf funny videos, self-inflicted thought vortices from the isolation chamber of our lives these days. Just couldn’t bear it any more. Took a break. But, I am back…
I have lived in Italy for over half my life. I’ve chocked-up a lot of experiences. A few left lasting impressions. Many are the consequences, and, today, one is that I look at Italy as a place full of mystery. Mysteries. Mostly on religious grounds and anchored, if that is the right verb, to the Madonna. Disparate sightings even here in Codiponte. Otherwise, statues bleeding, trees along country roads crying real tears, other tears on statuettes in chapel alcoves. Still, the Madonna was a woman, wife, mother and then, lastly, a saint. Yeah, yeah, so her kid was the Messiah. Some Italian women think their sons are the Messiah. And the sons in turn think their mothers are Madonna’s. Equality is, apparently, an attribute of the Catholic religion. While the sons decide to toe the line or not, the mothers… of any nationality!!!… hoping for the former from their off-spring, are responsible for a worrying mystery: their destructive relationship with vacuum cleaners. It is a speciality of our five cleaning ladies… all of them, Catholic. Only to say. And then, there’s You’s mother…
The mother killed my Miele vacuum cleaner when she used it to clean up the mess of a family Christmas pranzo. I was co-habitating with You and his mother for a short while and I brought along some Essential Items, ie. my Miele vacuum cleaner. The Best! All it took was for the mother to run over a grotesque accumulation of walnuts and pistachios shells and other junk on the carpet of the Sala da Pranzo for the poor mechanical beast to gag and expire. 10 days later, the fine folk at the Miele Repair Station, located in the mountainous hinterlands outside Genoa, entrusted me with a revitalised vacuum cleaner and a strong recommendation to keep it away from You’s mother.
I… we… did but, it then fell into the destructive hands of our First Cleaning Lady. She came on board when You & I moved into our first apartment we had bought together in Genoa. The Cleaning Lady #1 managed to kill the Miele out-right. Never understood the circumstances. Neither of us shared Italian as a common mother language and You wasn’t around. So, a mystery. The repair Signori’s faces demonstrated shock & dismay at such an unfortunate event. Augurs ill with the Italians… men. The machine was left with the Signori for its parts.
You & I went to a sooper-dooper appliance store just this side of the Genoese mountainous hinterlands and bought a brand new fancy Dyson vacuum cleaner. Just out on the market in Italy. Cost a bloody fortune. Our Second Cleaning Lady…. the first found an easier job caring for an elderly gentleman. Walks twice-a-day, plus two hot meals and lots of TV… and, she didn’t like Our Puppy!!!… took her chores with a rapt endeavour to clean and arrange our apartment to perfection. Motto being No More Dirt, No More Grime , just Spic ‘n Span.
One fine day, she took it upon herself to fare una pulitina to the apartment’s terrace overlooking the city of Genoa as it rises from the Mediterranean Sea up towards? Mountainous hinterlands, of course. The Cleaning Lady #2 rested the main body of the Dyson up and onto 2 oleanders in large terracotta vases set in an iron trough for such things and anchored to the railing running around the terrace, while directing the nozzle at the dirt & grime she spied behind tubes next to said plants. Pulling at the nozzle, the machine said Adio! to the oleanders, leapt off its perch and fell 9 floors to a fragmented… totally pulverised… Death along the rail line of the funicular below. This, I surmised, were the circumstances for the vacuum cleaner Volare! Oh, Oh! from a mixture of Spanish & Italian of the Cleaning Lady #2… because neither she nor I shared Italian as a mother language… again. Why everyone thinks Spanish is so similar to Italian is another mystery to me. Nothing is the same and especially the verbs. Babble only.
The Cleaning Lady #2 was understandably upset… mortified. She feared loosing her job. She asked and I gave her a short whisky and sought to calm her anxieties about any doubts regarding to a secure employment with us. Machines can be replaced. A good cleaning lady cannot. And she was a good cleaning lady. Perhaps a bit too rigorous but, a good cleaning lady. She also adored our Weimaraner Puppy. And he adored her too. The Cleaning Lady #2 promised to avoid any more gymnastics. Discovered later she resorted to using a broom… mostly. The Dog was afraid of the vacuum cleaner and she respected his fear. Too much ruckus and he could never get the hang of where the thing was going. He’d bolt for the safety of il suo posto underneath my computer. But, she liked his company. Followed her wherever she went. How she got rid of the Weimaraner hair-loss yet another mystery. Three years later, she divorced her creepy first husband… a Ray Liotta type as in that gangster movie but, definitely not as cute… became an Italian citizen and, I guess to celebrate, fell in love with a real nice Italian man, whom we met and liked, from Parma and moved away. to be with him. We stay in touch via Instagram.
Cleaning Lady #3 dropped the second Dyson down stairs, injuring its plastic but it still sucked up Weimaraner hair. Another who preferred a broom. Maybe. Not sure. A couple of years later, she moved back home to Nicaragua to nurse her aged mother & father. She kept odd working hours despite our encouragement to come either in the morning after 9AM or after 2PM in the afternoon. Not at 8PM at night!!!
Cleaning Lady #4 let the Dyson choke to death because, she was afraid to actually touch the thing. EXCEPT to pull the cord out… which later she literally did rip out completely… and to turn it ON. A hint for all of you and it would apply to any type of vacuum cleaner: if you want to suffocate the contraption until it’s lifeless, DON’T EVER EMPTY ITS CONTAINER. Guaranteed method. Works every time.
You & I bought a third Dyson. Latest model. Lot of plastic. Lighter. Cost rivalled the GNP of… Sierra Leone… perhaps, Ghana AND Togo too. You asked me to conduct an obligatory training class with our new Cleaning Lady, #4, on the proper care and use of the new Dyson. She is still in our employ. And the machine works though is showing the effects of its work-a-day life. Cleaning Lady #4 likes to slam her foot on the Big Red Button to turn it ON or OFF and let drop to the Travertine floor, come-what-may, the nozzle, every time her mobile phone rings. Children needing their mother. Requires more instruction but I am not in Genoa. Figurati se You facesse gli istruzioni!!!
Meanwhile, here at il Poggiolo, we have Cleaning Lady #5. We had two Dysons for il Poggiolo. One for below nella Casetta and another upstairs for l’Appartamento Azzuro. One or the other was used to vacuum la Casa Grande in the middle. These two Dysons were sadly on their last suck. Country Cleaning can be a tough go. Dog hair, ashes, Mother Earth in all her variations!!! The oldest… a model from 2009 died inconveniently in the throws of performing its duty as I vacuumed the sisal carpets in the Stanza dei Tini. No funeral or memorial service. The carcass was left in the company of an odd-lot of rejects at the trash containers area in the parking lot above il Poggiolo. Someone had thrown an even older PC out… a cathode monitor large enough to require its own room, a basket with a ruined handle, which I half thought of stealing… You has trained me to spot worthy trash for larceny… and some antiquated gas containers. Those, no thank you. The other Dyson inhales filth pretty well but, its plastic structure has seen better days. It has been put out to rest until an emergency requires its Dyson perfected suction action. Like no other.
I went to the local sooper-dooper appliance store in La Spezia and bought 3 well-priced Hoovers. I did so on the recommendation of an English friend, who swears by hers. The price of the simplest Dyson would’ve dented Brazil’s GNP but, alas, they were out-of-stock. Very disappointed with the Hoovers, I must say. Cannot handle Weimaraner hairs or fireplace ashes. I wanted another Dyson.
You loves Lidl, this German discount grocery chain. He insisted on one rainy Saturday that we go there to do his grocery shopping for the week in Genoa. Brand new, slanted roof, lofty ceilings warehouse of a grocery store. Contemporary German Architecture. Spiffy, clean, orderly. Takes time to recognise what you need or want looking a decapitated card-board boxes. Eventually, you get hang of it. The real reason You loves the store so much is there are two isles dedicated to stuff. Sorry. Stuff. And, at the end of one but, what did I find. A Dyson stick vacuum cleaner!!! And at half the price of those at the sooper-dooper appliance store. Bought one and proudly took it home to il Poggiolo.
Our sweet and hard-working Cleaning Lady # 5 came last week to put back to rights la Casetta, My Winter HQ with the Dog. Takes no time at all for the Weimaraner to shed his pelt creating the most luxuriously grand hair balls… under my bed, on the stairs, in the bathroom!!! Then, his croquettes end up lodged in the strangest locations or, Option B, all over the Kitchen’s floor. Dog refuses to eat anything outside his doggie dish.
She was so happy to see the Dyson over the Hoovers. I left her to do her thing. She called me to say she had killed the Dyson. What? Si, non va. Did you re-charge it. Si, ma niente. OK. Non preoccuparti. Got home later to find the lid to the dust container wasn’t fully closed so, the machine would not go. Easily resolved. Cleaning Lady #5 was relieved to hear the Dyson worked when I called her with the Good News.
But why all these troubles with vacuum cleaners? Cleaning Ladies #’s 1 to 5 do not kill dish or clothes washers. They can turn ON & OFF lights without short-circuiting the house. They flush toilets, and yet, there are no floods, Thank God!!! Just vacuum cleaners. Are they afraid of the noise? Or sucking up something never to be found again? They miss the quiet contemplation of a good sweep? A sentiment I share, by the way. They dislike being pursued by the very thing they are dragging around or, is it that they do not want to be entrapped by the long cord? No idea. A mystery.
Dyson stick vacuum cleaner.
Sainted weather...
The topics in Codiponte these days are two: Covid Lockdown or, the weather. Let’s talk about the weather. I haven’t belly-ached about it for a while…
it’s been raining for the last two months! The story…
You calls me about 10 times a day. A mainstay of our shared Lockdown since last February. The first call is usually around 8:30AM. I have already had one caffe’ and am working on a second when the iPhone squeals the arrival of his call. They are a forum for him to ask… Che tempo che fa… literally, What’s the weather?… but, in another sense of the Italian, it’s really to ask… What’s up? Well, more than a month ago… on December 2, 2020, to exact… You called at Our Anointed Morning Hour and I took his query as an opportunity to complain about the weather…
Pretty darn shitty, You. Cold and grey. IT’S RAINING!!! And, there’s a new Moon tonight too. Means we have to put up with this crappy weather for the next month, thanks to the phases stuff.
Va’ be’… buckle your belt… said You… because, besides la luna nuova, it’s also the onomastico for Saint Bibiana. The saint’s name day. You’ve got rain coming for the next 40 days.
What? Saints get an extension to the month-long climate change?
Go to go.
And, lo’ and behold, our weather has obeyed the saintly order of things. The January weather forecast is for continued rain to reach the 40 days!!!
Lately, we’ve enjoyed a rhythm of 6 days of cold, grey, rain, wind and 1 of semi-sunshine. Ephemeral is our Signor Sole. Covid-19 has taken a back seat along with Donald Trump, Brexit, the recent Christmas holidays. People are going nuts about the wet.
Who is Saint Bibiana? A virgin and martyr, of course. Wikipedia states 2 legends. One is soft-core suffering and the 2nd is XXL suffering to martyrdom. Let’s focus on the later. Bibiana was the daughter of a Roman Empire functionary, Flavianus, who unfortunately irritated his emperor by being a devout Christian. The emperor wanted to rid Rome of the scourge of Christianity, and so named one, Apronianus, as governor of the Eternal city, entrusted with the mandate to bring a hasty end to any Christian when and where found. Flavianus was discovered, tortured and banished. Bibiana’s mother, Dafrosa, was beheaded… which seems a bit unfair… while Bibiana and her sister, Demetria, were relegated to a life of poverty under house arrest. The two fasted and prayed. What else could they do? It didn’t end there. Apronianus was so appalled the two women could survived his punishment, he had the two women brought before him. Demetria confessed her Christian faith and promptly died at the governor’s sandalled feet. Saved herself a lot of trouble and pain, which fell upon Bibiana. She was turned over to a wicked-woman, who tried to seduce the poor virgin. Rejected, the vile female beat poor Bibiana yet, she steadfastly remained true to her faith, like her sister. Apronianus, furious, took the matter in his own hands and had the poor virgin dragged and tied to a pillar and viciously beaten until death. Bibiana’s body was then tossed to wild animals who refuse to touch it. Years later, Pope Semplicius conferred upon her a holy martyrdom. And, the martyr’s former house was consecrated as a church dedicated to her and her martyrdom. And, for all those sufferings, we are now paying penance with rain, rain, and more rain. Snow for tomorrow afternoon. Naturally. We’re in January.
Mid-life home crisis...
It’s a question.
It is not what you think…
11 years at il Poggiolo. And, in the last 5 months, You & I have built-in 2 fireboxes in la Casa Grande and painted the Salotto and the Sala da Pranzo in Our Signature Blue-blue-blue paint colour. Also, we’ve tag-team-ed to re-waxe every blooming terracotta paver from down at la Casetta to the farthest reaches of la Casa Grande. Farthest reaches? I am referring to the Laundry cum Bathroom. The mould build-up, which does need to be addressed but, not until after Covid-19 takes a hike and departs… forever… does lend a mild air of Black Hole of Calcutta. Often, party guests ask if there’s a more normal bathroom to use… somewhere else. Bet it’s the slatted double-doors. They scare everyone… including the Dog. Their procedure is not clearly evident to My Adored Canine. Nor do we have anything similar around. People these days hate any infringement upon their privacy. I’m really just joking. The black mould is only around the base of the shower platform. I occasionally take an old toothbrush to scour it out. And no, I will not post a photo to prove it. Just trust me.
What else?
I have single-handedly spiffed up the pergola… a major enterprise with il Poggiolo’s decorative infrastructure and done with the same amount of toil & trouble committed to our garden & loggia furniture. Killed some wood-worms too. The beasties were housed in a few of the wood slats of our favoured Loggia chairs.. Died a stinging Death with the anti-rust treatments and paint. The big wood-worm job will be to do the 220 year old tini… wine vats… suffering from the on-going onslaught of our bros, more of the local wood-worms. They are not particularly clever creatures. They leave identifiable piles of their masticated bio-waste on the concrete floor below the tini in the passageway between the great outdoors on the aia and the Laundry cum Bathroom inside. Might be the piles which discourages guests to risk the trip to use the toilet, do you suppose?
What’ really going on?
I think the above chores are actually a decennial re-evaluation of il Poggiolo. Ongoing. And year late too. Well, maybe not. Last year I spent a whopping amount of Euros having new windows and doors made for l’Appartamento Azzurro and la cucina in la Casa Grande. So whopping because, the firm, which was entrusted to do the work, told me after the done-deed about some extra and very necessary items not included in the original estimate. Really? How much? That much? BOING!!! I had to scurry to a Higher Authority… Our Esteemed Geomatra… to mediate. You was livid. Nearly choked on a pasta spitting out his indignation of the newly requested Additional Funds.. Per fortuna… Our Esteemed Geometra negotiated a more acceptable arrangement.
I do think Covid-19 might be to blame for this year’s re-evaluation and subsequent changes to il Poggiolo’s decorative infrastructure. I have spent so much time at il Poggiolo, it has become Our True Home. This, mentioned in a previous blog post. Work as a concierge/travel planner or house hunter has dried up. The new Lockdown Lite keeps me nailed to Codiponte…. obviously. So, My Only Job is to keep after il Poggiolo… garden & house together. Apparently, this crisis, so to speak, is catching. You’s caught the fever. Showed up at our Loggia with gifts from his 10 day R&R in Sardinia canvasing flea-markets, fairs and antiques shops, when not sunbathing on a beach… in late-October!!! Those Sardinians can sure can liquidate the stuff. Silk & wool area rug for Euro 130. Others smaller for Euro 5 or 10. Richard Ginori porcelain services for Euro 50… or, for less!!! He spent last weekend… our last weekend together before the Italian Government’s new Lockdown Hard sent one of us back to his respective corner in Genoa and his work in hospital in Savona, a den of Covid-19, on Sunday… finding spots, locations, places for all of it. I sat wearing my wooly slippers in a poltrona sipping a chilly white wine and admiring the fire in Our Home. Cin-cin to crises.
Chores this Fall 2020...
It’s Fall now…
days are getting noticeably shorter. Sunrise & sunset are now more like it ought to be. I am not a fan of Springing forward and Falling back. Let’s just stay put with Time as Time wants to be. Before those time-change gymnastics… near to Halloween… mornings were dull & dark and evenings were brighter later. I want to eat, but cannot do supper when the sun is shinning with full force. Imagine what hour we eat in June. You loves the late hour. Italians. No breakfast and dinner at bed-time. I HATE it. Hungry at 6PM, on the dot and in the dark. Now, at 7AM it’s light and at 5PM it’s dark. Good. The Cocktail Hour. Supper’s on the table at 6pm.
A bad patch of days and days and days of heavy do-nothing clouds… the time spent with this grim scenario was equal to that spent with anxiety-attacks anticipating an acceptable outcome with the American Election on the 3rd of November… the nights are now cold and the days are sunny & warm.
Trees’ leaves have turned about as much as they ever will, and though not rivalling the Fall Colour in the US & Canada, there is still great beauty to Italy’s show. Softer, subtler, a more intriguing beauty. And so it goes.
But, let’s go back to that bad patch…
nothing could be done with the garden at il Poggiolo. The grey, misty weather brought a sodden, muggy mess. And occurred when the days’ length warranted warm & sunny afternoons to work in the garden. Now, the terraces hardly see the sun but for a couple of hours, from 2PM until the sun slips gently behind the chestnut grove covered hills to the West of Codiponte at 4:30PM. Grass is too wet to cut, leaves are too wet to rake AND/OR blow and, transplanting roses and other flora may have to be put off until Spring. About all I can do is amble around il Poggiolo’s mushy garden delicately watching out wherefore I tread, so as not to disturb The Croesus-person’s well-laid and abundant bio-donations, coupled with the risk of bringing along some unwanted trace thereof.
In the interim, I had to retreat to the cover of the Loggia to scrape, sand, treat for rust… and paint, for cryin’ out loud, various ornaments of our aia…. or, courtyard… and garden. Chairs, tables, benches. An exception was the 19th Century pergola in dire need of first-aid. We have been lax with up-keep, a noted Italian Tradition. I administered a stop-rust, an anti-rust, and then, painted it in our delightful Signature Outdoor Pale Green, on the few days the misty rain withheld its visit. And, I now know why re-painted outdoor furniture, railings, pergolas and stuff always look so lumpy. Tons of anti-rust cures underneath the last layers of paint. Much like You looks with his multi-layers of clothing against any suspected cold of Fall. A sever chill is due in at the end of the week. I feel a Plant Moving Day coming upon me in the next 48 hours. All which remains are to treat & paint four garden chairs… one of the photos below… and two benches off a ferry boat, both bought at a mega-antiques fair in Parma. Then, I am going to have to deal with the garden. So, mush I will!
Right before the Italian Government put Italy into a colour-coded Lockdown, You and a niece’s boy-friend… sporting Little Lord Fauntleroy long hair… erected a balustrade with pieces from the villa in Genova which used to belong to You’s family before WWII. Pretty, no? Heavy, for sure. Unfortunately not permanently fixed. I sent an iPhone picture to Our Builder to entice him into giving us a date to come and put secure the marble villa compilation and other chores needing his attention. No such luck. He did reply admiring You’s hutzpah of impatience. He can skip a meal, if he must but when it comes to stuff, he’s right on it.
Ma il cielo e’ sempre piu’ blu...
A friend in Genoa sent me a message the other day remarking… Brutto momento in questi giorni… An ugly moment in these days. A typical Italian comment and one obviously directed at our country’s return to Lockdown, a soft-core one decreed last Sunday night by the Italian PM Conte…
No one likes the word Lockdown. The PM tried to avoid its use in his announcement. .Many in government & business are worried by the economic situation in Italy provoked by last Spring’s Covid Lockdown. None like the word pandemic either. Might be exhaustion. Apparently, the powers-that-be do love the word crisis. One word I rarely hear is jobs, unless it is about their disappearance. Just the word economy. Bandied about by the G & B worriers. I was wondering… does economy pay a family’s bills? Put food on their table? When there are no jobs? Economy only produces anxiety. Nothing practical about that. I digress…
I say typical comment because, the Italians say the same when the forecast calls for a week of rain. And, we have had more than a week of it. Oh, well, back to Covid…
In the arc of 6 weeks, Italy has gone from a daily average of 150 new Covid cases to yesterday’s astounding 27,000., less 169. Predictions are for 30,000+ by the end of the weekend. The graph line is supposed to continue to climb. May call for a re-think on the above words no one likes.
I am upset by this news but, I am alos not upset or, especially surprised. Dottore You has repeatedly stated, and from last March, that loosening the Rules & Regulations of movement & activities del popolo coupled with the traditional Fall/Winter Flu Season would create notable to frightening spikes with Covid-19 cases by October. Eccoci… 26.831 on October 28, 2020. As many know from the News & Internet, these massive increases of new cases are duplicated in the rest of Europe and the World. And, the US is the winner of the Covid-19 Do-do Award: number of new cases, deaths, and Intensive Care patients, etc. Congratulations? You reap what you sow. Whereas our Good News in Italy is the number of deaths and cases requiring Intensive Care in hospital are low. Way low. Early detection? Might be. The numbers for Covid tests are now running well over a 100,000 a day and increasing. Good deal. It’s not all un brutto momento. Well, then…
Codiponte is now no longer untouched by Covid-19. Unfortunately, a worse case scenario on several fronts. The worst being the prejudice against Muslims in my adopted country. A Muslim family from Viareggio moved into a rental house right on the Codiponte’s piazzetta. The natives became restless to the point of alarm and asked… Why did they move in a pandemic and to of all places, Codiponte? The authorities were called. Officials showed up with the Carabinieri and Public Health staff decked out in the medical coveralls, masks, helmets, gloves and notepads. They discovered 2 of the family of 6 tested positive for Covid-19. Immediate quarantine. The natives are now restless to the point of hysterics. No one walks about anymore and particularly across the piazzetta. They drive.
And, the Lunigiana is now too a Covid hot spot. Tabaccherie, bars & stores, which sell giornali… or, newspapers… tack-up pre-printed posters outside with the day’s headlines to catch your attention as you zip by in your car. Me, sporting a mask and housed in my beat-up SUV with a crazed Weimaraner on the back bench huffing & puffing to Run Wild, Run Free in the surrounding wildernesses ASAP…
23 casi nuovi ad Aulla… Fivizzano Hot Spot… Lunigiana assalta dal Covid… and so & so forth.
My dear German friend cruises the ASL website…. the Italian health service… to check the latest Covid statistics in Tuscany. FYI…
Codiponte is a village in the Lunigiana, which is a contiguous area within the Province of Massa-Carrara, which is in the Italian region of Tuscany.
The Tuscan stats are not encouraging at all. Suddenly, the pandemic fells like it is on top of us. Better not to look? I think so…
I have been in Lockdown, only slightly modified since Lockdown Liberation Day last June 3rd. At You’s insistence. He’s still getting regular Health & Interior Ministries Covid updates. They are not what il popolo italiano vuole sentire. Bad news. Thus, I am back to Full-tilt Lockdown.
Unexpectedly, and though I could not find anything worthwhile on Netflix to watch back in March to June Lockdown, I am happy to report or, possibly, more like embarrassed to admit, I have found a few things to enjoy on the channel. Nothing cruel, mean, scary, gory or plain d-d-dumb. The bill-of-faire? I especially liked The Fundamentals Of Caring, an independent flick with some terrific actors… Paul Rudd, who is still cute and his face has lost its baby-fat, the famous Jennifer Ehle for her Elizabeth in the BBC’s Pride & Prejudice of nearly a century ago… 1995… another English actor, Craig Roberts, and the formidable Selena Gomez, who had the best part, lines AND delivery in the movie. She was fantastic. I was so impressed. Made me laugh a lot too. Story…. must be a phase we’re in that nothing is truly interesting to the Viewing Public unless traumatic baggage are brought along to give Rhyme and/or Reason to the tale… Paul’s character lost a child in an accident, spinning him off towards divorce and job loss. He takes a course in Caring and ends up knocking on the front door of the mom played by Jennifer Ehle, and her wheelchair condemned son, Trevor, played by Craig Roberts. Dead pan humour aiding & abetting a road trip to confront Life’s pain…. Start the car. We’re going to the fucking pit! Good Flick. Highly recommend it.
Another was A Suitable Boy taken from a 1,500 page tome… Really? 1,500 pages?… written by the Indian/English writer/poet, Vibram Seth. Ever hear of The Golden Gate? Fewer pages. It’s a novel in poetic form. The Limited Series produced by BBC and developed/directed by Mira Nair… remember Salaam Bombay?… has a sizeable Indian cast with wonderful actors. Here is the blurb from Netflix…
A vast, panoramic tale charting the fortunes of four large families and exploring India and its rich and varied culture at a crucial point in its history.
Yep. Partition. Mostly the story interest is about a young woman destined to marry a suitable boy. Her intended who won was so endearing. Thought her choice a good one despite that fact he was her mother’s choice too. An hysterical and mildly stupid woman… alla Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice. Elizabeth’s mother in a sari. The 6 episodes consumed 3 evenings with white wine sitting in a cosy poltrona next to the new firebox in Casa Grande’s Salotto.
Alas, Feature Presentations are not my main Lockdown pursuit. Household tasks galore…
After the enormous success with the installation of the two fireboxes, You & I have gotten on our hands & knees to wax ALL of the terracotta floors at il Poggiolo. You was ruthless. Single-handedly brushed & buffed the stuff in la Casetta. He seemed to take to buffing as something fun to do. I did la Casa Grande’s Laundry, Kitchen and Loggia. We together tackled the same house’s Salotto’s and Sala da Pranzo’s pavements. Big sweaty work and long overdue.
Alone, I have treated the pergola with Stop-Rust, anti-rust too and, when the sun finally comes out long enough, I will paint the thing in our Signature Out-door Stuff Paint Colour. There are more garden furniture pieces to treat & paint, the wine vats to lather with anti-wood-worms… another instance for wearing a mask. The fumes are lethal… nearly. Must re-paint the Entrance Stairs cupboard door. This will require lots of sanding before I ever get to the paint. Got to clean out and… shhh… throw away junk we don’t need. And, there are the Garden Tasks of cutting the grass, raking leaves, re-planting some roses and moving plants, which cannot stand cold temps, into la Casa Grande’s Kitchen, a partial green-house, thanks to the glass doors and the sink’s window and the room’s Southern exposure.
All in all, not too bad a Covid moment. Good News. Bad News. And, I’m out of circulation, got things to do, enough white wine & Netflix to remediate the after-effects of any hard labours, there’s the crazed Weimaraner to drag me out of il Poggiolo for yonder forests, and, You is due in Codiponte soon. Now, if everyone would buck up for little while longer, put themselves in Lockdown for a month or two, we might just win faster this battle against the coronavirus. May sound a bit like… If they do not have bread, let them eat cake… but, there is help. from the Italian Government and laterally from the Catholic Church et al. More assitance is on its way from the European Community. Ifthe G & B Worriers would step aside or, remove their greedy paws from the pot and let it get to those truly in need, more would be able to say… Ma il cielo e’ sempre piu’ blu!!!
Home...
You & I bought il Poggiolo because, I wanted a house in the country. Since we live in Italy, the nearest acceptable country to Genoa, our permanent residence, was the Lunigiana. This little known corner of Northwestern Tuscany is similar to the kind of territory I had known and adored from visiting relatives in The South… predominantly, the Piedmont and Appalachian areas of South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia. Destiny did the rest.
The house is large and is divided into three parts. The inhabitants had once lived up in the Appartamento Azzurro. I know this Codiponte family. Many were born in what is now my Bedroom. Every now & then, one comes across their initials etched into stone pavers around il Poggiolo. Then, the last of the children grew up, married and moved out. The parents relocated down to La Casetta which, was given an economical re-do by the owner of il Poggiolo… a woman who had inherited the property and rarely set foot in it. Wonders of wonders, a new, modern AND indoor Bathroom!!! The central house, our la Casa Grande, was a vast hay barn and small workrooms for making salamis, cheeses and wine. The garden wasn’t a garden but, a vineyard. The only remnants of this past are the two tini… wine vats… in a passageway connecting the outdoor courtyard…. l’aia… to the cool room where those fruits of labor were once stored and is now il Poggiolo’s communal Laundry and Bathroom.
We had to completely rebuild il Poggiolo from the foundations to the roof. No foundations with Italian houses of yesteryears. Instead, they were either built… lent would be another verb here… against an existing structure…. in il Poggiolo’s case, the remnants of the perimeter walls of the Castle of Codiponte which, one can see on the aia… courtyard… or, erected upon a rocky mount. Akin to keeping something stationary, thanks to a rocky lump. Seems to have held for the last 800 years. See no need to worry. Now buried or hidden below from our renovations.
When you reconstruct, you are think house, not home. Reinforcing walls, dealing with humidity issues, modern plumbing & electrical plants, new roofs, flooring… ad infinitum. Massive work, lot of moola, time consuming. Of the three, the first… FYI… is contained in all the blog posts at Italian House from 2009 to 2014. Nothing to say about spending money except it was spent. And, as for the last, it took You & I four years to get il Poggiolo up & running as a house.
From restoring, we moved on to Maintenance & Upkeep. Not my favourite category. And, historically, the Italians aren’t much better at it either. Oh, they can certainly design & build glories, but then, those treasures fall into a state the rest of us think is so chic, so charming, glamours, and Italian, though rarely do we mention the word decrepit. You & I have replaced several windows & doors. Terrible the ravages of rain & cold & wind. We have reworked some electrical switches & outlets and added more lights. And, in a few instances we’ve even gone totally LED. Always too bright. New washers and cooktops too. Most recently, we installed two fireboxes to have a modicum of heat nel salotto e nella sala da pranzo… the Living and Dining Rooms… of la Casa Grande. Such dust & disorder. I was forced by night to sleep in my Bedroom up in l’Appartamento Azzurro… with the Dog… normally preferring to sleep in a bed posing as a sofa in the Salotto during the late Spring, Summer and early Fall months… and living by day out on the Loggia and cooking in the Kitchen of la Casa Grande. The Dog has not understood n’er a wit of any of this. Putting the main part of il Poggiolo back into some form of cleanliness & order post-construction, and taking the example of our German friends, who are re-doing their historic abode fai-da-te… or, do-it-yourself, though two amazingly informed persons on construction will one ever be so lucky to meet… You & I re-waxed TWICE!!! the terracotta flooring throughout la Casa Grande, the Laundry & Loggia included. Back breaking, knee ruining, hip crushing work. You was a beast. Brush, brush, brush, he worked. I attempted the same. At one point though, fed up listening to my grunts & groans while brushing each paver with liquid wax, he told me to go walk the Dog. I did. And felt remarkably better and ready to resume the chore. I tried new positions with some success. Taking a pill helped considerably.
You spoke of protection and enriching. I thought… home. The wax left a nice, warm scent of one. A surprising concept… home… for il Poggiolo. it was time. The idea dawned on me while nursing a recuperative white wine in una delle mie poltrone… shot from too many Dogs sleeping in them… before an active fire that, yes, indeed, after all these tweaks… for lack of a better word… actually render our house as a home. Settling in. Finding a happy rhythm of sleeping in our originally assigned BR’s and spending the day nella Casa Grande. A medium of comfort, convenience without causing the house any undue distress in undergoing changes to its infrastructure. One idea on that score was to bash out a wall and put in French Doors nella sala da pranzo. I got a blood curdling… Over my dead body!!!… from You. I suspect the house was actually using him as its spokes-person because, it willingly underwent the construction of the two fireplaces without a hitch. Now, if we can find places for the stuff displaced by the two fireboxes, we really will have a home. A home? Yes, a home.
The dogs of Codiponte...
My Dog, The Croesus-person… AKA Adriano, Puppy, the Dog, and the often used, Come Here!… does have himself a reputation. A bad one. He’s considered to be A LARGE DOG by folk here in Codiponte. Thus, an animal to fear. Mostly though, his reputation is cemented as a notorious Kat Killer. It was highly traumatic. Imagine it was for the kats too. Officially, the Dog, has killed two kats. I cannot divulge any further information on the topic. Prudence dictates I do not. Never know who’s reading this blog.
To forestall any further disgraces with kats or, to have local women erroneously screaming Pitttbuuulllll!!! upon sight of Il Mio Cangolino Adorato… many habitue’ of the Italian House Blog know of The Croesus-person’s exalted pure blooded Weimaraner pedigree. Screaming Pitbull at the top of one’s lungs just demonstrates Ignorance… and to stem calls from You for Reflection & Repentance regarding Kat Kills, we have put in a solid perimeter fence all around il Poggiolo’s garden. No escape. Twice a day, I carpool the Dog in my beat-up SUV to points far removed from our village of Codiponte. To avoid the watchful eyes of our neighbour citizens, many of whom are tremendously prejudiced against our pure-breed Weimaraner and his multi-infractions, though n’er they speak a contrary word against those of their canines… Mutts, You!!! They are all mutts!!!… let loose to carouse our community such as, pooh-poohing on our newly installed pavements, mangled carcasses of animals of unknown provenance left to rot along our local by-ways, and the continual rummaging through & spreading of trash around Codiponte’s several Trash HQ’s. No, but as it happens, The Dog & I are unmolested, free, unencumbered and, alone to enjoy the solitary comforts & beauties of the woods around our corner of the Lunigiana. Here is a sampling…
To see more of my landscape photography, click here for the latest landscapes at forrestspears.com and/or click here for those posted on Instagram at forrestspears.
Now for the carpooling video…
So much for that.
The Croesus-person just has it in for kats. No one’s fault. Mother Nature’s. Yeah, let’s blame it on Her. It is the Dog’s only flaw, in my mind. Otherwise, he is an intelligent canine, an affectionate companion, COMES WHEN HE IS CALLED!!! and he will eventually learn not to take up all the roooms on my antique bed from 1820. Oh! And then, what is not to love, as he willingly frolics with his Best Buddy, Leo, who lives up in the Borgo Castello? A few action shots…
How about the video?…
Despite the Dog’s ill repute, his is NOT a bully. That distinction belongs to this black mutt belonging to a couple, friends of ours, who live up in the Borgo Castello. Their dog is a terror. No wonder. His name in English is Growl. I have included a quick sketch in case he happens upon you getting out of your car at the Borgo Castello Parking Lot. I posted four pics. Don’t want anyone to forget his face and memorisation can be of help…
And he does, growl, liberally, at Dog and Man. Without bias.
He’ll hear me walking to dump our trash in the containers at the parking lot of Borgo Castello and in 60 seconds he’s down yapping at my feet to… go… away… now. And, he doesn’t let up until I do. How rude. And, so annoying. We all here in Codiponte share in this menace. Passing by Codiponte’s piazzetta one afternoon, there was Growl, barking away at the old men & kids out for a bit of fresco under the poplar trees during our incessant heat wave of June, July and August. Said dog was stationed in the middle baring everyone’s way. Then, he trotted off. A grumpy old man dog. Poor thing. He’s flea bitten, bow-legged, nearly toothless… what Joy! to know the worse he could inflict is to slobber or gnawed you… and he has never recovered from the attack of the mange from a couple of years ago. His only occupation is to tour the village and growl and bark at what disturbs him. Lots on that score from the noise he makes. Master of all he passes, apparently. Then, home to probably growl at gechi. By now, I know the territory he’s covered by the rusty red of his bio-donations hither & yon. Mine’s is dark brown.
The Croesus-person cries on two accounts… there’s a female dog in-heat in the vicinity or, Growl is lurking somewhere. The hair on my Dog’s back rises, he frets and then speed pees on every single green thing and car tire available. Then, he wants to get away by jumping into the back seat of my beat-up SUV. My Dog cried terrorised when I played this video a minute ago…
The Croesus-person’s buddy, Leo, is so afraid of Growl, he runs off and as far away as possible too. His master has to drive around & around looking for him. Leo was lately found running with his tail between his legs along the shoulders of the dangerous SR 445 highway, which passes through Codiponte. He was nearly five kilometres from his home. Poor thing. He could’ve been side-swiped by a pedal to the metal female driver in her late model FIAT 500 speeding to meet her fidanzato.
We have Happy News… Growl is now in quarantine. Not from Covid-19 but, on account of Leo’s fear. Being locked up, however, doesn’t stop him from barking or, growling from his perch on the small terrace of his masters’ house. The Croesus-person still cries though I try to tell him he’s safe from Growl. It’s a video, Croesus.
Past & present threads….
Unexpected though very exciting developments at House hunting blues. New and favourable circumstances are blowing the German couple in their quest to buy a home in Italy. They have made an offer on il Cedro and are actively involved in the ongoing negotiations. The usual. First offer rejected. Owner made a mark on the ground and said, he would NEVER cross it, and then he did. Was nudged by the real-estate agent. Good. THE LATER Earning his keep. The wife of the couple heartily agreed with him… said it seemed silly not to come to an agreement over the difference of a few Euro’s. May I say?…
this particular real-estate agent, a young man, is and has always been a congenial, available, honest!!! person and I am quite grateful for his help and participation. People like him are not often found in the real-estate business… here in Italy. What I remember from my experiences with real-estate agents in America were they were either bored housewives needing to make regular leasing payments on their late model Jaguars or, Gay men with too much personality and doctored smiles. Honesty or, much less, integrity were not on their maps. To be fair, I can tell you stories about said creatures on both sides of the Atlantic. Would raise the hair on your back or, make your hair curl. Whichever happens first. Might even make a book. But, back to the winds of blowing…
Price has been agreed upon and, apparently, a contract written and sent to the two parties for their signatures.
These kids are sharp. I say kids because, now that I am actively brushing 70 years of age, most of the World is younger. They have been remarkably thorough with their conditions, requests, solicitations, participation. Good deal. They are purchasing a house they have not seen with their own eyes. Other have sussed the place out. It passed muster. These kids took the reins and are riding well and onto a happy conclusion. They have my respect and admiration.
But, not so quickly for others. I have comments…
I have followed clients over the years, apparently successful and wealthy individuals, couples, who have bought properties at home where they live full-time, and yet, in doing the same in Italy, chuck Good Sense or, simply and completely ignored the procedures, details and the questions to ask in buying or, selling property here or, they have blindly deferred to others, as if on another planet, raising their heads only when it came time to write out a check. Real-estate is no different in Italy than anywhere else in the World. One simply needs to ask the obvious questions, take the time to read the documents, which can easily be translated, reply in kind, actively participate. It’s part of the fun. Some get it. Others not.
And, it’s important…
years ago, in our own search for a home in the Lunigiana, a real-estate agent sent me an email with a listing of a hay barn. Its caption was… Potrebbe essere un gancino per Voi nella Lunigiana…. or, hook, for You & Me in the Lunigiana. T’was truly time to get things rolling after a four year off & on house hunt. Some disappointments along the road. Never did manage to see the gancino place but, a week after that email, You & I were on our way to acquiring il Poggiolo. Our circumstances, our attitude had changed, allowing us to find just the place to our liking and budget. When it happens, it can happen fast. Wake up. Be attentive. You & I did. Same story for the German couple.
Now, I wonder if they are planning some kind of celebration? Understand they had three wedding parties. Our German friends sure know how to party. They drink. An indication for a good party in my book. They’re young.
No special reason but, I thought I would mention it anyway…
the first bit of colour, say around mid-February, harkening the arrival of Spring, is the yellow of Forsythia or, January Jasmine, if you come from The Deep South. You HATES yellow flowers. Forsythia is one vigorously prohibited, as is any other yellow flower, for that matter, in our garden at il Poggiolo. Right now though, at the end of September and with the 21st behind us, the garden of il Poggiolo is overrun by yellow. Cistus plants and its yellow blooms. An oversight on my part. The tag showed white-ish flowers. I bought several. And, I am probably and deplorably not good at obeying Rules & Regulations. From anyone. Duplicating the previous mistake and, oblivious to the pre-declared edict/s, I extracted from an abandoned house’s garden these stalky, flowery things with huge, bright yellow flowers. I thought they look charming, festive things. They were weeds. WEEDS!!! Now, You & I are indentured to pulling up these abhorrent flore at every whisper of their germination. And, as the culprit, I must endure You’s grumblings on why I cannot follow The Rules & Regulations. His Rules & Regulations. Not mine. Yet, a Lesson learned and not repeated to date. Only to defend myself. Though, in hindsight, I wonder why, after twenty-one years of sharing real-estate, canines, stuff, You hasn’t gotten the Math about me? Oh, well. Got news for the man despite whatall. The last flowers of Summer are these daisy looking flowers… in Small, Medium & Large dimensions… and in the same darn yellow colour You hates so much. Must mar his views of the Lunigiana landscape driving in his beat-up AUDI from Aulla to Codiponte. Oh, well.
And, for the moment…
as for A light at the end of the tunnel, You & I are happily inside enjoying the warmth of our two newly fitted out fireboxes and, weary from our collective and individual toils with our latest adventure in Home Improvements. YIPPEE!!! The Dog’s keen too though he dislikes the noise I make loading logs onto a raging fire. Ahime’… But, Good Riddance to those toils. Not the attitude to take, yet really, folks, too much time and stress and over my dead body to suit a sensitive soul as mine. I earned my 68 years old. Cannot speak for You. Un carroarmato.
I want everyone to know, however, You single-handedly re-hung and placed everything you see in the above photos. As many insiders are aware of, I do not drive nails into walls. Gives me the creeps. And, I hate to see freshly painted stucco walls marred by a misplaced slam of the hammer, creating unsightly defects… ugly shots of white, so evident with our Signature Blue.
Yes, ladies & gentlemen, You diligently worked for two days during our last weekend to return what all to their previous-places/former-homes/roosting-positions. Dusting & cleaning were also involved. Required several referrals to my iPhone photos stocks and a great amount of patience…. ON EVERYONE’S PART, THE DOG INCLUDED!!! Oh, and my wisely arranged absence from the premises. I worked in the garden, making amends for the lack of a three month avoidance, due to the extreme heat & humidity in these parts we citizens of Codiponte and elsewhere must now currently endure. After a stint of staying inside in relative cool, but with n’er a window or, shutter even cracked a tiny bit, I might now gladly huddle on an iceberg in a down parka holding a placard calling for more efforts to stem Global Warming. Sadly, I can’t get a flight out of Pisa Airport to go anywhere.
I now have to pay off everyone involved in the initiative.
Summer break...
It’s not what you think.
I went to dinner at my English Friend’s house the other night. Codiponte, in its own way, is a very international retreat. Many of the World’s nations are represented, besides the Brexiteers or, non-… me, as the lone American then, a clutch of Dutch, a Brazilian family though they now live in Argentina… did not quite understand the explanation as to why, so I filled in the subsequent blank with Tax Dodgers. Buenos Aires seems the last place on the face of Dear Mother Earth to avoid the financial worry of excessive taxation… and some Australians. These later persons haven’t shown their faces in a couple of years. Must be the abominable airplane trip through Dubai since, QANTAS eliminated Rome from their docket of destinations or, now, the COVID-19 scare. Oh, well… back to my English Friends….
The wife is a determined Good Cook. She served a shrimp cocktail with homemade mayonnaise… a Southern Down Home Favourite, especially the mayo. Well, the shrimp too ‘cause I have relations who hail from Savannah, Georgia, Shrimp HQ… broiled to a crip outer shell river trout and an unofficial version of ratatouille. Odd though there were NO POTATOES!!! Like Italians, who do not count a meal a meal without bread, I thought the same with the English and spuds. What found a brief home on the plate before me was delicious and a bit Fall-ish. Summer fair cold meats, steamed vegetable and/or too many salads. Blessedly, there was lots of white wine and conversation to cover the absence of no roasted tatters.
One whirl of conversation that evening was on our Summer weather. Ghastly hot. Terrifically muggy. LITTLE RAIN!!! The English Wife is a True Believer in the Phases of the Moon. N’er a move without consulting the Lunar Calendar. I was remotely aware of this info conveyance but, typically, gave it scant thought. Filed it away and next to the amount of pressure for my beat-up SUV’s tires. Ah, she said, new Moon tonight, dears. The weather is due to change its tune. Yes, rain will be our music for next week. Get ready. It’s going to rain like it hasn’t since October of 2013. Gosh! Well, we are in next week and all I have seen was some spray just at the moment I needed to carry off the debris after two days of gardening, while You grumbled & groaned setting to rights our salotto and sala da pranzo post-camino construction. Three months of dawn arrivals of the workmen… the Dog and I are communally comatose until at least 9:00AM, he contemplating an imminent evacuation, me on nursing my third tasse di caffe’… no shows of others, vacation interruptions, for cryin’ out loud, dust, disorder, depression. The English Wife said Summer would break. Come on…
My first experience with a Summer Break… can’t recall experiencing such a phenomenon in America but, boy do they need it in California, Oregon, Colorado… was the first Summer I came to Italy. Florence. To learn Italian. August. Not the month to be anywhere but Greenland or, in the upper reaches of Norway. The city of the Medici is in a bowl. The prevailing winds pass right on over the place, leaving a desperate sort of heat & humidity. A smoggy dark brown haze soddens the antique stones and roof tiles. Must be why I found the Florentines so grumpy and unpleasant. I have since altered my perspective on the city. I fell in love twice in Firenze. One stuck!!! I have to confess… I stopped going to the Leonardo da Vinci School of Italian after the first week. I had paid for a month. Annoying teachers, treacherous students from Eurolandia and, my own personal freak-out in attempting to master Italian beyond Ciao! and Arrivederci. I will not speak of two difficult Italian verb tenses, except to say, I still, after thirty-six years, steer clear of any linguistic necessity to resort to them. One, however, is only used in places like Sicilia and the darker regions of Calabria. Ahime’. Travelled instead. Talked to old people waiting for the corriere at, Thanks to the Almighty Lord, a shady bus stop… normally these spots are situated on a large expanse of asphalt charmingly referred to as la piazza… and saw stuff. Best trip was to Assisi. But never mind. Oh, but no! It was upon my gainful return to Florence from the city of Francesco d’ that an enormous thunderstorm struck Florence and environs. Black skies, multiple & simultaneous bolts of lightening ripped across the sky, pounding torrential rains, a good deal of pandemonium with traffic, fear, terror and, a number of trees knocked down too. OK… so no electricity for a few hours afterwards. Candle light is so atmospheric. Yet, the next morning sprung a gloriously beautiful August day of blue skies, breezy, cool temps, DRY!!! Fall like weather. WONDERFUL: Summer was broke. The drenching heat & humidity snapped until the following June. That is what the English Wife was implying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must practice my Italian Rain Dance. Still no sight of rain, darn it.
Doesn’t look like rain to me…
…but, my laundry is drying nicely. No, that’s not my stuff hanging on the line. Mine is on folding stands in the courtyard, where it belongs, out of view. I’m not from Naples, thank you very much!
A light at the end of the tunnel...
I’ve been holding off on sharing this….? This…? This latest episode in a home renovation project at il Poggiolo. It’s been a bit stressful. I’m no longer the robust, and perhaps foolish, American who, along with his boy-friend/partner/companion of a similar calibre, embarked upon the purchase and fitting out thirteen years ago… took two years to bring it to fruition… an 1,800 square feet loft in an important & historic 1930’s building right at the old port of Genoa, and then, almost simultaneously, we same two characters…. You & Me… and apparently feeling our real-estate oats, bought and completely re'-built from top to bottom… it took four years and we still are not finished… an 800 year old Tuscan farm-house, il Poggiolo a Codiponte.
The loft does needs some attention after all this time. You is basically the only inquilino. Pads around in his -jamies on his off time. The Dog & I prefer the clean living in the Lunigiana. For starters, way fewer people in the Age of Coronavirus. Loft Task List would be new paint, a couple of alterations to the floor plan… like, eliminate a bathroom and turn it into a closet for You’s ever growing stock of Men’s Fayeshion… and possibly replacing a few appliances. The MIELE washer & dryer, however, are still doggedly plugging along and have been the ONLY washer & dryer with reasonable and effective cycles from my sixty-eight year experience with such conveniences. Here at il Poggiolo, we have AEG…. German technology… and they were purchased upon the high recommendation of an American woman. It would have been better had we ignored her. The AEG has senseless cycles. No one in our family wears jeans. No one in our family wears silk. Out. And no one in our family would dare wash wool in a machine. Out. And, duvets are sent to the lavanderia. They come back fluffy & clean smelling and not balled up into accumulations of duck feathers at the corners. Out. This is what I want in a washer…
CYCLE 1) Really, really dirty with extra washes & rinses and can take heavy loads up to 20 lbs., from all the sheets & pillow cases from one bed, to the 4’ x 6’ printed cotton rug I picked up for few Euro’s at Maison du Monde or, my gardening clothes from the week’s worth of garden assaults; CYCLE 2) Dirty ma non troppo up to 10 lbs., You’s -jamies, shirts, pants, his sunbathing suits and, his gardening clothes from pulling up weeds, a much less dirty work than what I do in the garden; CYCLE 3) Not really dirty at all but, hey! It’s Sunday, and electricity costs less; CYCLE 4) wool; CYCLE 5) synthetics; CYCLES 6 and on for separate or, collective rinses and spins. STOP. AEG has a partial selection. Only its Cotton Cycle is much used. The others waste time, energy and money.
Different case at il Poggiolo. You & I took our Game Plan for restoring our farm-house from the house itself. La Casetta had radiators and a fireplace so, we put in new heating system & radiators plus a firebox in the upstairs salotto. Our Winter HQ. La Casa Grande had no heating at all. Fine by us. It would be our Summer HQ. And, L’Appartamento Azzurro had a fireplace… it was the cook top and oven… and so, we put in a new firebox for an Early Spring & Fall HQ. Since Roberto sussed out his own separate kingdom in the former kitchen of La Casetta, he stays burrowed there the whole year round. I got tired of the constant relocation. I was offered and bought with a terrific discount two fireboxes…. a close-out sale at a local building supply store nearby and the same models we put in at La Casetta and L’Appartamento Azzurro. I had thought to use a local builder to install them, one in the salotto and the other in the sala da pranzo nella Casa Grande. He was never available to do the work. Fed up, frsutrated too, I went to see our Esteemed Geometra and sought his help to scare up a builder to do the work. Turned out our original builder was ready & willing.
Then the real fun began. I had to bodily move EVERYTHING into the middle of each room, cover it all with wispy plastic sheets which, naturally, blew away as soon as someone open a window or, came through a door. I relocated to L’Appartamento Azzurro with the Dog, all our food and all my clothes and all the Dog’s sticks. I have had to submit to the lamentations of You on every one of his visits for the dust and disorder in our home. Two months. Going on three.
Yet, there is a light yonder at the end of the tunnel of this week. Dim but perceptible. Getting bright with every passing day. Could it be? Yes, we may be nearing completion. In the meantime, feast your eyes on these…
House hunting blues...
I had a late evening plate of pasta and white wine with my Dear German Friend. Husband had abandoned her on her hill top abode… a historic former tower turned farm-mansion by a pope’s confessor in the 13th Century… having taken their only car back to Germany for urgent work. Lately and for obvious reasons… must I spell it out? C-O-V-I-D-1-9… automobile travel is the ONLY way to travel these days. Few flights going to the wrong places and any good ones are already booked up. Ditto for trains. Bad enough to be cooped up for two+ hours in an Airbus full of masks, can you imagine what an eight hour train journey would look & be like? As always, the excuse for dinner was the entree for a gab session. House hunting the initial topic. I led the kick-off.
I had concluded a long day in said pursuit with a young German couple spending their free-of-lockdown holiday near Camaiore. He, charming, handsome, full of personality & energy, and is the brother of the wife of my German clients. She, quiet, pretty and I learned early on that when she speaks, better to listen, ie “You should’ve turned left back there”. Oh, well, God gave us navigators to extract us from our mistakes, I suppose. The wife of my German clients had warmly asked if I might escort her brother & girl-friend to see two candidates for a vacation home in Italy. Silly question. Of course. So, early to rise, early to drive down to Camaiore, a vacation enclave turned nearly into a city with the gift of being close to the beaches yet, nestled in the hills far enough away from the madness to be quite a popular place. Arrived at the La Cappella in time to meet and get to know my travelling companions for the day.
We drove to meet the real-estate agent at the first house situated at the end of a borgo way up above Camaiore, enclosed by a rustic stone wall & gate for a compound of grassy terraces and a lovely pink stucco house. All one would have to do with the 3,700 sq. ft. on three floors would be to buy it, take the keys and move right in with your suitcases. All done, four years before, top to bottom, complete with furnishings. Done with simple taste, nothing obnoxious for a re-do. Very hard to find. The house clicks all the boxes of the German clients but two… no direct car access… borgo means village and cars often cannot get through what was lo’ those many years ago a cart path… and no pool. The first can be dealt with. We do at il Poggiolo. You learn logistics fast. The pool could be added but, unfortunately, it would consume a goodly portion of the small exterior space of one of the two grassy terraces.
The second I had scouted and rejected months ago, when I first began to research for houses for sale. Thought the garden, though planted with a lovely Mediterranean variety of plants and trees… lots of olive trees… actually suffocated the terraces and stone house. And, inside the rooms seemed large but, that was because every photo was taken outside the room itself. Gave the impression of space. The pics did not show the many steps… even in the middle of the Salotto!!!… numerous and treacherous staircases hither & yon and the sense of dimensions of the few rooms. All too small in siaze and quantity for my German cleints wishes & needs. All this was the reward of a long and torturous dirt road from civilisation to this hideout on the side of a Tuscan hill. The girl-friend immediately asked about the road when the downpours hit. Good question. I found out from the Mr Renter of the property that the road is a disaster in the rain and must be re-graded every Spring. Oh, well, and I had thought perhaps this house was going to be a winner. We all were glad to leave. For lunch at one of my favourite spots in the whole World to eat outdoors in the Summer… La Baracchetta.
Got a refresher course in Lessons lLearned from House Hunting… stick with your first impressions, however they come and no matter the means. But, the Law of House Hunting came to me as the consequence of the telephone call the brother and I made to the clients in the US, stranded in a COVID-19 limbo. Their circumstances are… the husband has a Green Card, which also covers his family of wife and two small children. He has full rights, they do not. They all may leave the US, go to their home in Germany, even travel to Italy. The problem comes… he may re-enter the US. The wife and kids not. They are in the US until. Most of the conversation was with the wife. A fantastic person, full of intuition, insight AND Good Sense. Fun & charming too. It has been the family’s dream to have a house in Italy, for her ageing father to get him out of far away Spain and as Summer HQ for one and all. We have had the discussion many times of getting no where with house hunting by remote. The fantasy persists. Any prospects of a dream house in Italy were dashed. Not so much by which way we were pointing our thumbs but, by her circumstances. And so, I said this…. There is a house waiting for you here in Italy. It’s looking for you and you will find it when your circumstance allow you to do so. I thought that was one of the wisest statements I have ever uttered from my likes-to-give-lectures mouth. It’s true. Was for You & Me with il Poggiolo. It was true for my Dear German Friend. And will be for my German clients. Now, let’s get rid of this menace of COVID-19, please.
Summer reading: an epilogue...
Last Sunday around 4:40PM on a day of drenching rains from a series of haphazard thunderstorms…
Hallelujah, Praise be to the Good Lord, and !!!sruoY pU, to the Signora Neighbor Lady in the Ugly Yellow House, who has never vacillated in keeping our access to water OFF in saving Nature’s H2O by allowing it to simply run down the stream, into the Aullela River and off into the Mediterranean Sea…
I satisfactorily closed the third and last book of Hilary Mantel’s trilogy, The Mirror and the Light, on Sir Thomas Cromwell.
I was WRONG. Every single one of the 912 pages in the book… written as nine hundred and twelve pages from Ms. Mantel’s suspected literary penchant for writing it all out and then some… were necessary in telling The Story. Quite a feat. Exhausting. But, a feat.
I found the ending of the last two chapters moving, brilliantly written, a quite believable rendition of one person’s steady progression in confronting his imminent end. Conversations, interrogations, contemplations, actions slowly degenerate into a whirl of grasping for the last sensations and thoughts before the fall of the axe. I felt bereaved by Cromwell’s death, by his now absence, so long a presence endured over the four and a half months I struggled to read the book. I was not originally keen on it. I am now. I may start all over again.
The stack of other books awaiting my attention are distributed on two night tables next to the bed nel’Appartamento Azzurro, where The Dog & I are camped out during our Summer 2020 House Improvements Project, still an on-going affair. Blocked for two weeks, there was a rush of activity last Monday followed by nothing on Tuesday. Then, on Wednesday, a workman came and spent two afternoons diligently working. Now today, this Thursday, nothing again. We hope for a gainful return of activity on Friday afternoon. Rome may not have been built in a day but, I betcha it didn’t take as long as that which we have embarked upon at il Poggiolo. May the Good Lord speed the work a pace. Let us pray?
The last days of August...
I want Lockdown back. I think. Surely for the part of no vehicles… cars, trucks, vans, pick-ups, apes, motorcycles or, bicycles… and, for those airborne… no helicopters or, passenger planes. Only Peace & Quiet. OK… a few tweeting birds, clouds floating by. The later sometimes rumble…
I spent a full hour yesterday stopped in a massive traffic jam, and with a semi-crazed Weimaraner jumping from the passenger seat to the larger back bench behind. Said adored creature wanted to get a better angle by shoving his snout out the double picture sliding glass windows opened primarily for air. Not for entertainment or, sport. There was something aromatic outside. A sensitive nose. Trash along the road? Wafting of an imminent pranzo? Certainly not the saturated smell of fresh asphalt being laid on the highway ahead. I heard the teams of men and machinery to arrive at that conclusion. Too many cars, trucks, vans, pick-ups, apes, motorcycles, and bicycles between me and them for a view. The same story looking behind. Endless line of vehicles. As the clock on the SUV’s dashboard ticked the last minutes of that full hour, a gentleman in a bright white and new Peugeot SUV passing us in the opposite direction and seeing me and the Dog hanging out windows with nothing possible to do but hang, slowed and WARNED… Turn around. It’ll be another hour before you get to Aulla. A mere kilometre away. I did. And, it took a comparable hour driving over a series of twisting & winding back roads of the Lunigiana to breach the town’s limits. Better to move than to be stuck, I always say. I can run the AC, if the car is moving.
You know there is an active and oblivious authority operating when, at the worst possible moment… Like hey! At the height of the August Vacations you have to do this? With everyone racing around in their vehicles?… they march in men & heavy equipment to make some stretch of infrastructure safe or, efficient per il popolo italiano. Typically it is the autostrade. Now, they are going for the secondary arteries. As we are told, God rests in His Heaven above but, above the Italian government rests the European Union. An EU flush with funds coupled to a rabid bureaucracy eager to launch new edicts to make A Better European Community. A wonky bugle blow would be appropriate here. The EU feels its mission is Good Works. They throw money at them, ie the reconstituted Medieval Ponte of Codi-bridge. The latest, lo’ & behold, is the wizardry of our times entrusting upon us of a new form of asphalt, one which absorbs rain water. Fancy that? Somehow it does the trick and eliminates the risk of hydro-planning or, sliding into a slowed-down FIAT Panda during a cloud-burst while an elderly couple inside can genuflect passing the cemetery at Rometa. What a novelty! Not the cemetery. The asphalt. A blessing? Maybe. I’ll let you know towards November. We are loved and protected. By the EU. Someone has to do it. A Big Brother? Maybe, and when all the highways & byways of Italy are beautifully re-made & safe according to the terms of the EU bureau-edict. Black, smooth asphalt and bright white road markings. The beauty lays in the contrast, you know? The EU edict-ed that too. And, it shall remain ever so. Bureaucracies don’t change.
The Dog & I made it to Aulla. It was Our Wednesday Morning Mission. I must say it was a productive visit despite the hindrances and time constraints. Managed to picked up the prepared marble pieces for il Poggiolo’s home improvements before the place closed for pausa pranzo. And, more importantly, I got in some necessary shopping. It’s great to be a guy! New underwear! Certi modelli in 100% cotone e altri in 100% micro-fibre… the fabrics caress. Could be dangerous. Or, noticeable. And the colours? Black with bright green, grey with orange, white with Navy blue, and solid bright blue, petroleum, and asphalt. No kidding. I’d post a photo but I am too shy. Oh! And, new tight round collar T-shirts to go with the new slip-boxers. Checked out the nice lady at the local designer shoe store and waltzed happily out with new pair of Premiata trainers ON SALE in black, yellow & grey. Very cool. Very comfortable. Very well built. All the better for one with two hip ops walking the Dog. New drafting ink pens and a box full of black BIC pens purchased at the cartoleria, and then, off the Dog & I travelled home and as we had come. The Long Way.
But what an August it’s been. KA-KA-BOOM!!! Ferragosto. Work suspended ‘cause operai fled on a week’s vacation. Heat & humidity clamped onto to the Codiponte forecast like there was no tomorrow and there may not be with the Coronavirus spikes here, weirdly dressed families resembling cartoon characters in tell-tale bright colours escorting obese children clutching their mamma or, large groups of teenagers trooping up & down behind il Poggiolo to do what? Take a walk? In this heat? Check out il Borgo Castello? At 3PM in the afternoon? Anything to get away from i genitori? Admire themselves in the rear-view mirrors of cars parked in the Borgo’s Parking Lot exhibiting the current and most hideous feminine fayeshion to date of micro-boxing shorts and A-shirts? I sent the Dog to bark at them at our back gate. He did so willingly. I love his enthusiasm. A threateningly basso profondo. Good Dog. Squeals were heard as a consequence. He was awarded with A Mighty Reward. of a wurstel. Cars practically double parked below the Codi-bridge and Borgo Parking Lot. The list goes on and on, but I will refrain.
And yet, after nightfall, the world of Codi-bridge in August becomes softer, easy, cooler. Voices of folk outside on their terraces for dinner and after. Often well after Midnight. The muffled talks floats above the town’s rooftops. Many beautifully seen from the perch of our Loggia at il Poggiolo. From the heights of L’Appartamento Azzurro’s terrace, I can spy a few dinner tables set with the easy-to-wipe plastic checkerboard & flowers table cloths, plastic bottles of Coca-Cola & Fanta and water from Acqua Paradiso, plus many dishes & plates with traces of the evening meal. The calls of kids playing in the cool night air out on the Piazzetta. Often well after Midnight. Italian children. Guess they can. Schools re-open on the 14th of September, if all goes according to plan. We’ll see. Collections of people strolling below our house, meeting and stopping to chat with others out doing the same and before they risk Life & Limb on the Medieval Ponte. A nice rhythm pervades. Pleasant atmosphere. I let the sounds circulate and dissipate while chugging along with my book. 34 pages to go.
The August mornings I like the best. Both Dog & I up and out of the bed as the campanile strikes 7AM. What a racket. it reminds the Dog that he will eat shortly. But first… he goes to pee somewhere inauspicious in il Poggiolo’s garden. Me to open windows, make me a caffe’, maybe wash a few dirty dishes before His Excellency saunters in to be fed his breakfast. The Dog always looks astonished his bowl is not already full and on the rug next to his water dish. I take my caffe and a laptop to read the newspapers on-line out on the terrace… overlooking beautifully the Codiponte’s roofs… in a lawn chair You bought for Euro 10. Most comfortable chair for my Scottish fanny around. I savour the No Noise. Well, the birds can’t help themselves. Just Peace & Quiet. And a caffe. The Dog is on the bed.
7:15 Am at il Poggiolo in Codiponte, Tuscany Italy