I met Santa Margherita today. After two coffee lattes, and half a quattro stagioni pizza at Fuflun’s I decided to take my rubbery legs uphill toward la Chiesa di Santa Margherita. It was a steep climb, but I took it very slowly, stopping to rest frequently. There always seemed to be a handy bench, stone wall, or step for me to rest on when my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. Taking my time, I was able to take some wonderful pictures and enjoy a new discovery around each corner; a lilac in bloom, an ancient cistern, a view of the valley, or a riot of flowers arching over an arbor.
Slowly the church came into view as I crept inexorably upwards. The destination of my pilgrimage was just a heartbeat away! I rested against a stone wall just outside the church, both to catch my breath and to appreciate the feat I wasn’t sure I’d be able to accomplish. A small journey for some, a much larger journey for me.
The church was darkened as services were not in progress, so it took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. The soaring arched ceilings are painted a celestial blue drizzled with golden stars. I sat in the front row to pray and meditate in front of the altar and the Santa Margherita. As I sat quietly, the colors of cobalt blue, indigo, and deep violet appeared and receded against the screen of my closed eyelids and tears ran unbidden down my cheeks. At one point a small silvery-white key shape glowed against the deep, rich colors of my mind’s eye. Is this the key? What treasure will it unlock? The experience was so wonderful that I am reminded of why I’ve made this journey. It’s not about shopping and gelato, it’s about my spiritual and personal growth.
I quietly approached the altar to pay my respects to the Saint; a tiny, fragile, wizened figure dressed in a pleated garment with a golden halo atop her head, sleeping peacefully in her glass and silver gilt casket, protecting all who call to her as she has for hundreds of years.
The trip back down the hill was more difficult as it took a terrible toll on my knees. I walked much further coming back down as I found that zig zagging back and forth from one side of the uneven and rocky road to the other took some of the agonizing pressure off my knees, which were kind enough to carry me safely home. Actually, they also carried me safely to Gelateria Snoopy for a celebratory nutella gelato enjoyed on Le Scale, the steps, overlooking Piazza della Repubblica…yum!
I have now made the acquaintance of a Saint. May she care for me in this life and welcome me home when this life’s journey is finished.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Una Festa
Friday was una festa, a holiday, and Cortona was filled to the brim with visitors; Italians, Americans and otherwise. April 25 is a holiday to celebrate some facet of the end of WWII. There was a parade of local dignitaries in Piazza della Repubblica, lead by a marching band. The band contained men of all ages, the older ones not even needing music as they have no doubt played these songs for various celebrations for many a year. The younger men, teenagers, riffled through their music and chatted and laughed in self-conscious embarrassment at being the center of so much attention. The local dignitaries cut an elegant figure in their beautifully crisp uniforms of dark green and blue, with gaily colored sashes and sparkling medals.
Saturday was even more exciting as large numbers of men, women, and children dressed in richly colored medieval consumes were lead into the Piazza accompanied by drummers and introduced to the growing throngs. The women wore elaborate costumes of satins, silks, and brocades with decorative ribbons, metallic braid, and lace. The men wore similar tunics and many wore tights. I noticed a group of these beautifully dressed people gathered below my apartment on via Roma, but not near so many as were assembled in the piazza. Perhaps there were different groups to represent the different neighborhoods of the city. Some young men were even carrying crossbows. I wonder if they compete in the archery competition later in the year or if that is only for the more traditional bow shooters.
I did not have a great view, having arrived late because I did not realize festivities were going on, so had to content myself with standing on the step of the Hat and Umbrella shop, owned by a man who looks disturbingly like my Uncle Lee. I carefully inched to the left, as other bystanders on the porch gradually vacated, giving me a slightly better view. Young men and women came into the pizza carrying large banner –like flags and performed a variety of weaving maneuvers, dipping and raising their brilliantly colored flags to the steady drum beat. Sometimes they even gathered together and whirled in a large circle, flags outstretched, like a giant pinwheel. Next, another group with smaller green and white flags came into the piazza and began to hurl their flags high into the air, then snatched them mid-flight with the flag never touching ground. Sometimes they caught their own flags and sometimes the flags of others. Not one flag was dropped. Excitement built when some of the more experienced flag throwers began to hurl their flags 20-30 feet into the air. Some tried to throw their flags over a power cable which was fastened above the third story of the Molesini Enoteca! Wild cheers accompanied each unsuccessful attempt. The brisk winds blew the flags just off course of the power line and made the successful capture of each fluttering banner all the more impressive.
Sunday, I was just not feeling 100%, so lay around most of the day, other than a quick zip through an antique market which sets up in Piazza Signorelli the last Sunday of each month. I called Tim and the boys at 7:30 for a 30 minute conversation which has done much to restore me. I really needed to touch base with them as I was getting quite homesick. Jordan is getting ready for his Junior Prom and Logan was excited about the results of his report card. Both are excited about the leather belts I bought them in San Gimignano, and both are disappointed I’ve had gelato without them!
Saturday was even more exciting as large numbers of men, women, and children dressed in richly colored medieval consumes were lead into the Piazza accompanied by drummers and introduced to the growing throngs. The women wore elaborate costumes of satins, silks, and brocades with decorative ribbons, metallic braid, and lace. The men wore similar tunics and many wore tights. I noticed a group of these beautifully dressed people gathered below my apartment on via Roma, but not near so many as were assembled in the piazza. Perhaps there were different groups to represent the different neighborhoods of the city. Some young men were even carrying crossbows. I wonder if they compete in the archery competition later in the year or if that is only for the more traditional bow shooters.
I did not have a great view, having arrived late because I did not realize festivities were going on, so had to content myself with standing on the step of the Hat and Umbrella shop, owned by a man who looks disturbingly like my Uncle Lee. I carefully inched to the left, as other bystanders on the porch gradually vacated, giving me a slightly better view. Young men and women came into the pizza carrying large banner –like flags and performed a variety of weaving maneuvers, dipping and raising their brilliantly colored flags to the steady drum beat. Sometimes they even gathered together and whirled in a large circle, flags outstretched, like a giant pinwheel. Next, another group with smaller green and white flags came into the piazza and began to hurl their flags high into the air, then snatched them mid-flight with the flag never touching ground. Sometimes they caught their own flags and sometimes the flags of others. Not one flag was dropped. Excitement built when some of the more experienced flag throwers began to hurl their flags 20-30 feet into the air. Some tried to throw their flags over a power cable which was fastened above the third story of the Molesini Enoteca! Wild cheers accompanied each unsuccessful attempt. The brisk winds blew the flags just off course of the power line and made the successful capture of each fluttering banner all the more impressive.
Sunday, I was just not feeling 100%, so lay around most of the day, other than a quick zip through an antique market which sets up in Piazza Signorelli the last Sunday of each month. I called Tim and the boys at 7:30 for a 30 minute conversation which has done much to restore me. I really needed to touch base with them as I was getting quite homesick. Jordan is getting ready for his Junior Prom and Logan was excited about the results of his report card. Both are excited about the leather belts I bought them in San Gimignano, and both are disappointed I’ve had gelato without them!
Monday, April 28, 2008
This and That
The market was in full swing when I left the apartment at 9:00 this very brisk, but sunny, morning. I stopped for a cup of cappuccino, and then over to the small grocery store for some frozen pizza and olives…you know, the necessities of life. I dropped the groceries off at home, then ran to the internet point, pointlessly as it turns out, because I had no email and was unable to pay my credit card online for some reason. I will have to try again later. As I ran back to the house to drop off the computer, I stopped by the market to buy some nice looking rolls, as our bakery just does not carry rolls of any sort. The man looked at me oddly, until I realized that the rolls were intended for the porchetta off to the side which I had not initially noticed. Porchetta is a whole, cooked pig and not a little one either. I agreed to some porchetta on one roll and am I ever sorry. It was wonderful….crispy, salty exterior slices and tender melt-in-your-mouth interior ones stacked on a wonderful crusty roll. I was truly a thinner woman before I discovered porchetta. I might have to step up my daily mileage output as I know another porchetta man who sits in the car park just outside the walls on Sundays.
I bought a small garlic press as I am not able to crush the garlic as small as I sometimes desire with the rather dull kitchen knife in the apartment, and also a wine pourer/stopper for the white wine I bought the other day for cooking. You know, it took me 15 minutes to get that rubbery stopper out of the bottle and I broke the corkscrew in the process! Needless to say the stopper expanded so much once I’d finally succeeded in removing it that I could not possibly get it back in the bottle even a tiny bit to keep the wine fresh.
I stopped by the ATM for money which I can spend at an astonishing rate, then trotted to the bookstore for a book (I bought two the other day), and some watercolor pencils and paper. I had intended to bring some from home, but with the weight allowance what it is I had to leave them behind. However, I find I am getting rather bored, so need some things to occupy my time. Also, I have been advised to develop my “feminine (creative) side”. Apparently my manly side is well-developed and doing fine. Perhaps that explains the beard. I dabbled with the pencils and enjoyed watching the rather uninteresting pencil colors blossom into a spectrum of lovely hues when brushed with a bit of water. I am no artist, so I’ll just be a little girl playing with her colors.
I likely need to be a little girl sometimes…I was often a sad child and withdrew into my books when the world was unkind as it often seemed to be and I considered books to be my best friends. My inner child needs some love and nurturing so that’s what I’ll try to do. Sometimes I feel a bit lonely, but then I remind myself that I am here to get to know and love me, not someone else. So, if I am alone it’s as it should be. I need to take pride in my ability to adapt to a new and unfamiliar environment and rejoice in the experiences I am having, even if they are small. When I get over the feeling that I look much like Mrs. Potato Head on whom some cruel child has inserted the largest and lumpiest nose I’ll know I’ve made much progress!
I have an amazing capacity to beat myself up. Why? Who knows. I guess it’s complicated. Truly the world beats up on all of us enough without us doing to ourselves, right? So why do I persist in believing what others have said about me, in some cases years ago? Why do I continue to make their cruel and unkind thoughts of me into my own terrible thoughts of me? My goodness, I am a reasonably intelligent woman and I should be able to control my own thoughts! I shall work on that!
I bought a small garlic press as I am not able to crush the garlic as small as I sometimes desire with the rather dull kitchen knife in the apartment, and also a wine pourer/stopper for the white wine I bought the other day for cooking. You know, it took me 15 minutes to get that rubbery stopper out of the bottle and I broke the corkscrew in the process! Needless to say the stopper expanded so much once I’d finally succeeded in removing it that I could not possibly get it back in the bottle even a tiny bit to keep the wine fresh.
I stopped by the ATM for money which I can spend at an astonishing rate, then trotted to the bookstore for a book (I bought two the other day), and some watercolor pencils and paper. I had intended to bring some from home, but with the weight allowance what it is I had to leave them behind. However, I find I am getting rather bored, so need some things to occupy my time. Also, I have been advised to develop my “feminine (creative) side”. Apparently my manly side is well-developed and doing fine. Perhaps that explains the beard. I dabbled with the pencils and enjoyed watching the rather uninteresting pencil colors blossom into a spectrum of lovely hues when brushed with a bit of water. I am no artist, so I’ll just be a little girl playing with her colors.
I likely need to be a little girl sometimes…I was often a sad child and withdrew into my books when the world was unkind as it often seemed to be and I considered books to be my best friends. My inner child needs some love and nurturing so that’s what I’ll try to do. Sometimes I feel a bit lonely, but then I remind myself that I am here to get to know and love me, not someone else. So, if I am alone it’s as it should be. I need to take pride in my ability to adapt to a new and unfamiliar environment and rejoice in the experiences I am having, even if they are small. When I get over the feeling that I look much like Mrs. Potato Head on whom some cruel child has inserted the largest and lumpiest nose I’ll know I’ve made much progress!
I have an amazing capacity to beat myself up. Why? Who knows. I guess it’s complicated. Truly the world beats up on all of us enough without us doing to ourselves, right? So why do I persist in believing what others have said about me, in some cases years ago? Why do I continue to make their cruel and unkind thoughts of me into my own terrible thoughts of me? My goodness, I am a reasonably intelligent woman and I should be able to control my own thoughts! I shall work on that!
Friday, April 25, 2008
The Incident
Cortona is a rather busy little town and if you sit in one place for long enough something interesting is bound to happen. Being a bit lonely I wandered down via Nazionale for about the 20th time today, past the gallery (of course) and down to Piazza Garibaldi, where I sat on a bench and waited unknowingly for the fun to begin. The main road to Cortona ends at Piazza Garibaldi, which is no more than a small traffic circle around a cement obelisk dedicated to the father of a united Italy, Garibaldi. This circle sits high above the valley. On one side a hotel clings to the cliff side, with space for maybe 10 tiny cars to park legally in front. This being Italy, about 25 cars are normally squeezed into a space the size of a postage stamp. There is then a section with no parking as it’s a steep downward hill; next, opposite the hotel is room for about six handicapped parking spots and a bus stop. The fourth side of the circle is the road leading into the circle and the entrance of via Nazionale, a pedestrian street.
I sat on a bench under a street lamp on which was a prominently displayed no parking sign. After about 15 minutes a drama began to unfold and I had a front row seat. A small, argyle-sweatered man in a Land Rover SUV pulled up and let his wife out, then pulled up and parked directly under the no parking sign with the back end of his car sticking out into the small circle and headed off for a leisurely dinner at the hotel. Pretty soon along came the bus to Arezzo. Now, that traffic circle is usually a tight squeeze for buses at the best of times, but with the SUV parked illegally, there was no way the bus could get past. The bus stopped and honked its horn, and then the bus driver disembarked and came ‘round front to survey the scene gesticulating in frustration. Soon enough a couple of cars pulled up behind the bus, which they could not squeeze past on either side, and then the bus to Terontola joined the mess and we had a genuine Cortona traffic jam!
With much creative maneuvering, the Arezzo bus inched forward and back about a foot, cranking his steering wheel madly as he did so, and was slowly able to creep around the Land Rover, although he very nearly clipped the stone moustache of Garibaldi resting peacefully on his obelisk. The two cars passed safely, but the bus to Terentola was having none of it. The driver exited the bus angrily, by which time the driver of the SUV had been located and was made to move his car, tight-lipped with annoyance. The SUV looped twice around the circle, and then zipped into a handicapped spot, where he alighted and strutted off down the street for dinner and a libation. It just goes to prove that if you’re a small man in argyle, the rules just do not apply to you!
I sat on a bench under a street lamp on which was a prominently displayed no parking sign. After about 15 minutes a drama began to unfold and I had a front row seat. A small, argyle-sweatered man in a Land Rover SUV pulled up and let his wife out, then pulled up and parked directly under the no parking sign with the back end of his car sticking out into the small circle and headed off for a leisurely dinner at the hotel. Pretty soon along came the bus to Arezzo. Now, that traffic circle is usually a tight squeeze for buses at the best of times, but with the SUV parked illegally, there was no way the bus could get past. The bus stopped and honked its horn, and then the bus driver disembarked and came ‘round front to survey the scene gesticulating in frustration. Soon enough a couple of cars pulled up behind the bus, which they could not squeeze past on either side, and then the bus to Terontola joined the mess and we had a genuine Cortona traffic jam!
With much creative maneuvering, the Arezzo bus inched forward and back about a foot, cranking his steering wheel madly as he did so, and was slowly able to creep around the Land Rover, although he very nearly clipped the stone moustache of Garibaldi resting peacefully on his obelisk. The two cars passed safely, but the bus to Terentola was having none of it. The driver exited the bus angrily, by which time the driver of the SUV had been located and was made to move his car, tight-lipped with annoyance. The SUV looped twice around the circle, and then zipped into a handicapped spot, where he alighted and strutted off down the street for dinner and a libation. It just goes to prove that if you’re a small man in argyle, the rules just do not apply to you!
A Statement of Fashion
Fashion is an interesting thing here in Italy. I can comfortably play the observer as I am completely unfashionable and easily identifiable as American, particularly by my choice in foot wear. Italian women favor stilettos, the higher the better. I am awed as I watch them wobble off down the unevenly cobbled roads and sidewalks and constantly amazed that I’ve not seen even one of them fall yet.
Now the men go a different route with brightly colored pants. I have seen a man in bright gold, several in loud orange, and one young man in town favors a pair of black cotton pants with thin white pin stripes. What’s even more surprising is that he can carry it off. Most men I know would look like escapees from the circus in a pair of those pants.
The angelically beautiful man is still at the art gallery and we still exchange smiles, today he even waved and one day he said, “Hi”. Did I mention that people can tell I’m American? At any rate, this gorgeous vision of manhood stepped out of the gallery directly in front of me today and I got a good look at his outfit. He is very sleek, slim, and elegant, much like a model, as I’ve mentioned. Today he sported a light colored button down shirt, tan snug-fitting trousers, a dark colored sweater draped over his back with the arms knotted in front and, I kid you not, a pair of smoking-hot, bright purple suede moccasins decorated with gold-colored metal grommets. I have never seen anything like those shoes and had to hide a big smirk as I slunk past, head down. I am so glad my boys were not with me as they would have let out a hysterical whoop of laughter and embarrassed us all! It takes a certain man to wear purple moccasins with aplomb and apparently he is that man!
Now the men go a different route with brightly colored pants. I have seen a man in bright gold, several in loud orange, and one young man in town favors a pair of black cotton pants with thin white pin stripes. What’s even more surprising is that he can carry it off. Most men I know would look like escapees from the circus in a pair of those pants.
The angelically beautiful man is still at the art gallery and we still exchange smiles, today he even waved and one day he said, “Hi”. Did I mention that people can tell I’m American? At any rate, this gorgeous vision of manhood stepped out of the gallery directly in front of me today and I got a good look at his outfit. He is very sleek, slim, and elegant, much like a model, as I’ve mentioned. Today he sported a light colored button down shirt, tan snug-fitting trousers, a dark colored sweater draped over his back with the arms knotted in front and, I kid you not, a pair of smoking-hot, bright purple suede moccasins decorated with gold-colored metal grommets. I have never seen anything like those shoes and had to hide a big smirk as I slunk past, head down. I am so glad my boys were not with me as they would have let out a hysterical whoop of laughter and embarrassed us all! It takes a certain man to wear purple moccasins with aplomb and apparently he is that man!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Rolling Up the Streets
I talked to Tim today. He said the boys are doing well, but my beautiful Golden Retriever, Chase, is not doing well. He has been to the veterinarian once, and has another appointment today. From Tim’s description, Chase does not sound at all good. I will pray that if he cannot be reasonably helped, that he will go gently. I don’t want anyone I love to suffer. He has been a faithful and loving friend.
Unable to find peace tonight, I walked the town until past dark. Eventually I sat on the steps in Piazza della Repubblica and watched the town close up. My dad would say they were “rolling up the streets”. One by one, lights in each shop were extinguished, shutters closed and locked, or metal blinds rolled down over doors and windows so that almost no trace remained of what was a thriving business thrumming with life just moments before.
I observed a man walking slowly through the piazza tonight. I see this man often as he frequents the café where I drink coffee in the morning. I noticed him wandering the town yesterday morning at 6:30, aloof, mysterious. I suspect I could walk out at 2:12 in the morning and see him meandering the streets, silent, expressionless, with only the glowing red tip of a cigarette to denote his presence. There is something almost dangerous about him, yet I don’t feel fear…more a sort of curiosity. Who is this short, spare man with the cold eyes who never seems to change expression and whose voice I’ve never heard, although he must speak when he orders a drink at the café several times daily? What story has he to tell? He reminds me a bit of an Irishman I used to know who grew up at the height of the hostilities in Belfast, Northern Ireland. While not silent, having been gifted with the famed silver tongue of the Irish, there was a similar sense of mystery and danger about Seamus. A man who would slit another man’s throat to protect what’s his. A man who has seen things I know nothing about. I, so protected in my safe little life know little of the baser instincts of man.
I saw a dark-haired man leave Davis and Francesco’s hair salon as darkness fell. Perhaps he is David. I rather hope not as he was unkempt, with a pair of those thick, dark plastic birth control glasses, and a beard that far surpassed scruffy, having achieved the look of the beards cultivated by the men on Survivor after 38 days; swirling hair extending down the entire neck onto the chest rather like a hairy turtleneck sweater. I, of the drawn on eyebrows, cannot imagine a cultivation of hair such as this. I generally prefer my stylist to be nicely groomed, with a shiny head of locks. Fortunately, soon after, a well-groomed man resembling John Cusack stepped out of the salon and locked the door for the night. Ahhhh, that must be Francesco. I think I’ll make my appointment with him.
Unable to find peace tonight, I walked the town until past dark. Eventually I sat on the steps in Piazza della Repubblica and watched the town close up. My dad would say they were “rolling up the streets”. One by one, lights in each shop were extinguished, shutters closed and locked, or metal blinds rolled down over doors and windows so that almost no trace remained of what was a thriving business thrumming with life just moments before.
I observed a man walking slowly through the piazza tonight. I see this man often as he frequents the café where I drink coffee in the morning. I noticed him wandering the town yesterday morning at 6:30, aloof, mysterious. I suspect I could walk out at 2:12 in the morning and see him meandering the streets, silent, expressionless, with only the glowing red tip of a cigarette to denote his presence. There is something almost dangerous about him, yet I don’t feel fear…more a sort of curiosity. Who is this short, spare man with the cold eyes who never seems to change expression and whose voice I’ve never heard, although he must speak when he orders a drink at the café several times daily? What story has he to tell? He reminds me a bit of an Irishman I used to know who grew up at the height of the hostilities in Belfast, Northern Ireland. While not silent, having been gifted with the famed silver tongue of the Irish, there was a similar sense of mystery and danger about Seamus. A man who would slit another man’s throat to protect what’s his. A man who has seen things I know nothing about. I, so protected in my safe little life know little of the baser instincts of man.
I saw a dark-haired man leave Davis and Francesco’s hair salon as darkness fell. Perhaps he is David. I rather hope not as he was unkempt, with a pair of those thick, dark plastic birth control glasses, and a beard that far surpassed scruffy, having achieved the look of the beards cultivated by the men on Survivor after 38 days; swirling hair extending down the entire neck onto the chest rather like a hairy turtleneck sweater. I, of the drawn on eyebrows, cannot imagine a cultivation of hair such as this. I generally prefer my stylist to be nicely groomed, with a shiny head of locks. Fortunately, soon after, a well-groomed man resembling John Cusack stepped out of the salon and locked the door for the night. Ahhhh, that must be Francesco. I think I’ll make my appointment with him.
The Marionettes: Act Two
A quiet ten days have passed with the marionettes remaining silent in their wooden casket; that is, until today.
Weekly, I change my bed linen, which is laundered by Maria, hung to dry, then carefully ironed and returned to me, folded in an exquisite example of geometrical perfection. What luxury!
I remove my used linen and attempt to fold it with the same care it was given me. Unfortunately, the sheet and duvet cover resist my attempts at folding, apparently developing an unfortunate fifth corner, which renders them impossible to line up and fold. I traipse downstairs and shame-facedly hand Maria a rumpled mess of linens which, in spite of my attempts to the contrary, inexplicably drag a long tail much like the train on a wedding gown.
Making the bed up is no easier. It has a duvet, so I must insert the duvet into its cover and lay it across the mattress. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? My current duvet cover has an extended opening, rather like a turtleneck sweater. Conceivably the extension is then tucked under the mattress to keep the duvet steady in the event of some kind of a bedroom ruckus unlike anything usually experienced in my bedroom. Well, no matter how many times I fed the feather duvet in through the turtle neck, carefully lining up the corners, the duvet twisted itself around like a live thing and I was always left with a big hunk of of something hanging out of the turtleneck. I was breathing heavily by the time I covered the whole mess with a decorative quilt and got the pillows buttoned into their cases. I could hear the marionettes around the corner, gasping with laughter in their wooden tomb. I gave it a swift kick on my way past to the bathroom.
Big mistake, because they weren’t done with me yet. As I’ve mentioned previously, I live on the fourth floor and there is a five story building across the narrow street from me, on top of which the workmen are happily pounding and banging. I often see my neighbors on the fourth and fifth floor as they hang out their windows to check on the progress of the mortar mixer below on the street, or to converse with an endless number of neighbors making their way, far below, to the piazza. My neighbors and I often exchange friendly waves and greetings of, “Buona sera” through the open windows, weather permitting.
Well, today I elected to turn on the bathroom light and then to leave the door open as I partook of the facilities. After all, I live alone. Well, I happened to look to the right and noticed my neighbor across the way perfectly reflected in the glass of a picture hanging on the wall outside the bathroom, the glass of which had cleaned to a mirror-like sheen. Now, you understand, if I could see her…she could also see me. She looked right as me in all my glory and gave a friendly wave of the hand, then she looked again and understanding what she was seeing, quickly slammed her window shut and pulled the drape, lest her husband get a gander of the display across the street.
Upon closer examination, I could see that the picture has recently been moved about 2 inches to the right, in perfect alignment with the bathroom door. The pesky puppets strike again!
Weekly, I change my bed linen, which is laundered by Maria, hung to dry, then carefully ironed and returned to me, folded in an exquisite example of geometrical perfection. What luxury!
I remove my used linen and attempt to fold it with the same care it was given me. Unfortunately, the sheet and duvet cover resist my attempts at folding, apparently developing an unfortunate fifth corner, which renders them impossible to line up and fold. I traipse downstairs and shame-facedly hand Maria a rumpled mess of linens which, in spite of my attempts to the contrary, inexplicably drag a long tail much like the train on a wedding gown.
Making the bed up is no easier. It has a duvet, so I must insert the duvet into its cover and lay it across the mattress. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? My current duvet cover has an extended opening, rather like a turtleneck sweater. Conceivably the extension is then tucked under the mattress to keep the duvet steady in the event of some kind of a bedroom ruckus unlike anything usually experienced in my bedroom. Well, no matter how many times I fed the feather duvet in through the turtle neck, carefully lining up the corners, the duvet twisted itself around like a live thing and I was always left with a big hunk of of something hanging out of the turtleneck. I was breathing heavily by the time I covered the whole mess with a decorative quilt and got the pillows buttoned into their cases. I could hear the marionettes around the corner, gasping with laughter in their wooden tomb. I gave it a swift kick on my way past to the bathroom.
Big mistake, because they weren’t done with me yet. As I’ve mentioned previously, I live on the fourth floor and there is a five story building across the narrow street from me, on top of which the workmen are happily pounding and banging. I often see my neighbors on the fourth and fifth floor as they hang out their windows to check on the progress of the mortar mixer below on the street, or to converse with an endless number of neighbors making their way, far below, to the piazza. My neighbors and I often exchange friendly waves and greetings of, “Buona sera” through the open windows, weather permitting.
Well, today I elected to turn on the bathroom light and then to leave the door open as I partook of the facilities. After all, I live alone. Well, I happened to look to the right and noticed my neighbor across the way perfectly reflected in the glass of a picture hanging on the wall outside the bathroom, the glass of which had cleaned to a mirror-like sheen. Now, you understand, if I could see her…she could also see me. She looked right as me in all my glory and gave a friendly wave of the hand, then she looked again and understanding what she was seeing, quickly slammed her window shut and pulled the drape, lest her husband get a gander of the display across the street.
Upon closer examination, I could see that the picture has recently been moved about 2 inches to the right, in perfect alignment with the bathroom door. The pesky puppets strike again!
Days
My days have settled into a rhythm of their own. I arise between 7 and 9, the time generally dependent on when the workers across the street begin making noise. I eat granola, yogurt, and maybe fruit for breakfast, then shower and make-up. I might write a bit next or head out for coffee at the Café, where cappuccino costs a bit more that other places in town, but I feel comfortable there. I can read a book while I warm my hands with a coffee or two. Sometimes I see Lana of Casantonio beginning her day with friends. She is always sure to say hello and sometimes gives me a three-cheeked kiss in greeting. I appreciate her friendly gesture.
Next, I pick up anything I might need for the day, perhaps some fruit or milk. Today is was two lemons at a little store where I was greeted by another customer, an elderly lady, headscarf tied securely under her chin to ward off drafts, who picked up my hand to see if I wore a wedding ring before she made sure to point out to the man working behind the counter that I was a “signorina” (“miss”). Perhaps she is the town matchmaker. Next, back across the piazza to buy white wine for a chicken dish I am making myself for dinner tonight, with a second portion for Maria, who brought me a glistening olive oil coated artichoke in a lovely blue dish last night. I have heard that I should never to cook for an Italian as they are the best cooks in the world, but Maria seemed to enjoy the chicken soup I make last week. Maybe it was more the gesture she appreciated, than the actual soup.
Weather permitting, I walk to the end of the park and read or just listen to music for 30 minutes to an hour, before walking back. Afternoons might be spent on laundry, cleaning, writing, or perhaps one of the 10 or so movies I thankfully brought with me. I usually visit the internet point in the evening around 6:00 to read email, accomplish any banking transactions, or update my blog.
Dinner is whenever I feel hungry, usually cooked at home. But, sometimes I sneak off to a carry out pizza place and point to whatever looks good, usually something with mushrooms, artichokes, or olives. The nice young lady heats it up in a toaster type oven, and then I carefully balance the pieces on my hand while picking my way down the hill on rubbery legs and back across the piazza toward home. I never attempt this stunt when the streets are wet. Disaster would be sure to follow!
Next, I pick up anything I might need for the day, perhaps some fruit or milk. Today is was two lemons at a little store where I was greeted by another customer, an elderly lady, headscarf tied securely under her chin to ward off drafts, who picked up my hand to see if I wore a wedding ring before she made sure to point out to the man working behind the counter that I was a “signorina” (“miss”). Perhaps she is the town matchmaker. Next, back across the piazza to buy white wine for a chicken dish I am making myself for dinner tonight, with a second portion for Maria, who brought me a glistening olive oil coated artichoke in a lovely blue dish last night. I have heard that I should never to cook for an Italian as they are the best cooks in the world, but Maria seemed to enjoy the chicken soup I make last week. Maybe it was more the gesture she appreciated, than the actual soup.
Weather permitting, I walk to the end of the park and read or just listen to music for 30 minutes to an hour, before walking back. Afternoons might be spent on laundry, cleaning, writing, or perhaps one of the 10 or so movies I thankfully brought with me. I usually visit the internet point in the evening around 6:00 to read email, accomplish any banking transactions, or update my blog.
Dinner is whenever I feel hungry, usually cooked at home. But, sometimes I sneak off to a carry out pizza place and point to whatever looks good, usually something with mushrooms, artichokes, or olives. The nice young lady heats it up in a toaster type oven, and then I carefully balance the pieces on my hand while picking my way down the hill on rubbery legs and back across the piazza toward home. I never attempt this stunt when the streets are wet. Disaster would be sure to follow!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Italian
The Italian arrived Sunday about 1:00 in his beautiful, gray BMW, his “baby”. He is about 5’8”, thinning light brown hair, and hazel eyes. He was very polite and pleasant. We ate a Tuscan dish at a local restaurant, pappardelle; wide, flat pasta with beans, garlic, olive oil and tomatoes. Very good!
Later we walked to the park and sat for a moment. It was hard for him to sit for even a minute. He is a man I would call “focused” or maybe “driven”. He is very successful, but that seems to mean he works all the time and cannot relax for even a short time. He is happy with his life and goal oriented, but I wonder how he will make room for a girlfriend or a family in his life. Relationships need time, energy, and nurturing.
In the afternoon, we drove to Lake Trasimeno, after a long search found parking, and walked along the water front eating gelato. It seemed everyone in Tuscany was at the lake. It was very much a fashion show with everyone lined up along walkways or strolling along slowly, checking each other out. People were dressed to the nines, particularly the women. Spike heels, patterned hose, and skintight dresses in a variety of animal prints and unusual patterns were the order of the day. Not at all my style. I noticed the women looking me over with an appraising eye and dismissing me as frumpy and unfashionable; no real competition for their men. Generally speaking I don’t really care, but it does make one feel like a animal in the zoo, being looked over rather critically and having every move scrutinized. An odd feeling.
The Italian left at around 6 in the evening as he had to drive to Florence for business with a childhood friend. Always business, but we had a pleasant few hours together.
Yesterday, I took a breather as my knees were killing me. It felt as though all the water in my body settled into my knees making them swell to twice their normal size. They looked fine, but felt really strange and were quite sore. I did drag myself up the street for coffee, but did not do much else all day. Maria was kind enough to take me to Camucia, the town at the foot of the hill for groceries at the larger supermercato. It’s nice to have some variety in your diet! I’d like to have more variety in my wardrobe too! I have a pair of pants I really can’t wear anymore as they are just too big to look at all flattering.
Later we walked to the park and sat for a moment. It was hard for him to sit for even a minute. He is a man I would call “focused” or maybe “driven”. He is very successful, but that seems to mean he works all the time and cannot relax for even a short time. He is happy with his life and goal oriented, but I wonder how he will make room for a girlfriend or a family in his life. Relationships need time, energy, and nurturing.
In the afternoon, we drove to Lake Trasimeno, after a long search found parking, and walked along the water front eating gelato. It seemed everyone in Tuscany was at the lake. It was very much a fashion show with everyone lined up along walkways or strolling along slowly, checking each other out. People were dressed to the nines, particularly the women. Spike heels, patterned hose, and skintight dresses in a variety of animal prints and unusual patterns were the order of the day. Not at all my style. I noticed the women looking me over with an appraising eye and dismissing me as frumpy and unfashionable; no real competition for their men. Generally speaking I don’t really care, but it does make one feel like a animal in the zoo, being looked over rather critically and having every move scrutinized. An odd feeling.
The Italian left at around 6 in the evening as he had to drive to Florence for business with a childhood friend. Always business, but we had a pleasant few hours together.
Yesterday, I took a breather as my knees were killing me. It felt as though all the water in my body settled into my knees making them swell to twice their normal size. They looked fine, but felt really strange and were quite sore. I did drag myself up the street for coffee, but did not do much else all day. Maria was kind enough to take me to Camucia, the town at the foot of the hill for groceries at the larger supermercato. It’s nice to have some variety in your diet! I’d like to have more variety in my wardrobe too! I have a pair of pants I really can’t wear anymore as they are just too big to look at all flattering.
Monday, April 21, 2008
San Francesco
It was such a lovely day yesterday that Maria drove me to see a monastery founded by Saint Francis of Assisi. It is nestled in between two steep hills in the crook of a valley. I peeked into the tiny and simple cell that housed St. Francis and stopped to pray in a small chapel. Maria comes here to worship because it is such a simple place full of peace. There is a waterfall that tumbles down the rocky mountain bi-secting the simple complex. On one side are the tiny cells where the monks reside and chapels for prayer and reflection, and on the other gardens and olive trees. The two halves are connected by two ancient stone bridges (ponti). It is a most holy of places.
On the way back to the house we drove to the top of Cortona to Chiesa di Santa Margherita, a beautiful church. Evening services were in progress so I stole quietly into the back of the church to gaze at the brilliantly painted ceilings and lovely glass chandeliers. Behind the altar the glass tomb of Saint Margherita containing her mortal remains is reverently displayed. I want to come back another day to explore the church and to pray in peace. It is up a terribly long, steep hill so my rubbery legs will need much more conditioning before I can tackle that journey. It will be my pilgrimage.
We drove back through the ancient upper town, through a maze of tiny twisting streets ribboned between lovely and simple stone cottages decorated with lovely wooden doors, wrought iron balustrades and door tops, and cascading flowers. At one point we got stuck when we encountered a car parked in the middle of the narrow street with no driver in evidence. We honked in vain then, finally, I got out to help Maria back the car up a small hill into a tiny drive bordered by unforgiving stone walls to return up the hill from whence we’d come. This time we were accompanied by much smoke and the smell of burning rubber. The clutch on her car will likely need replacing sometime soon!
On the way back to the house we drove to the top of Cortona to Chiesa di Santa Margherita, a beautiful church. Evening services were in progress so I stole quietly into the back of the church to gaze at the brilliantly painted ceilings and lovely glass chandeliers. Behind the altar the glass tomb of Saint Margherita containing her mortal remains is reverently displayed. I want to come back another day to explore the church and to pray in peace. It is up a terribly long, steep hill so my rubbery legs will need much more conditioning before I can tackle that journey. It will be my pilgrimage.
We drove back through the ancient upper town, through a maze of tiny twisting streets ribboned between lovely and simple stone cottages decorated with lovely wooden doors, wrought iron balustrades and door tops, and cascading flowers. At one point we got stuck when we encountered a car parked in the middle of the narrow street with no driver in evidence. We honked in vain then, finally, I got out to help Maria back the car up a small hill into a tiny drive bordered by unforgiving stone walls to return up the hill from whence we’d come. This time we were accompanied by much smoke and the smell of burning rubber. The clutch on her car will likely need replacing sometime soon!
A Happy Encounter
It was a glorious day today! I received an email from the Italian Friday night saying he would be here today, but today he called Maria to say he was tied up and cannot come until tomorrow. Maria says he is Italian and the “maybe yes, maybe no, maybe now, maybe later” is just the Italian way and that I must have “pazienza”, patience. Patience is not one of my virtues and perhaps I am being given small lessons about being patient and waiting for all the wonderful things to come. We Americans, as a society, are not patient. We want fast everything; look how many businesses advertise “immediate” this or that, and “same day service.” Maybe with all the rush-rush, must-have-it-right-now mentality, we’ve lost something. We’ve sacrificed the ability to savor a moment and allow anticipation to build. Perhaps the destination is not as important as the journey, the wait, and we must learn to enjoy life for each tiny moment we are granted, for each is a gift. A 2 hour dinner and wine with friends is beginning to sound really wonderful to me.
There is an artist drawing a picture of the plants on Maria’s porch, under an ancient stone arch. I have been conversing in elementary Italian to him these past days, but as luck would have it he is Scottish and here for 6 weeks or so. We chatted, and when he began to pack up his small, portable easel, I invited him to join me for coffee. We sipped double cappuccinos and had a long conversation. He was in the Royal Air Force (RAF) during WWII and is a very interesting man. He grew up and still lives in Glasgow so we connected about our similar Scottish roots. He is going to begin a picture of Maria’s front porch and I’ve asked if he will sell one of his drawings to me, as a memory. He paid for my coffee when I nipped off to the ladies room. A kind gesture from a gentleman.
It seems that learning to accept from other is a lesson I am learning here as well; allowing others to give to me out of the goodness of their hearts with grace and appreciation, as gifts have been given me over and over again since I arrived here. In past I have prided myself on my independence and ability to take care of myself. Perhaps that is a quality intimidating to others, particularly members of the opposite sex. Why indeed would I need a relationship when I can do everything for myself? That air of independence becomes a wall which keeps others at a distance, even if that is not my intent. So, maybe I do not need a relationship, but I would like one, and so I will strive to not be so independent as to make a future partner feel superfluous. Of course, I will not become a clinging sponge either. Surely there is some middle ground.
I am learning big lessons on this journey.
There is an artist drawing a picture of the plants on Maria’s porch, under an ancient stone arch. I have been conversing in elementary Italian to him these past days, but as luck would have it he is Scottish and here for 6 weeks or so. We chatted, and when he began to pack up his small, portable easel, I invited him to join me for coffee. We sipped double cappuccinos and had a long conversation. He was in the Royal Air Force (RAF) during WWII and is a very interesting man. He grew up and still lives in Glasgow so we connected about our similar Scottish roots. He is going to begin a picture of Maria’s front porch and I’ve asked if he will sell one of his drawings to me, as a memory. He paid for my coffee when I nipped off to the ladies room. A kind gesture from a gentleman.
It seems that learning to accept from other is a lesson I am learning here as well; allowing others to give to me out of the goodness of their hearts with grace and appreciation, as gifts have been given me over and over again since I arrived here. In past I have prided myself on my independence and ability to take care of myself. Perhaps that is a quality intimidating to others, particularly members of the opposite sex. Why indeed would I need a relationship when I can do everything for myself? That air of independence becomes a wall which keeps others at a distance, even if that is not my intent. So, maybe I do not need a relationship, but I would like one, and so I will strive to not be so independent as to make a future partner feel superfluous. Of course, I will not become a clinging sponge either. Surely there is some middle ground.
I am learning big lessons on this journey.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Pensieri "Thoughts"
It was un bel giorno ieri, a beautiful day yesterday. A bit warmer, the sun was out for most of the day which made it a perfect day for walking in the park. I am now wearing a pair of jeans I have not been able to wear for the better part of a year. They don’t look great, but they’re on, zipped, and I can still breathe. What more could I ask?
What am I eating, you ask? Well, I still eat pasta every other day or so and pizza twice a week. I popped into a small shop specializing in Tuscan products and was lured by a sample of toast with Crotona olive oil and a truffle sauce. I bought a small jar of the truffle sauce, but not the olive oil as I had previously bought a liter from a young woman roadside near San Gimignano. The truffle sauce is 1% truffles and the rest is olive oil, salt, olives, and mushrooms. It comes in a jar of 2.82 ounces for $6.50. I’ll again let you do the math. I liked it though and had some for lunch on my pasta. I eat lots of olive oil…perhaps why my cholesterol was down at the last doctor’s visit. I have proscuitto and salami and bread. I made a wonderful chicken soup yesterday. Potatoes, chicken breast, chicken broth, with the addition of some cooked garlic, celery, onions, red pepper and salt. To die for! Best chicken soup I have ever eaten. The foods here are more natural, often organic, and just not as processed as ours and have a wonderful taste and freshness. The tomatoes are delightful!
I am engaging in a prehistoric precursor to flirting with a man who works in a small gallery near the café. I stare at him and he obligingly stares back. Sometimes I smile, and he gives me the most luminescently beautiful smile I have ever seen. We’re now rapidly getting to the point where I ignore him because I could never walk in a talk to him, and how long can you stare like a sheep into the back corner of the gallery looking for him without being too obvious? Besides, he is beautiful enough to be a model or to date a model, and I am just plain me, so obviously American, without the natural style and sleekness of many Italian women. Rather like a circus pony in a field of thoroughbreds. Don’t get me wrong, I rather like me the way I am, but I certainly stand out as American.
I have not heard from the Italian in several days so am not sure what his plans with regard to this weekend are. I hope he is not coming here out of some misguided sense of pity because I am alone. Perhaps he might feel I need to be taken care of as he seems to be the kind of man who cares for others. I am thriving and doing well. I find that with plenty of rest and little stress I have a sunny disposition. Who’d have thought it?
What am I eating, you ask? Well, I still eat pasta every other day or so and pizza twice a week. I popped into a small shop specializing in Tuscan products and was lured by a sample of toast with Crotona olive oil and a truffle sauce. I bought a small jar of the truffle sauce, but not the olive oil as I had previously bought a liter from a young woman roadside near San Gimignano. The truffle sauce is 1% truffles and the rest is olive oil, salt, olives, and mushrooms. It comes in a jar of 2.82 ounces for $6.50. I’ll again let you do the math. I liked it though and had some for lunch on my pasta. I eat lots of olive oil…perhaps why my cholesterol was down at the last doctor’s visit. I have proscuitto and salami and bread. I made a wonderful chicken soup yesterday. Potatoes, chicken breast, chicken broth, with the addition of some cooked garlic, celery, onions, red pepper and salt. To die for! Best chicken soup I have ever eaten. The foods here are more natural, often organic, and just not as processed as ours and have a wonderful taste and freshness. The tomatoes are delightful!
I am engaging in a prehistoric precursor to flirting with a man who works in a small gallery near the café. I stare at him and he obligingly stares back. Sometimes I smile, and he gives me the most luminescently beautiful smile I have ever seen. We’re now rapidly getting to the point where I ignore him because I could never walk in a talk to him, and how long can you stare like a sheep into the back corner of the gallery looking for him without being too obvious? Besides, he is beautiful enough to be a model or to date a model, and I am just plain me, so obviously American, without the natural style and sleekness of many Italian women. Rather like a circus pony in a field of thoroughbreds. Don’t get me wrong, I rather like me the way I am, but I certainly stand out as American.
I have not heard from the Italian in several days so am not sure what his plans with regard to this weekend are. I hope he is not coming here out of some misguided sense of pity because I am alone. Perhaps he might feel I need to be taken care of as he seems to be the kind of man who cares for others. I am thriving and doing well. I find that with plenty of rest and little stress I have a sunny disposition. Who’d have thought it?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Televisione
Now that I no longer have a rental car at my disposal I find I have more time to watch TV at various times during the day.
First, there are a series of those frenetic musical variety shows hosted by hairy-chested men with black, pompadour-styled hair, a la Wayne Newton. Similar shows feature prominently on Telemundo in the United States and Mexico.
Flipping channels, I next encountered the “All Music” channel hosted by 3 DJ types. One handsome, clean-cut, and silver haired; another featuring long, lank hair and a pair of those black plastic “birth control” glasses favored by the U.S. Army in the 1990’s, and finally; a shorter man, in need of a good shave who liked to assume a “man in charge” posture by leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, and putting both hands behind his head to give the audience a good, long look at his manly armpits. I changed the channel.
Next up was a talk show something like “Regis and Kelly.” Now, this one was a bit more interesting as it had two hosts, a vertically challenged, bald man and an extremely tall, blonde woman. This talk show has a game show portion whereby callers call in, select one from a display of photos of celebrities each concealing an envelope, in an attempt to win one of the prizes displayed on stage. All proceeded without a hitch until a man identifying himself as “Signor Cipolla” called in. This caused frowns and a great deal of confusion as the hosts tried to ascertain whether they were actually speaking with a man named “Mr. Onion”. When the caller shared his first name of “Pietro”, the hosts appeared much relieved, and the strangely named Mr. Onion went on to win an espresso machine with a value of 160 euro.
Later, quite by accident, I stumbled upon an infomercial for the Max Personal Trainer, which features two handles for balance, and a platform on which one stands. When activated, each side of the platform alternately moves up and down about a ½ inch creating, at high speeds, an extreme vibrational effect. First, we observed a muscle-clad man in a semi-crouch whose legs were moving up and down so rapidly on the Max Personal Trainer that he appeared to be trying to pedal a tiny tricycle up a large hill. Next, there were a variety of people whose legs were moving at various speeds, and then finally, viewers were treated to a close-up of a very firm and well-rounded set of female buttocks wearing a string bikini. The buttocks were moving with such speed and ferocity that they had the look of two cats fighting to get out of a very small sack.
Evenings have their own special line-up, featuring many American shows which have been dubbed in Italian. My personal favorite is a show much like the show hosted by Howie Mandel featuring briefcases with varying amounts of money each held by an attractive model, and a contestant who hopes desperately that they’ve chosen the briefcase containing 1 million dollars. The Italian version varies slightly, in that large gift boxes secured with sealing wax are held by a variety of everyday people, men and women. Whereas the American version goes for glitz, glamour, and over-the-top contestants, the Italian version goes for DRAMA. As each box is unsealed the host dramatically opens the box a smidge and pastes his eye to the tiny crack for a little peak. He then closes the box and assumes a hang-dog expression while sad violin music plays. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife and contestants cry frequently while the host droops forlornly over the podium in front of them. The whole affair is highlighted, inexplicably, with the addition of a large stuffed red pepper, and the emergence of a small battery-operated dancing chicken who often “shakes his tail feathers” thus relieving some of the accumulated tension.
I think I’ll read a book tonight.
First, there are a series of those frenetic musical variety shows hosted by hairy-chested men with black, pompadour-styled hair, a la Wayne Newton. Similar shows feature prominently on Telemundo in the United States and Mexico.
Flipping channels, I next encountered the “All Music” channel hosted by 3 DJ types. One handsome, clean-cut, and silver haired; another featuring long, lank hair and a pair of those black plastic “birth control” glasses favored by the U.S. Army in the 1990’s, and finally; a shorter man, in need of a good shave who liked to assume a “man in charge” posture by leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, and putting both hands behind his head to give the audience a good, long look at his manly armpits. I changed the channel.
Next up was a talk show something like “Regis and Kelly.” Now, this one was a bit more interesting as it had two hosts, a vertically challenged, bald man and an extremely tall, blonde woman. This talk show has a game show portion whereby callers call in, select one from a display of photos of celebrities each concealing an envelope, in an attempt to win one of the prizes displayed on stage. All proceeded without a hitch until a man identifying himself as “Signor Cipolla” called in. This caused frowns and a great deal of confusion as the hosts tried to ascertain whether they were actually speaking with a man named “Mr. Onion”. When the caller shared his first name of “Pietro”, the hosts appeared much relieved, and the strangely named Mr. Onion went on to win an espresso machine with a value of 160 euro.
Later, quite by accident, I stumbled upon an infomercial for the Max Personal Trainer, which features two handles for balance, and a platform on which one stands. When activated, each side of the platform alternately moves up and down about a ½ inch creating, at high speeds, an extreme vibrational effect. First, we observed a muscle-clad man in a semi-crouch whose legs were moving up and down so rapidly on the Max Personal Trainer that he appeared to be trying to pedal a tiny tricycle up a large hill. Next, there were a variety of people whose legs were moving at various speeds, and then finally, viewers were treated to a close-up of a very firm and well-rounded set of female buttocks wearing a string bikini. The buttocks were moving with such speed and ferocity that they had the look of two cats fighting to get out of a very small sack.
Evenings have their own special line-up, featuring many American shows which have been dubbed in Italian. My personal favorite is a show much like the show hosted by Howie Mandel featuring briefcases with varying amounts of money each held by an attractive model, and a contestant who hopes desperately that they’ve chosen the briefcase containing 1 million dollars. The Italian version varies slightly, in that large gift boxes secured with sealing wax are held by a variety of everyday people, men and women. Whereas the American version goes for glitz, glamour, and over-the-top contestants, the Italian version goes for DRAMA. As each box is unsealed the host dramatically opens the box a smidge and pastes his eye to the tiny crack for a little peak. He then closes the box and assumes a hang-dog expression while sad violin music plays. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife and contestants cry frequently while the host droops forlornly over the podium in front of them. The whole affair is highlighted, inexplicably, with the addition of a large stuffed red pepper, and the emergence of a small battery-operated dancing chicken who often “shakes his tail feathers” thus relieving some of the accumulated tension.
I think I’ll read a book tonight.
The Park
Saturday mornings is market day in Cortona. A small market sets up stalls nearly at my door step. Vendors sell pork, seafood (frutta di mare), linens, household items, purses and shoes.
The piazza is busy as is via Nazionale, the main shopping street. I enjoy walking here, listening to the sounds. A girl of about 7, long hair bouncing, skips along in her silver shoes barely heeding her father’s pleas of, “Claudia, aspetta” (wait). Let her dance in her magical silvery slippers!
I went out to lunch for the first time here in Cortona, to Fuflun’s, a pizza restaurant I’d eaten at on the bus tour with my mom. I had a “quattro stagioni”, four seasons, pizza with artichokes, olives, prosciutto, and mushrooms. It was very good!
Yesterday Maria and I went to a café for coffee, and then she showed me where the park was. It’s right at the end of via Nazionale and I’d never noticed it. It goes back about ½ mile and is flat, with a wonderful view over the valley. It’s a perfect place for me to walk when my knee is bothering me as it was yesterday.
I walked back to the park later in the afternoon and sat on a bench which I now consider “mine” and listened to music. Eventually a pair of young women stopped to ask me, in English, directions to Bramasole, the home of Frances Mayes. I didn’t know, but we started to talk. Both women are from Canada, one here to study Italian for nine months and the other here to visit her for two weeks. They’d caught the train out from Florence for the day.
I really enjoyed talking with these beautiful, kind, young ladies, and we walked back to town together. When we reached via Nazionale, men actually stopped what they were doing to turn around and watch these two gorgeous women. I’ve never seen, and certainly never experienced, anything like it. They took it in stride and ignored the extra attention they were receiving. I am interested to note that I receive as much attention here as I do at home. Men just look past me to look at the next woman as though I were completely invisible. Maybe I am invisible…..or maybe they’re blind. Beauty is more than a slim figure, firm thighs, and a pretty face. I admit it still hurts a bit though.
The Italian has written several times to say he is planning to visit this weekend. I try not to think about it or I’ll be a nervous wreck!
The piazza is busy as is via Nazionale, the main shopping street. I enjoy walking here, listening to the sounds. A girl of about 7, long hair bouncing, skips along in her silver shoes barely heeding her father’s pleas of, “Claudia, aspetta” (wait). Let her dance in her magical silvery slippers!
I went out to lunch for the first time here in Cortona, to Fuflun’s, a pizza restaurant I’d eaten at on the bus tour with my mom. I had a “quattro stagioni”, four seasons, pizza with artichokes, olives, prosciutto, and mushrooms. It was very good!
Yesterday Maria and I went to a café for coffee, and then she showed me where the park was. It’s right at the end of via Nazionale and I’d never noticed it. It goes back about ½ mile and is flat, with a wonderful view over the valley. It’s a perfect place for me to walk when my knee is bothering me as it was yesterday.
I walked back to the park later in the afternoon and sat on a bench which I now consider “mine” and listened to music. Eventually a pair of young women stopped to ask me, in English, directions to Bramasole, the home of Frances Mayes. I didn’t know, but we started to talk. Both women are from Canada, one here to study Italian for nine months and the other here to visit her for two weeks. They’d caught the train out from Florence for the day.
I really enjoyed talking with these beautiful, kind, young ladies, and we walked back to town together. When we reached via Nazionale, men actually stopped what they were doing to turn around and watch these two gorgeous women. I’ve never seen, and certainly never experienced, anything like it. They took it in stride and ignored the extra attention they were receiving. I am interested to note that I receive as much attention here as I do at home. Men just look past me to look at the next woman as though I were completely invisible. Maybe I am invisible…..or maybe they’re blind. Beauty is more than a slim figure, firm thighs, and a pretty face. I admit it still hurts a bit though.
The Italian has written several times to say he is planning to visit this weekend. I try not to think about it or I’ll be a nervous wreck!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Wine and Company
I arrived at Maria’s door promptly at 7 o’clock and was admitted to a beautiful room with a comfortable, red upholstered sofa and armchairs pulled close to a dancing fire giving off tendrils of warmth. The room had 12 foot beamed ceilings and a large wooden desk. Maria offered me a choice of beverages and I selected a red wine bottled by her brother. The wine was quite good, a rich, deep ruby color with a hint of smokiness perhaps gleaned from the wood barrel in which it was aged. She had a variety of treats to sample; a spicy sausage, olives, tomato slices, and little toasts spread with a variety of toppings like smoked salmon, cheese, and something approximating caviar. I liked them all!
Maria’s bathroom was a wonder! One first enters a lovely dressing room maybe 15 feet square with a large white bathtub angled across the corner. The bathtub is the old-fashioned sort where the head and feet portions are higher than the middle. The lavatory was a small room off to one side with any old style wooden chair, with arms and a hinged seat, literally a “throne”, which had been plumbed for modern use.
We chatted comfortably in a variety of English, Italian, and a smattering of French, occasionally consulting the Italian-English dictionary I’d thought to bring. Maria grew up in the south of Italy, near Naples and then, marrying a Frenchman, she moved to France where she raised her daughter, Laura, who now lives in Canada. She purchased the 4 story house in Cortona 8 years ago and had it renovated. She confessed that although she likes Cortona and finds it beautiful, the people are rather reserved and hesitant to welcome her into their circle of friends. I think many small towns are like that-closed off to ones they consider outsiders. We found we had things in common. Both divorced, and both rather shy, we find is somewhat difficult to approach new people. We laughed quite a bit and felt very comfortable together. Perhaps Maria will like having me live upstairs. She mentioned she would like to take me to a nearby village to show me something beautiful.
Upon my departure I was kindly gifted with a bottle of the homemade wine I’d enjoyed so much. Such kindness! Another example of a happy encounter!
I tackled a much larger hill today, and with a rest stop or two made it. Afterwards, I wandered back down to my favorite ceramic shop where I’d purchased an olive oil bottle for my mom. I chose one for myself along with a decorative plate to hang in the kitchen and a little bowl to place my open wine bottle in and a bottle topper painted in lovely shades of blue, yellow and orange. I trotted home to get my mom’s bottle so I could have them all shipped together for a staggering sum of money. However, I just cannot lug them all over Europe, they’re far too heavy.
The young woman in the shop, Lana, remembered me. She has the lovliest long hair and speaks three languages, a fact which always amazes me. She spent a long time arranging the shipping of my ceramics, and we chatted while she completed the transaction. We are neighbors as she lives in my neighborhood with her family. Before I left she gifted me with a small piece of an olive oil and beeswax hand cream. It’s in a solid chunk, but as you warm it in your hands, some comes off to be massaged into your skin. Another happy encounter!
Maria’s bathroom was a wonder! One first enters a lovely dressing room maybe 15 feet square with a large white bathtub angled across the corner. The bathtub is the old-fashioned sort where the head and feet portions are higher than the middle. The lavatory was a small room off to one side with any old style wooden chair, with arms and a hinged seat, literally a “throne”, which had been plumbed for modern use.
We chatted comfortably in a variety of English, Italian, and a smattering of French, occasionally consulting the Italian-English dictionary I’d thought to bring. Maria grew up in the south of Italy, near Naples and then, marrying a Frenchman, she moved to France where she raised her daughter, Laura, who now lives in Canada. She purchased the 4 story house in Cortona 8 years ago and had it renovated. She confessed that although she likes Cortona and finds it beautiful, the people are rather reserved and hesitant to welcome her into their circle of friends. I think many small towns are like that-closed off to ones they consider outsiders. We found we had things in common. Both divorced, and both rather shy, we find is somewhat difficult to approach new people. We laughed quite a bit and felt very comfortable together. Perhaps Maria will like having me live upstairs. She mentioned she would like to take me to a nearby village to show me something beautiful.
Upon my departure I was kindly gifted with a bottle of the homemade wine I’d enjoyed so much. Such kindness! Another example of a happy encounter!
I tackled a much larger hill today, and with a rest stop or two made it. Afterwards, I wandered back down to my favorite ceramic shop where I’d purchased an olive oil bottle for my mom. I chose one for myself along with a decorative plate to hang in the kitchen and a little bowl to place my open wine bottle in and a bottle topper painted in lovely shades of blue, yellow and orange. I trotted home to get my mom’s bottle so I could have them all shipped together for a staggering sum of money. However, I just cannot lug them all over Europe, they’re far too heavy.
The young woman in the shop, Lana, remembered me. She has the lovliest long hair and speaks three languages, a fact which always amazes me. She spent a long time arranging the shipping of my ceramics, and we chatted while she completed the transaction. We are neighbors as she lives in my neighborhood with her family. Before I left she gifted me with a small piece of an olive oil and beeswax hand cream. It’s in a solid chunk, but as you warm it in your hands, some comes off to be massaged into your skin. Another happy encounter!
The Marionettes
As some of you loyal readers have expressed an unhealthy interest in those hideous marionettes, I shall endeavor to provide an update.
They are back in their box, with a stack of 50 magazines to hold the lid securely closed. No matter, I am sure they crawl out of the box to dance in the moonlight while I sleep. I am sure to make a lot of noise so they have time to hide before I leave my room to use the bathroom in the night.
However, this morning events have taken a bizarre turn. I have very fine hair which requires application of a numerous styling products to give it loft and volume. This fine hair texture extends to my eyebrows, which always need a touch of eyebrow pencil to make them visible to the naked eye. I was alarmed to notice while applying my make-up this morning that I appeared to have no eyebrows at all. The macabre duo apparently shaved them off in the night forcing me to draw them on again with a heavier hand. Later, when I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window I noticed my eyebrows appeared to have been drawn on by my aged Aunt Edna’s shaky hand wielding a black magic marker!
I needed to take the trash out so it was down the big hill, out the gate, and back up again on rubbery legs. I then walked through the Piazza Signorelli and out another gate to a parking lot with a fabulous view. As I sat on the stone wall I noticed a peculiar substance on my shoe. Yep, I’d stepped into a steaming-hot pile of doggy doody. I walked to a convenient clump of grass to wipe my foot and noticed another pile, and then another near a paved ridge just made for shoe wiping. They were everywhere! Apparently the ghastly twins have escaped the apartment and are leaving excretory packages for me to find around town! Upon returning home, and washing the shoes in the bidet, I tried to ascertain how they’d escaped the apartment, and after a brief search I found it. There is a small escape hatch in the bathroom, which leads to a terracotta tiled roof and, after a long drop, to the exterior stairs leading to via Roma. I have barricaded the hatch with piles of make-up and hair products so I trust I’ll suffer no further episodes of mischief from the dastardly duo.
They are back in their box, with a stack of 50 magazines to hold the lid securely closed. No matter, I am sure they crawl out of the box to dance in the moonlight while I sleep. I am sure to make a lot of noise so they have time to hide before I leave my room to use the bathroom in the night.
However, this morning events have taken a bizarre turn. I have very fine hair which requires application of a numerous styling products to give it loft and volume. This fine hair texture extends to my eyebrows, which always need a touch of eyebrow pencil to make them visible to the naked eye. I was alarmed to notice while applying my make-up this morning that I appeared to have no eyebrows at all. The macabre duo apparently shaved them off in the night forcing me to draw them on again with a heavier hand. Later, when I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window I noticed my eyebrows appeared to have been drawn on by my aged Aunt Edna’s shaky hand wielding a black magic marker!
I needed to take the trash out so it was down the big hill, out the gate, and back up again on rubbery legs. I then walked through the Piazza Signorelli and out another gate to a parking lot with a fabulous view. As I sat on the stone wall I noticed a peculiar substance on my shoe. Yep, I’d stepped into a steaming-hot pile of doggy doody. I walked to a convenient clump of grass to wipe my foot and noticed another pile, and then another near a paved ridge just made for shoe wiping. They were everywhere! Apparently the ghastly twins have escaped the apartment and are leaving excretory packages for me to find around town! Upon returning home, and washing the shoes in the bidet, I tried to ascertain how they’d escaped the apartment, and after a brief search I found it. There is a small escape hatch in the bathroom, which leads to a terracotta tiled roof and, after a long drop, to the exterior stairs leading to via Roma. I have barricaded the hatch with piles of make-up and hair products so I trust I’ll suffer no further episodes of mischief from the dastardly duo.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Impressions
Cortona is an interesting little town though it’s perhaps not a typical Italian town as it does have a fair number of tourists which influence the types of businesses it contains and, to some small extent, the hours the shops operate.
I crawled in bed several days ago at 9:30 PM and as I tried to sleep I wondered why my heartbeat was so irregular, a bit like a drum roll. My goodness, it WAS a drum roll….from a snare drum like those in my high school marching band! When the bugles horned in, I quickly realized all hope of sleep was lost for the moment. Cortona is, apparently, a happening place. One night I will have to wander up the street to the piazza at 10 PM rather than crawling in bed wearing fuzzy socks and face cream like an old lady. I might be missing some excitement…or drums and bugles!
There was a wedding in the piazza last weekend. The bride a vision in her happiness, her satiny hair done up, decorated with tiny pearls. I cannot fathom the joy she was feeling. I can’t imagine ever having it.
I live just a small distance from the main piazza, Piazza della Repubblica. People gather in the piazza around the 5 o’clock hour to visit and share news of the day. The sun is just softening a bit around the edges and the lights of the shops cast a golden glow on the rough stone paved streets. People stroll about window shopping or slipping in to a wine bar for a crystal glass of something lovely and ruby red. Sometimes I sit on Le Scale, the steps, to feel a part of it all. No one talks to me, but I am not so alone there. The pigeons poking around, looking for scraps, keep me company. I am an observer.
Sitting on the steps I noticed a hair stylist, David e Francesco’s, across the piazza. Maybe I’ll visit them in a few weeks, when my hair is in need of color. Through the open door, I noticed a young woman sweeping the floor wearing a drape with foils in her hair. Perhaps all clients are required to clean up the shop while waiting for their color to develop. Or maybe there’s a discount offered if I am willing to wash the shop windows with my hair in foils. I believe I shall ask.
Yesterday, while waiting for the bus, I chuckled at the sight of a portly little man, in an olive green business suit, riding a Vespa with his helmet, a size too small, perched high above his round head.
The driver of the bus back to Cortona with his mane of luxurious black curls seemed to know each passenger who got on or off the bus. He chatted non-stop to one or another, telling them the latest news and stories of his parents (genitori). Sometimes the bus was delayed leaving a stop while he finished his conversation with a departing passenger. Here, people are more important than bus schedules.
Generally people seem appreciative of my efforts to speak Italian, although they often switch into English immediately after I say something, sometimes even before! I was greeted by cries of “Brava!” from several middle-aged ladies at a grocery in Montepulciano the other day when I asked for something in Italian.
I’ve done laundry today and have it draped all over the apartment-no dryers here. My neighbor has a clothes line which she can reel in and out with her freshly washed clothing, but she prefers to thread her husband’s socks through the decorative iron balcony railing like tiny woolen flags drooping forlornly, awaiting a breeze to bring them to life.
I think I will go out for a walk as I’ve not left the apartment all morning. I need to let Cortona introduce itself to me.
I crawled in bed several days ago at 9:30 PM and as I tried to sleep I wondered why my heartbeat was so irregular, a bit like a drum roll. My goodness, it WAS a drum roll….from a snare drum like those in my high school marching band! When the bugles horned in, I quickly realized all hope of sleep was lost for the moment. Cortona is, apparently, a happening place. One night I will have to wander up the street to the piazza at 10 PM rather than crawling in bed wearing fuzzy socks and face cream like an old lady. I might be missing some excitement…or drums and bugles!
There was a wedding in the piazza last weekend. The bride a vision in her happiness, her satiny hair done up, decorated with tiny pearls. I cannot fathom the joy she was feeling. I can’t imagine ever having it.
I live just a small distance from the main piazza, Piazza della Repubblica. People gather in the piazza around the 5 o’clock hour to visit and share news of the day. The sun is just softening a bit around the edges and the lights of the shops cast a golden glow on the rough stone paved streets. People stroll about window shopping or slipping in to a wine bar for a crystal glass of something lovely and ruby red. Sometimes I sit on Le Scale, the steps, to feel a part of it all. No one talks to me, but I am not so alone there. The pigeons poking around, looking for scraps, keep me company. I am an observer.
Sitting on the steps I noticed a hair stylist, David e Francesco’s, across the piazza. Maybe I’ll visit them in a few weeks, when my hair is in need of color. Through the open door, I noticed a young woman sweeping the floor wearing a drape with foils in her hair. Perhaps all clients are required to clean up the shop while waiting for their color to develop. Or maybe there’s a discount offered if I am willing to wash the shop windows with my hair in foils. I believe I shall ask.
Yesterday, while waiting for the bus, I chuckled at the sight of a portly little man, in an olive green business suit, riding a Vespa with his helmet, a size too small, perched high above his round head.
The driver of the bus back to Cortona with his mane of luxurious black curls seemed to know each passenger who got on or off the bus. He chatted non-stop to one or another, telling them the latest news and stories of his parents (genitori). Sometimes the bus was delayed leaving a stop while he finished his conversation with a departing passenger. Here, people are more important than bus schedules.
Generally people seem appreciative of my efforts to speak Italian, although they often switch into English immediately after I say something, sometimes even before! I was greeted by cries of “Brava!” from several middle-aged ladies at a grocery in Montepulciano the other day when I asked for something in Italian.
I’ve done laundry today and have it draped all over the apartment-no dryers here. My neighbor has a clothes line which she can reel in and out with her freshly washed clothing, but she prefers to thread her husband’s socks through the decorative iron balcony railing like tiny woolen flags drooping forlornly, awaiting a breeze to bring them to life.
I think I will go out for a walk as I’ve not left the apartment all morning. I need to let Cortona introduce itself to me.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Arezzo
It was time to return the small rental car I’d become rather attached to. I first made a stop in Camucia for a Caffe’ Mocha. They must not be very popular as the man didn’t seem to know what I wanted…or could it have been my Italian? At any rate, it was a yummy treat, which caused another unfortunate episode of a diuretic nature and I had to find 2 bathrooms before I’d even located the car rental office, which I did find without too much ado.
After dropping off the car, with no damage, I’ll have you know, I began walking to the central part of the city to find the bus station. I did have to stop and ask for directions to Piazza della Repubblico (I think every city has one) but located it without much problem. A kind man in the tourist office gave me precise instructions in Italian for purchasing a bus ticket and locating the actually bus stop. Of course, I made him repeat it in English just to make sure I understood it all. Overnight I had decided discard the notion of taking the train in favor of taking the bus. I never like trying anything new!
I had a wait of about 2 ½ hours so I wandered the streets until I spied a small bookstore. Upon entry I noticed the bookshop was well-stocked with books of a religious nature ….and nuns. 3 of the 4 continued about their business, but the 4th……ahhh, that fourth nun. She had me in her gaze immediately. I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I edged back toward the door, while pretending to peruse the children’s section. Mi Dio! She’s detected that I am not Catholic! She KNOWS I have transparent red lingerie hanging in my closet (she probably also knows it’s only been worn once). I nearly broke down and confessed that I have an unused, expired condom rolling around the bottom of my purse. She nearly dragged it out of me without ever having said a word. It was those piercing eyes and commanding air!
Once I escaped the nun’s penetrating stare I ‘rounded the corner to find, of all things, a HILL. Holy mackerel, my mother was right! Tuscany IS full of hills! I dragged my rubber legs up the hill and located a small pastry shop and bar and had a light lunch of tortellini with heavenly ragu’ (meat sauce) laden with olive oil. Yum!
I saw some young teenaged boys at the bus stop, wrestiling around and giving each noogies on the head. They reminded me so of my 13 year old son, Logan, and his friend, Jeff. Boys!! They’re all the same the world over…it’s kind of reassuring.
At the bus stop I asked a young woman for help identifying the correct bus. It turns out she was waiting for the same bus, but would disembark earlier than I. She was kind enough to ask the driver to make sure I got off at the right stop in Cortona. She is learning English and Spanish and was glad to practice a bit, and although her English was little better than my Italian, we understood each other perfectly. Another example of a happy encounter!
By the way, I think I forgot to mention that I saw a sandaled monk at the Coop store earlier this week. When was the last time YOU saw a monk at the grocery store?? It’s truly a different and exciting world here!
After dropping off the car, with no damage, I’ll have you know, I began walking to the central part of the city to find the bus station. I did have to stop and ask for directions to Piazza della Repubblico (I think every city has one) but located it without much problem. A kind man in the tourist office gave me precise instructions in Italian for purchasing a bus ticket and locating the actually bus stop. Of course, I made him repeat it in English just to make sure I understood it all. Overnight I had decided discard the notion of taking the train in favor of taking the bus. I never like trying anything new!
I had a wait of about 2 ½ hours so I wandered the streets until I spied a small bookstore. Upon entry I noticed the bookshop was well-stocked with books of a religious nature ….and nuns. 3 of the 4 continued about their business, but the 4th……ahhh, that fourth nun. She had me in her gaze immediately. I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I edged back toward the door, while pretending to peruse the children’s section. Mi Dio! She’s detected that I am not Catholic! She KNOWS I have transparent red lingerie hanging in my closet (she probably also knows it’s only been worn once). I nearly broke down and confessed that I have an unused, expired condom rolling around the bottom of my purse. She nearly dragged it out of me without ever having said a word. It was those piercing eyes and commanding air!
Once I escaped the nun’s penetrating stare I ‘rounded the corner to find, of all things, a HILL. Holy mackerel, my mother was right! Tuscany IS full of hills! I dragged my rubber legs up the hill and located a small pastry shop and bar and had a light lunch of tortellini with heavenly ragu’ (meat sauce) laden with olive oil. Yum!
I saw some young teenaged boys at the bus stop, wrestiling around and giving each noogies on the head. They reminded me so of my 13 year old son, Logan, and his friend, Jeff. Boys!! They’re all the same the world over…it’s kind of reassuring.
At the bus stop I asked a young woman for help identifying the correct bus. It turns out she was waiting for the same bus, but would disembark earlier than I. She was kind enough to ask the driver to make sure I got off at the right stop in Cortona. She is learning English and Spanish and was glad to practice a bit, and although her English was little better than my Italian, we understood each other perfectly. Another example of a happy encounter!
By the way, I think I forgot to mention that I saw a sandaled monk at the Coop store earlier this week. When was the last time YOU saw a monk at the grocery store?? It’s truly a different and exciting world here!
A Casa
It was a day at home today. I really hated to squander a day with the rental car by going nowhere, but somehow I just couldn’t get up the enthusiasm for a long day of driving. The sun was out part of the day and it was ALMOST warm!
My legs and knees were bothering me today, a bone deep ache in the thighs and shins, and my knees have taken to snapping and popping when I move them, like the knee cap is sliding back into place each time I bend or unbend. That snapping and popping comes with a bite of pain too. I am sure I will adjust to all the hills and stairs eventually and I can already feel my thigh muscles becoming stronger.
Tomorrow I must get gasoline and return the car to Arezzo, but not until the afternoon, so I will explore Arezzo a bit before trying to locate the car rental company to make the return and question all those charges on the paperwork I signed when picking up the vehicle. I will then need to take the train back to Cortona, really to Camucia, the town at the foot of the hill. I have only taken the train once or twice in Germany 20 years ago and I am a bit nervous about the whole thing, but I know I can do it.
I did more grocery shopping today. I am not a bit impressed with the bakery here in town and the grocery store is about half the size of a 7-11, so I have stock piled enough food at the supermercato to last a 3 month siege. Fortunately, the apartment is well-equipped with a refrigerator about 2/3 the size of mine at home which is quite large by European standards.
For those of you interested, unleaded gas is $7.88 a gallon here. I put in 10.5 gallons yesterday before driving to Chianti, which came to……..well, I’ll let you do the math!
A bright spot today was finding a café that makes café’ mochas! Of course it’s in Camucia and not Cortona, but I will make a stop there tomorrow before heading for Arezzo. Also, it seems I forgot my tweezers. I bought another today, and managed to lose it before getting home. It must have been left in the shopping cart. I would take that as a divine sign, but not even the Universe is going to keep me from plucking my eyebrows!
My legs and knees were bothering me today, a bone deep ache in the thighs and shins, and my knees have taken to snapping and popping when I move them, like the knee cap is sliding back into place each time I bend or unbend. That snapping and popping comes with a bite of pain too. I am sure I will adjust to all the hills and stairs eventually and I can already feel my thigh muscles becoming stronger.
Tomorrow I must get gasoline and return the car to Arezzo, but not until the afternoon, so I will explore Arezzo a bit before trying to locate the car rental company to make the return and question all those charges on the paperwork I signed when picking up the vehicle. I will then need to take the train back to Cortona, really to Camucia, the town at the foot of the hill. I have only taken the train once or twice in Germany 20 years ago and I am a bit nervous about the whole thing, but I know I can do it.
I did more grocery shopping today. I am not a bit impressed with the bakery here in town and the grocery store is about half the size of a 7-11, so I have stock piled enough food at the supermercato to last a 3 month siege. Fortunately, the apartment is well-equipped with a refrigerator about 2/3 the size of mine at home which is quite large by European standards.
For those of you interested, unleaded gas is $7.88 a gallon here. I put in 10.5 gallons yesterday before driving to Chianti, which came to……..well, I’ll let you do the math!
A bright spot today was finding a café that makes café’ mochas! Of course it’s in Camucia and not Cortona, but I will make a stop there tomorrow before heading for Arezzo. Also, it seems I forgot my tweezers. I bought another today, and managed to lose it before getting home. It must have been left in the shopping cart. I would take that as a divine sign, but not even the Universe is going to keep me from plucking my eyebrows!
Chianti
I drove the beautiful hills of the Chianti region today. My goal was to return to Greve in Chianti where I bought a lovely bracelet of alternating copper and silver links, hung with a ripe grape cluster made of champagne colored crystals during my trip with my mom. I’ve never seen anything like it and I wanted to see what else the little shop might have.
I exited the main highway too early and embarked on a beautiful route of torturous twists and turns I’ve dubbed the “Italian roller coaster. I might add that I have ridden the Scottish and Irish roller coasters as well. All of them share similar razor-sharp hills which descend sickeningly into deep gullies by way of tight hairpin curves on the narrowest roads I’ve ever seen, with nary a guardrail in sight. All of the so-called roller coasters effect me the same way…they seem to have an extremely strong diuretic effect, which today left me to negotiate the spaghetti-like curves, a mere 8 feet ahead of a screaming diesel truck driven by a wild-eyed man belching smoke like a chimney, while attempting to clamp my knees together so as not to become the victim of an “accident”, vehicular or otherwise.
I made a pit stop in Radda in Chianti, gulped down a coffee (which also has a diuretic effect, mind you), loped down the stairs, through the door, down some more stairs, and around the corner to the restroom…only to find it occupied! Experiences like this built character or so I’m told. Personally, I think they built bladder control and the macabre desire to hang out in the Depends aisle of the grocery store.
After what seemed like 6 hours, I arrived in Greve in Chianti, drove ‘round the town looking for parking for 20 minutes, then ran to the store as though it contained the Holy Grail, only to find it was out of business. Disaster! Then it began to rain. It took another hour to get back to the main highway, by which time I was nearly in Florence. I thought I’d stop in San Gimignano to see if Bella Rita was at work, and to visit a little shop with exquisite Italian stationary and cards. Guess what? Neither shop was open! It was just one of those days where you are busy every minute, but accomplish little. Fortunately tomorrow is another day, fresh and untainted, with no mistakes or mishaps in it. I shall paint myself a new day full of beauty, hope, and promise!
An older gentleman patted me on the cheek today as though I were una bambina, reminding me of how much I miss my own nonno. It was almost like having a nonno (grandpa) again for just a moment.
I exited the main highway too early and embarked on a beautiful route of torturous twists and turns I’ve dubbed the “Italian roller coaster. I might add that I have ridden the Scottish and Irish roller coasters as well. All of them share similar razor-sharp hills which descend sickeningly into deep gullies by way of tight hairpin curves on the narrowest roads I’ve ever seen, with nary a guardrail in sight. All of the so-called roller coasters effect me the same way…they seem to have an extremely strong diuretic effect, which today left me to negotiate the spaghetti-like curves, a mere 8 feet ahead of a screaming diesel truck driven by a wild-eyed man belching smoke like a chimney, while attempting to clamp my knees together so as not to become the victim of an “accident”, vehicular or otherwise.
I made a pit stop in Radda in Chianti, gulped down a coffee (which also has a diuretic effect, mind you), loped down the stairs, through the door, down some more stairs, and around the corner to the restroom…only to find it occupied! Experiences like this built character or so I’m told. Personally, I think they built bladder control and the macabre desire to hang out in the Depends aisle of the grocery store.
After what seemed like 6 hours, I arrived in Greve in Chianti, drove ‘round the town looking for parking for 20 minutes, then ran to the store as though it contained the Holy Grail, only to find it was out of business. Disaster! Then it began to rain. It took another hour to get back to the main highway, by which time I was nearly in Florence. I thought I’d stop in San Gimignano to see if Bella Rita was at work, and to visit a little shop with exquisite Italian stationary and cards. Guess what? Neither shop was open! It was just one of those days where you are busy every minute, but accomplish little. Fortunately tomorrow is another day, fresh and untainted, with no mistakes or mishaps in it. I shall paint myself a new day full of beauty, hope, and promise!
An older gentleman patted me on the cheek today as though I were una bambina, reminding me of how much I miss my own nonno. It was almost like having a nonno (grandpa) again for just a moment.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Montepulciano and Other Thoughts
I’m very excited that I am able to use my own computer at the internet point, because the computers there could not read my flash drive and I was unable to update my blog until today. I’ve taken some nice pictures and am glad to be able to share them.
I am enjoying a beautiful view out the window as I write this by candlelight. I try to be economical as the utilities here are extremely expensive. Candles add a romantic touch anyway, and I could use a bit of romance!
Yesterday I stayed home here in Cortona. It was Sunday and I was surprised by how many shops were actually open for business, but then this is rather a tourist town. I joined in the passegiata, stroll, which the locals take around town in the early evening. I am too shy to really strike up a conversation with anyone though….and my Italian really just isn’t strong enough to support more than “Hello or “Goodbye.” I do make it my mission to learn a new word each day. It’s remembering the new word that next day that’s the problem!
I was a bit melancholy yesterday. I checked my email Saturday to find no email from my family, and none from my Italian friend with whom I’ve been exchanging email for nearly 6 months. Perhaps now that I’m here he is no longer interested in getting to know me. I confess to sending a rather whiny email asking him if he no longer wanted to write, to which I deservedly received no reply. I am reminded of what my friend, Edie, tells me about having expectations. I don’t THINK I have expectations, but the fact that I was disappointed says that I did, in fact, anticipate SOMETHING. Often I’m like a small child craving love and acceptance. Please like me! I’m nice, I’m funny, and I’m worth knowing! I need to be more mindful of having expectations, either good or bad, of others. It really only leads to disappointment and triggers a negative thought pattern, which I am trying to break. If my Italian misses out on knowing me and looking my happy face, he will never know what a good friend I could have been, but it’s really no reflection on me. After a good cry and a fair night’s sleep, I felt better. Still no email from my family though, when I checked today, but a nice one from Debra…many thanks for being the first, Debra!! It came just when I needed it!
Today I got up relatively early, 7:00, and drove to Montepluciano where I parked and tackled a BIG HILL. The trick is to meander up hills extremely slowly and to have people and stores to watch while I’m walking, as a distraction. I bought a beautiful free-form, glass heart made in Murano. Its dichroic glass so is iridescent and sparkles in a rainbow of blue, green, and gold. Really, I’ve got to quit shopping! I also treated myself to a lovely cappuccino made by a personable (and handsome) Italian man. The price? One euro standing at the bar. It costs more to sit and drink.
Back in Cortona, I sat on the stairs of a public building in the main square, Piazza della Repubblica, and chatted with a Canadian couple, David and Judy, who are touring Tuscany and Umbria for 10 days. There were also some American students there who are studying at a local art school for 3 months. They mentioned it snowed last week! No wonder I am always cold. I purchased a pair of fuzzy slippers at the Coop to keep the feet thawed, but seem to have grown two large, 5 digit ice cubes where my hands used to be! It takes me a long while to warm up enough to fall asleep at night. In looking for a small blanket of some sort that I could cover up with when watching TV, I opened a wooden bench with a hinged seat to discover a pair of hideous marionette type dolls with painted faces. I nearly came unhinged! Truly, I was a much happier woman before I opened that bench. I could have nightmares about those things, but I won’t!
I am enjoying a beautiful view out the window as I write this by candlelight. I try to be economical as the utilities here are extremely expensive. Candles add a romantic touch anyway, and I could use a bit of romance!
Yesterday I stayed home here in Cortona. It was Sunday and I was surprised by how many shops were actually open for business, but then this is rather a tourist town. I joined in the passegiata, stroll, which the locals take around town in the early evening. I am too shy to really strike up a conversation with anyone though….and my Italian really just isn’t strong enough to support more than “Hello or “Goodbye.” I do make it my mission to learn a new word each day. It’s remembering the new word that next day that’s the problem!
I was a bit melancholy yesterday. I checked my email Saturday to find no email from my family, and none from my Italian friend with whom I’ve been exchanging email for nearly 6 months. Perhaps now that I’m here he is no longer interested in getting to know me. I confess to sending a rather whiny email asking him if he no longer wanted to write, to which I deservedly received no reply. I am reminded of what my friend, Edie, tells me about having expectations. I don’t THINK I have expectations, but the fact that I was disappointed says that I did, in fact, anticipate SOMETHING. Often I’m like a small child craving love and acceptance. Please like me! I’m nice, I’m funny, and I’m worth knowing! I need to be more mindful of having expectations, either good or bad, of others. It really only leads to disappointment and triggers a negative thought pattern, which I am trying to break. If my Italian misses out on knowing me and looking my happy face, he will never know what a good friend I could have been, but it’s really no reflection on me. After a good cry and a fair night’s sleep, I felt better. Still no email from my family though, when I checked today, but a nice one from Debra…many thanks for being the first, Debra!! It came just when I needed it!
Today I got up relatively early, 7:00, and drove to Montepluciano where I parked and tackled a BIG HILL. The trick is to meander up hills extremely slowly and to have people and stores to watch while I’m walking, as a distraction. I bought a beautiful free-form, glass heart made in Murano. Its dichroic glass so is iridescent and sparkles in a rainbow of blue, green, and gold. Really, I’ve got to quit shopping! I also treated myself to a lovely cappuccino made by a personable (and handsome) Italian man. The price? One euro standing at the bar. It costs more to sit and drink.
Back in Cortona, I sat on the stairs of a public building in the main square, Piazza della Repubblica, and chatted with a Canadian couple, David and Judy, who are touring Tuscany and Umbria for 10 days. There were also some American students there who are studying at a local art school for 3 months. They mentioned it snowed last week! No wonder I am always cold. I purchased a pair of fuzzy slippers at the Coop to keep the feet thawed, but seem to have grown two large, 5 digit ice cubes where my hands used to be! It takes me a long while to warm up enough to fall asleep at night. In looking for a small blanket of some sort that I could cover up with when watching TV, I opened a wooden bench with a hinged seat to discover a pair of hideous marionette type dolls with painted faces. I nearly came unhinged! Truly, I was a much happier woman before I opened that bench. I could have nightmares about those things, but I won’t!
Monday, April 7, 2008
San Gimignano
Saturday Morning I crawled out from under my toasty, puffy comforter and streaked through the cold apartment to turn on the hot water heater for a shower. I’ve noticed that the large, arched windows of my living room have no coverings and face the cathedral across the street. Parts of the cathedral are undergoing repair and there is a large crane and scaffolding across the narrow street directly in front of the windows. There are also workmen. I must remember that as I travel from bed to bath in the future… The toilet and a sink are in the bath upstairs, and the shower is in a utility room off the kitchen. The shower has lovely gray tumbled marble tile and makes me wish for a similarly luxurious bathtub in which to take a candlelit bath.
The drive through the countryside to San Gimignano is breathtaking. Lovely old villages, hilltop villas, walled cities, and beautiful rolling green hills dotted with silvery-gray olive trees. The town itself is high on a hill; a walled fortress city dominated 14 towers build by wealthy families during the middle ages. There were originally 72 towers, built for both protection and as a symbol of the owner’s wealth.
Once inside the city I stopped at a small art gallery featuring glass, silk clothing and purses, and some lovely Tuscan multi-media paintings. Then I found the real treasure, a lovely woman named Rita who, having lost her husband to cancer 3 years ago, dreams of visiting the Unites States. Rita is studying English from a 4 inch thick Italian-English dictionary, much as I study Italian. She seemed very excited to meet me and told me how she loved John Wayne and would like to visit Cong, Ireland where he filmed “The Quiet Man” with Maureen O’Hara. She was a bit put out that her husband had once gone salmon fishing to Ireland with 4 friends and left her at home! We chatted for quite some time in mixed Italian and English and she shared her email address with me. I bought as small blue glass pendant as a memory of Rita, and when I stopped by to say “Arrivederci” upon leaving town she gave me three kisses on the cheek for “luck”.
Just before my departure for Italy my wonderful co-workers treated me to lunch at an Asian restaurant. In my fortune cookie was a fortune, “You will have many opportunities for happy encounters”. First I meet a handsome stranger on the plane, and now Bella Rita. How lucky I am!
The drive through the countryside to San Gimignano is breathtaking. Lovely old villages, hilltop villas, walled cities, and beautiful rolling green hills dotted with silvery-gray olive trees. The town itself is high on a hill; a walled fortress city dominated 14 towers build by wealthy families during the middle ages. There were originally 72 towers, built for both protection and as a symbol of the owner’s wealth.
Once inside the city I stopped at a small art gallery featuring glass, silk clothing and purses, and some lovely Tuscan multi-media paintings. Then I found the real treasure, a lovely woman named Rita who, having lost her husband to cancer 3 years ago, dreams of visiting the Unites States. Rita is studying English from a 4 inch thick Italian-English dictionary, much as I study Italian. She seemed very excited to meet me and told me how she loved John Wayne and would like to visit Cong, Ireland where he filmed “The Quiet Man” with Maureen O’Hara. She was a bit put out that her husband had once gone salmon fishing to Ireland with 4 friends and left her at home! We chatted for quite some time in mixed Italian and English and she shared her email address with me. I bought as small blue glass pendant as a memory of Rita, and when I stopped by to say “Arrivederci” upon leaving town she gave me three kisses on the cheek for “luck”.
Just before my departure for Italy my wonderful co-workers treated me to lunch at an Asian restaurant. In my fortune cookie was a fortune, “You will have many opportunities for happy encounters”. First I meet a handsome stranger on the plane, and now Bella Rita. How lucky I am!
Settling In
The first thing I needed to do upon settling in was to find groceries. Maria graciously provided directions to the “Coop” (pronounced “cop” in Italian) in Camucia, a town at the foot of the hill, and after a bit of driving around I located the shopping center. In Europe you must insert a 1 Euro coin to unlock your shopping cart from the collection point. I’ve taken to leaving a coin in the car so I am never caught without. The system works well as everyone returns their carts and there are always children willing to return the ones left loose to collect a little bit of money. We really need to institute such a system in the USA! At any rate, I poked around the supermercato picking up this and that. Things are quite expensive in Europe, but even I was shocked to see that boneless, skinless chicken breasts are $16 a pound and are sold in packages of 1!! Returning home I successfully located parking and hiked into town only to fall exhausted into bed.
Friday was a day for exploring town a bit. I am looking for a ceramic olive oil bottle for my mom and one for myself, but didn’t find the perfect one yet. I did buy some beautiful note cards…Italy has beautiful papers, only to find they are like postcards with envelopes, not the folded cards I’d wanted. That explains the reasonable cost. Unfortunately I bought 4 of them. They should work well for thank yous or small notes to friends and I will give some to my mom too.
After making a list of cleaning supplies and food items I needed, I did have to travail back to the Coop in Camucia for a bigger shopping expedition. This time parking in Cortona was a nightmare. I circled around, up and down the hill, looking in vain. Each time I’d spot a tiny space, someone would just be pulling in ahead of me. There was a fair amount of traffic, which I eventually noticed were the same cars driving ‘round and ‘round, looking for parking just as I was! Obviously, I was going to have to be much quicker in the future-and willing to park in a postage stamp sized space. Eventually I had success, and then began the trek through the gate, uphill to the apartment. Once I reach the front of my building, there is an open doorway through which are more steps, then through the front door and another steep flight of stone stairs to my apartment. I was so tired after lugging 30 pounds of groceries I had to stop several times. I had a few minutes to catch my breath and try to stop that alarming wheezing sound was making and do it all over again as I had a second load in the car!
I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon since arriving in Italy. During the night someone has apparently removed my previously functional legs and replaced them with a pair of rubber ones. These rubber legs generally have the consistency of jell-o, with an interesting tendency to completely lock up at the worst possible moment, leaving me leaning against a building eyes popping and lungs burning, gasping audibly for air like a fish out of water. I pretend to look for something in my bags while I wait for my legs to loosen up so I can proceed. Of course, there are usually some interested observers to witness my humiliation and for their benefit (or is it to save myself some bit of embarrasment?) I try to “suck wind” with my mouth closed.
The apartment has thoughtfully been equipped with two additional sets of shin-scraping stone steps. There are 4 down to the kitchen measuring, inexplicably 9, 9, 7 1/2, and 9 inches respectively. The 3 steps up to the bathroom are no better at 10, 9, and 6 inches. Impossible to get any sort of rhythm going and I simply lurch from one to the other hoping I won’t fall on my face. I also must say, 10 inches is a high step for someone as short as I! I can plainly see I am going to get exercise whether I want to or not!
Friday was a day for exploring town a bit. I am looking for a ceramic olive oil bottle for my mom and one for myself, but didn’t find the perfect one yet. I did buy some beautiful note cards…Italy has beautiful papers, only to find they are like postcards with envelopes, not the folded cards I’d wanted. That explains the reasonable cost. Unfortunately I bought 4 of them. They should work well for thank yous or small notes to friends and I will give some to my mom too.
After making a list of cleaning supplies and food items I needed, I did have to travail back to the Coop in Camucia for a bigger shopping expedition. This time parking in Cortona was a nightmare. I circled around, up and down the hill, looking in vain. Each time I’d spot a tiny space, someone would just be pulling in ahead of me. There was a fair amount of traffic, which I eventually noticed were the same cars driving ‘round and ‘round, looking for parking just as I was! Obviously, I was going to have to be much quicker in the future-and willing to park in a postage stamp sized space. Eventually I had success, and then began the trek through the gate, uphill to the apartment. Once I reach the front of my building, there is an open doorway through which are more steps, then through the front door and another steep flight of stone stairs to my apartment. I was so tired after lugging 30 pounds of groceries I had to stop several times. I had a few minutes to catch my breath and try to stop that alarming wheezing sound was making and do it all over again as I had a second load in the car!
I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon since arriving in Italy. During the night someone has apparently removed my previously functional legs and replaced them with a pair of rubber ones. These rubber legs generally have the consistency of jell-o, with an interesting tendency to completely lock up at the worst possible moment, leaving me leaning against a building eyes popping and lungs burning, gasping audibly for air like a fish out of water. I pretend to look for something in my bags while I wait for my legs to loosen up so I can proceed. Of course, there are usually some interested observers to witness my humiliation and for their benefit (or is it to save myself some bit of embarrasment?) I try to “suck wind” with my mouth closed.
The apartment has thoughtfully been equipped with two additional sets of shin-scraping stone steps. There are 4 down to the kitchen measuring, inexplicably 9, 9, 7 1/2, and 9 inches respectively. The 3 steps up to the bathroom are no better at 10, 9, and 6 inches. Impossible to get any sort of rhythm going and I simply lurch from one to the other hoping I won’t fall on my face. I also must say, 10 inches is a high step for someone as short as I! I can plainly see I am going to get exercise whether I want to or not!
Cortona
I gathered my oversized suitcase and heavy carry on and lugged them across the parking lot of the Peretola airport in Florence, and quickly located my rental vehicle, only to discover that the same person who designed the narrow seats on the aircraft had apparently parked the car. After squeezing the suitcase in the back by removing the hatch cover I, by way of a series of contortions worthy of an acrobat, crawled over the gear shift from the passenger seat to the driver’s and was on my way. That is, until I tried to turn the corner to exit the parking lot, only to find cars had been parked willy nilly in such a way I did not feel I could make the curve without side swiping other cars parked with flagrant disregard to the driving abilities of said American driver.
After circling the lot, I eventually made my way out a narrow exit and negotiated the entrance to the A1 Autostrada. The drive south to Tuscany passed without incident although the Italian drivers had a disconcerting habit of passing me at break neck speed then merging back into my lane before they’d cleared my front bumper. There appear to be two speeds in Italy, 20 and 120, and to drive at any other speed was to take your life into your hands! I actually encountered a man driving a miniscule and aged white vehicle so slowly I thought he must have been pedaling the thing!
The town of Arezzo had many signs advertising a McDonalds and its “McDrive”. It seemed a good place to make a pit stop as my blood sugar was dipping and I needed to avail myself of the facilities, however, in spite of ample signage I never saw the place. Apparently, I had McMissed it.
The view of Cortona arriving from Arezzo is spectacular. Perched precariously on a hill, it is a series of warm gold buildings seemingly piled one atop the other like a house of cards. After climbing the steep grade and circling a one way street three times, I was finally brave enough to park the car on a hill and locate a tobacco shop where I could purchase a telephone card with which to call my landlord, Maria, who graciously walked down to meet me. She showed me where to drive into the city walls to drop off the luggage and directed me back outside the medieval walled city to park. There are few areas with free parking so those tiny spaces are at a premium. Unfortunately, they are not always clearly marked as to whether they are free or paid parking so ones makes a guess at it and hopes for the best. I eventually parked, hugged up tight against the city wall…near a sign which warns of falling rocks.
Maria and I had a devil of a time negotiating the steep stairs to my fourth floor apartment, the “mansard”, with the luggage, but where there’s a will there’s a way. The wooden apartment door opened to reveal a beautiful and typically Tuscan room, with beamed ceilings, plastered white walls, and wide, arched windows. The ceilings are sloped as befits the top floor of an old home, and the roof tiles have pictures of diamonds, flowers, and 8-pointed stars painted on them along with a date- 1763! The apartment has funny little windows perched here and there, to include one that looks to be an old arrow slit located in an alcove of my bedroom along with the fuse box. From the living room there is an incredible view over the tiled red roofs of Cortona to the green Val di Chiana valley far below. Maria assures me that views at sunrise are spectacular. I can hardly wait!
After circling the lot, I eventually made my way out a narrow exit and negotiated the entrance to the A1 Autostrada. The drive south to Tuscany passed without incident although the Italian drivers had a disconcerting habit of passing me at break neck speed then merging back into my lane before they’d cleared my front bumper. There appear to be two speeds in Italy, 20 and 120, and to drive at any other speed was to take your life into your hands! I actually encountered a man driving a miniscule and aged white vehicle so slowly I thought he must have been pedaling the thing!
The town of Arezzo had many signs advertising a McDonalds and its “McDrive”. It seemed a good place to make a pit stop as my blood sugar was dipping and I needed to avail myself of the facilities, however, in spite of ample signage I never saw the place. Apparently, I had McMissed it.
The view of Cortona arriving from Arezzo is spectacular. Perched precariously on a hill, it is a series of warm gold buildings seemingly piled one atop the other like a house of cards. After climbing the steep grade and circling a one way street three times, I was finally brave enough to park the car on a hill and locate a tobacco shop where I could purchase a telephone card with which to call my landlord, Maria, who graciously walked down to meet me. She showed me where to drive into the city walls to drop off the luggage and directed me back outside the medieval walled city to park. There are few areas with free parking so those tiny spaces are at a premium. Unfortunately, they are not always clearly marked as to whether they are free or paid parking so ones makes a guess at it and hopes for the best. I eventually parked, hugged up tight against the city wall…near a sign which warns of falling rocks.
Maria and I had a devil of a time negotiating the steep stairs to my fourth floor apartment, the “mansard”, with the luggage, but where there’s a will there’s a way. The wooden apartment door opened to reveal a beautiful and typically Tuscan room, with beamed ceilings, plastered white walls, and wide, arched windows. The ceilings are sloped as befits the top floor of an old home, and the roof tiles have pictures of diamonds, flowers, and 8-pointed stars painted on them along with a date- 1763! The apartment has funny little windows perched here and there, to include one that looks to be an old arrow slit located in an alcove of my bedroom along with the fuse box. From the living room there is an incredible view over the tiled red roofs of Cortona to the green Val di Chiana valley far below. Maria assures me that views at sunrise are spectacular. I can hardly wait!
Arrival
Sono in Italia! I am here….I’ve arrived safe, sound, and in one piece.
I was offered an earlier flight from Killeen, which was ideal as, originally, I had only an hour and 15 minutes to change planes provided all flights were on time. I was a tad worried that my hefty luggage wouldn’t make it onto my flight from Dallas to Frankfurt, Germany, but fate intervened and all was well.
My seatmate on the overseas flight was a blonde haired, blue-eyed, handsome German man who is working in Mexico. He was very friendly and personable, a fact I did not discover until we were 9 hours 15 minutes into a 9 hour 30 minute flight, but if I had to snuggle in close proximity to someone for 9 hours, I am certainly glad it was him….he was warm and soft on a very long, cold flight.
The sunrise out the tiny window was spectacular. It was as though the God’s hand painted a rainbow banner of colors from a vivid blood red, to grass green, to rich indigo across the sky with the most intensely colored crayons. I was welcomed to the first leg of my journey by beauty unlike any I had ever seen. A good sign!
I successfully located the ticket kiosk and secured the boarding pass for my connecting flight to Florence, after which I negotiated Security and was treated to the most intimate exploration of my person I had ever experienced from someone who hadn’t bought me dinner first.
After an extended 5 hour wait in Frankfurt I boarded a cramped aircraft to Florence. I was pleased to notice my large carry on fit into the overhead bin and there was an extra 2 inches of leg room I wasn’t expecting. Once I attempted to seat myself I quickly realized why there was 2 inches of extra legroom…it was because they’d removed 2 inches of width from each seat. For a moment I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t actually going to fit, but after a series of uncomfortable and ungainly heaves and wiggles I managed to insinuate my ample behind into the seat, however the strain on my hands from attempts to fasten my seatbelt caused a painful reoccurrence of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome.
Other than my relative inability to breathe and the fact that I had to cross my arms I Dream of Jeanie style so as not to crowd my neighbor, the rest of the flight proceeded without incident. Until, that is, I realized that in the process of fitting (notice I didn’t say “sitting”) in the vise-like seat, portions of my hips and thighs had oozed out under the arm handles. My crossed arms were restraining my pudgy “muffin top”, but I had developed an alarming case of “muffin bottom”. How on earth was I going to extricate myself from this vile implement of torture? Just as the law of Physics allows a too small ring to be placed on a finger, but not to be removed without a quarter cup of butter, I had a sinking feeling that a similar form of removal might have to be applied to me. I blushed in embarrassment at the imagined horror of an emergency call to the fire department from the horrified (and no doubt amused) flight crew. If I was going to be rubbed down with a pound of butter by hose swinging, yellow hip-wader wearing members of the Italian fire department, it sure as heck wasn’t going to be aboard Lufthansa flight 4062!
In the end, I grasped the seat in front of me firmly and hoisted myself, more of less gracefully, out of the clamp-like seat while my seatmate, a runner-up in last year’s Ichabod Crane look-a-like contest, carefully averted his eyes just as I had politely averted mine when he inserted an exploratory finger into his right nostril mid-flight.
A cold rain greeted me in Florence, and an unhelpful woman appeared to charge my credit card for the car rental I’d already paid for online. Of course, she kept my printed receipt. I decided to wait and deal with that issue when I return the car in Arezzo.
I was offered an earlier flight from Killeen, which was ideal as, originally, I had only an hour and 15 minutes to change planes provided all flights were on time. I was a tad worried that my hefty luggage wouldn’t make it onto my flight from Dallas to Frankfurt, Germany, but fate intervened and all was well.
My seatmate on the overseas flight was a blonde haired, blue-eyed, handsome German man who is working in Mexico. He was very friendly and personable, a fact I did not discover until we were 9 hours 15 minutes into a 9 hour 30 minute flight, but if I had to snuggle in close proximity to someone for 9 hours, I am certainly glad it was him….he was warm and soft on a very long, cold flight.
The sunrise out the tiny window was spectacular. It was as though the God’s hand painted a rainbow banner of colors from a vivid blood red, to grass green, to rich indigo across the sky with the most intensely colored crayons. I was welcomed to the first leg of my journey by beauty unlike any I had ever seen. A good sign!
I successfully located the ticket kiosk and secured the boarding pass for my connecting flight to Florence, after which I negotiated Security and was treated to the most intimate exploration of my person I had ever experienced from someone who hadn’t bought me dinner first.
After an extended 5 hour wait in Frankfurt I boarded a cramped aircraft to Florence. I was pleased to notice my large carry on fit into the overhead bin and there was an extra 2 inches of leg room I wasn’t expecting. Once I attempted to seat myself I quickly realized why there was 2 inches of extra legroom…it was because they’d removed 2 inches of width from each seat. For a moment I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t actually going to fit, but after a series of uncomfortable and ungainly heaves and wiggles I managed to insinuate my ample behind into the seat, however the strain on my hands from attempts to fasten my seatbelt caused a painful reoccurrence of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome.
Other than my relative inability to breathe and the fact that I had to cross my arms I Dream of Jeanie style so as not to crowd my neighbor, the rest of the flight proceeded without incident. Until, that is, I realized that in the process of fitting (notice I didn’t say “sitting”) in the vise-like seat, portions of my hips and thighs had oozed out under the arm handles. My crossed arms were restraining my pudgy “muffin top”, but I had developed an alarming case of “muffin bottom”. How on earth was I going to extricate myself from this vile implement of torture? Just as the law of Physics allows a too small ring to be placed on a finger, but not to be removed without a quarter cup of butter, I had a sinking feeling that a similar form of removal might have to be applied to me. I blushed in embarrassment at the imagined horror of an emergency call to the fire department from the horrified (and no doubt amused) flight crew. If I was going to be rubbed down with a pound of butter by hose swinging, yellow hip-wader wearing members of the Italian fire department, it sure as heck wasn’t going to be aboard Lufthansa flight 4062!
In the end, I grasped the seat in front of me firmly and hoisted myself, more of less gracefully, out of the clamp-like seat while my seatmate, a runner-up in last year’s Ichabod Crane look-a-like contest, carefully averted his eyes just as I had politely averted mine when he inserted an exploratory finger into his right nostril mid-flight.
A cold rain greeted me in Florence, and an unhelpful woman appeared to charge my credit card for the car rental I’d already paid for online. Of course, she kept my printed receipt. I decided to wait and deal with that issue when I return the car in Arezzo.
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