Travel Italy | The Travel Lady In Her Shoes

Posts from the ‘Travel Italy’ category

Rome at Night

A Bridge Over the Tiber River

Rome at night Is unbelievable! We headed out to Campo di Fiori (Field of Flowers), just a hop, skip and jump from Piazza Farnese, that was used in times past as a market and hostel area for pilgrims making their way to see the Holy Papa. Today it is filled with stalls of goods, hawkers and outdoor restaurants. There are people everywhere since this time of evening is known for the passeggiata, when everyone, young and old takes a walk. It is still warm out and the glow of faint street lights on the cobblestones and marble buildings is breathtaking and magical. Around every corner is another small lane with an enoteca or outdoor restaurant. We choose an establishment with red checkered clothed tables and I order wine, which is cheaper here than bottled water. We soon discover our neighboring table mates are Russian Jews who left Russia thirty years ago and went first to Austria, then Italy while waiting on paperwork to get them into the US. Our government took care of all their bills and living facilities while they waited. They love Italy and come back often. It was interesting to talk to them especially so close to the Boston bombings and since they too sought asylum in the US. They came with two thousand dollars (all the government of Russia would let them leave with) and left a beautiful large home, careers and their families behind. He owned a mining company in Russia. They had their choice of going to Israel or the US. After arrival in the US he drove a cab in New York for twenty years. She left Russia with twenty pairs of long yellow plastic gloves prepared to clean toilets if she had too. She never had to. She became a nail technician instead. They have two sons, who both graduated from college. They now are retired and split their time between Manhattan and Miami where they own homes. She said they could not totally leave Manhattan because they love the pizza too much! They looked very well to do, spoke very good English and we had fun chatting with them.

After dinner we decided to do Rick Steve’s Heart of Rome Walk which took us through the major piazzas, winding cobblestone streets and then to the really fancy shopping areas of Gucchi and Pucci, ending at the Spanish Steps. Most shops here open at 10AM, close at 2PM for a couple of hours and then reopen and stay open until 10PM. Except for the restaurants that open early or late deciding if they do breakfast or not, then close around 2PM and reopen for dinner and are still open late into the night. We rested on the Spanish Steps and then retraced our footsteps and also meandered on some different small streets back to the Convent of Santa Brigida. The Convent is locked at night but there is no curfew. Inside, at the desk, was our key to the room on a big wooden orange spinning top that designated our room. The key fob looks like a Pinocchio toy. When you leave the Convent the nuns take the key to your room so you don’t lose it. We settled in briefly around midnight before all the excitement began. Next…… Late night in Rome

The Cobblestone Streets of the Historic Center of Rome

The Stalls in Campo di Fiori

Food Stalls at Campo di Fiori

Trevi Fountain at Night

The Streets of Rome

Streets of Rome

The Spanish Steps

Rome Is Magical at Night

Rome

Our Room at Santa Brigida

Day one. Off to Rome. My daughter surprised me with an early Mother’s Day present and updated my ticket to first class! I WAS IN HEAVEN!!!!!!! Everything is so much nicer in first class. I could select meals from a menu with several choices and eat delicious food with real forks and spoons. I ate steak. To sleep I just pushed the button for the seat to maneuver into whatever position was comfortable for me. I slept great! In no time we were landing in Rome.
We took a cab from the airport to St Brigida Convent in the heart of historic Rome. The cabbie didn’t fail my expectations by stopping or even slowing down at stop signs. The signs are only suggestions in Italy. Sister Gertrude met us at the huge oak doors and let us into the convent/hotel located in the Farnese Piazza next door to the Palazzo Farnese, which is now the French Embassy. In the meeting room we were greeted by an older nun who could not have been over four foot eight and spoke only Italian. Sister Gertrude is the only fluent English speaking nun here at the convent. Most of the nuns are Indian or Italian. Showing us to our room on the third floor we managed to get our luggage and three people in the elevator meant for one. I was so thankful for that elevator though! Our room was spotless and the size of most Italian hotel rooms. To get there we passed a small television room and chapel. My daughter and I unpacked and quickly headed out to explore Trastevere, an old neighborhood where the locals live just across the Tiber River. The streets are narrow and the crowds are not here so it is great to explore. We stopped at a small restaurant with outdoor seating called Gabriels and Gabriella’s right next door to the Church of Santa Maria. With the bells tolling we dined on fresh pasta and homemade foccaccia with rosemary served in a paper bag. As it was getting hot we went back to the Convent to rest before going out into the piazza at night.

The Main Entrance Santa Brigida

Flowers in Trastevere

Trastevere

Santa Brigida

Off To Roma

Rome

Off to Italy! First stop Rome and Santa Brigida Church and convent where I will be staying while in Rome. Santa Brigida Church is dedicated to Saint Brigida of Sweden and the Swedish National Church (Lutheran) in Rome. The order of St Brigida is found in many countries and their convents serve as a rest, retreat and educational facility for people of different faiths. Birgitta Birgirsdotter was born in 1303 in Vadstena, Sweden into a well-to-do family and married Ulf Gudmarrson, a knight, at the age of 14. They had eight children and one of the girls Karin, also became a saint, Saint Catherina of Sweden. Ulf died following a pilgrimage taken by both Brigida and Ulf to Santiago di Compostela in Spain. Following Ulf’s death Brigida joined the Order of St Francis and started a community of both men and women in Vadstena. The idea of men and women serving and working together in the church was unheard of. In 1350 she and her daughter traveled to Rome, a strenuous trip during the plague, to seek permission for an official order of Bridgettine Sisters and stayed in the Palatium Magnum, the grand palace. Here she remained and served the poor until her death nineteen years later while waiting for permission to start the order, which was granted in 1370, after her death. St Brigida is also know for her visions that started as a child. Some believe she was epileptic, though I am skeptical of this idea. To survive in the 1300’ s, have eight living children and live well into middle age, in addition to having epilepsy would be a miracle itself. She wrote down her visions in her book of revelations, especially of the Nativity of Jesus which influenced the scene to be painted as art. In another vision, she was given a prayer later known as the Fifteen “O’s” because in the original Latin verse each prayer started with the letter “O”. This prayer honored the wounds of Christ and were prayed over the course of one year. This prayer was later recited throughout Europe. She also wrote many letters to the Pope, who lived in Avignon, France, encouraging him to bring the Papacy back to Rome. He did. Under Catherina and later her granddaughter, Casa di Santa Brigida in Rome served as a pilgrimage stop in Campo di Fiori (Field of Flowers) for Swedes coming to Rome on pilgrimage and then as a refuge for Swedish Catholics fleeing the Reformation in Sweden. The convent in Rome changed hands among many different orders of nuns over the years, including the Sisters in Santa Maria in Trastevere, then to the Congregation of the Holy Cross, a French congregation that restored the rooms of St Brigida and her daughter St Catherina. Next the convent was given to the Polish branch of the Carmelite Order until 1930 when it was restored to the Brigidine Order and Mother Mary Hasselblad. Mother M. Hasselblad was a Swedish girl who immigrated to the United States for work to help support her family in the early 1900’ s. She converted to Catholicism, became a nun, and was sent to Casa di Santa Brigida and worked relentlessly to restore the Brigidine Order in Rome. Later she returned to Sweden and opened a convent in Vadstena with a group of Brigidine sisters who were now thriving in Rome under her leadership. It was the first Catholic Order to be restored to the Lutheran country in 400 years. Later the order would expand into Mexico and India, where many of the nuns living at Casa di Santa Brigida are from. The relics of St Brigida and St Catherina are here in the church. The rest of St Brigida is buried in Sweden at the convent of Vadstena.

I have never stayed in a convent before or a hotel operated by nuns. This will be a new experience and the location is fantastic. On our previous trip to Rome we stayed in a newly remodeled villa near the US Embassy that had been converted into lovely big rooms with posh furnishings and marble fixtures. It was a bit further out from the major sites and the Vatican. Our room was situated on the top floor with a great view but also up four flights of stairs. Believe me when I say at the end of the day and after walking miles, I did not look forward to the stairs. Santa Brigida has an elevator, a treasure in any hotel in Europe. The rooms will be smaller, and with no TV. Since I don’t go on vacation to watch TV this is perfect for me. The description given by guests is, “the casa is spotless, a safe refuge in the heart of Rome and the nuns very friendly and helpful to everyone.” Located in the Farnese Piazza, near Campo di Fiori, it will be close to restaurants, shopping and the sites. I want to do two things in Rome, besides dwelling in Casa St Brigida. One, is to walk and explore the Trastevere neighborhood. This neighborhood is what most Americans think of when they think of Italy. The walk includes twisting cobblestone streets, local cafes, gift boutiques, and wine, cheese and coffee shops. I’m sure there will be a gelato stop or two. People watching should be ideal. The second item to do is Rick Steves, Heart of Rome Walk. This walk starts in Campo di Fiori and ambles through narrow lanes to the most colorful neighborhoods of fountains, piazzas and shopping, ending at the Spanish Steps. This walk passes by the Pantheon, the Parliament, and the Trevi Fountain but since I have seen these sights before I will be focusing on the walk and the people. I want to get a glimpse of the lifestyle and stroll among the rich and Roman before I move on to Montepulciano and Il Sasso, the Italian Language school.

Next a post from Italy!

La Bella Lingua

Taking the Ferry to Menaggio, Italy

View from the Apartment on Menaggio, Italy

The first time I went to Italy I knew I wanted to speak the language. The Italians were so lively, loud and always in full swing. The language was fast paced and musical. I loved watching the men and women talk, so after I returned home the search was on to learn Italian. I love learning and knew I could do a computer course. I could go at my own pace. I thought about Rosetta Stone. I did a trial course and although I learned many words I was frustrated that I did not know what I was saying, until several lessons in when it would dawn on me what the pictures were trying to teach me. There is no English in the course, just pictures that I could interpret several ways. I also didn’t learn how to put the words together into sentences. The program was just random words to me.

I looked up some folks on Slow Travel to see if they had any suggestions for learning the language. One man suggested Fluenz with Sonia Gil and I was off to the races. Fluenz Italian 1, started right in with Sonia, an American, teaching the basics that made sense to an American speaker. All the words were translated in both languages or you could turn then off altogether. You began day one speaking entire sentences. Fluenz offered tutorials so you knew why you were learning certain structures and how they added to what you had already learned from the previous lesson. There were writing skills, reading skills, listening skills, recorded speech practice and pictures too. At the end of each lesson was an Italian tip of something to read or something of interest in the Italian culture. I loved it and couldn’t wait each day to study. I spoke perfect Italian. In my living room.

Menaggio, Italy

Off to Italy I went with two years of Italian under my belt. My husband would say to me, “Now you get ready to speak to them.” That right there put me in a tailspin. I was at the ferry station buying tickets. I wanted two tickets to Menaggio on the hydrofoil. The woman behind the counter said something I did not understand. It was rapid Italian with an Italian accent to boot. Sonia was so much easier to understand! As I looked completely perplexed she asked in English did I want return tickets also? “Ah, what was the Italian word for that?” I asked her. She told me and I wrote it down. I would need that phrase again and again. As the vacation went on I realized for the most part I could get the jest of what people were saying. Still in my mind I had to take in the Italian words, translate them in English then convert them and speak the words back in Italian. By the time I had thought all that through the Italians were speaking about something else. I did better at the restaurants. I could order and read the menus. The young people waiting on the tables realized I was an American, so halfway through my sentence they would interrupt me and speak in English. Was I too slow or were they being helpful and wanted to let me know they spoke English? I think it was both. They wanted to practice English as much as I wanted to practice Italian. Finally, I would tell them, ”No, no let me speak Italian. I am practicing.” Only one waiter rolled his eyes, so I felt I was on to something. I learned very quickly to size up the people I thought I could speak to. Trying to talk to busy waiters and the ticket counter personnel with long waiting lines was not the place to practice Italian. The twenty minute bus ride from the mountain down to the harbor in Menaggio was perfect. One bus came all the way to the top twice a day, where we were staying . The bus came by very early in the morning to go down the mountain and there was a return trip up the mountain in the evening. If we were not up and at it for the early bus we had to walk down the mountain to the next little town and catch the bus there. That was a blessing. The Italians in the mountain village got up early and walked along the road. They were older and in no hurry, so I would Buon Giorno them all. It was a start. At first there wasn’t any eye contact and I would just get the nod. Riding the bus was even better. We were the only Americans on it and the elderly women who road the bus were nonne. (grandmothers) . Buon giorno, buon giorno I would say to everyone on that bus. We road that bus for a week before we had the weekend driver who asked us if we had a ticket. “No, we just paid the driver in euros at the end of the ride.” The driver had been so polite he never told us to go find the ticket office and buy a ticket. I think we became the novelty for the ride down to Menaggio. The women and the driver got used to us, we showed up every day, no ticket and all. On one occasion returning to the dock at the end of the day it was raining heavily and we had missed the bus back up the mountain. My husband went into the lake side resort hotel, Hotel D’ Lac, and asked the gentleman behind the counter if he could call a cab. That is another story entirely. (We weren’t even sure there was cab service. We had never seen a cab.) A Mercedes station wagon pulled up and was I in luck. The driver spoke no English! Wow I could really practice speaking with him. We took his card and called him everyday to come get us at the dock. Eventually we didn’t even have to call him, he would be waiting at the dock for us. And all the way up the mountain we talked! Then it dawned on me that the early morning walkers probably didn’t speak English and were just as nervous as I was that we could not communicate. So the next morning I just started a conversation in Italian with everybody on the road and on the morning bus. Just keep on talking and they would come around. By the end of our stay the taxi driver told me how much my Italian had improved. I just beamed!

Boats Docked in Menaggio, Italy

Now I want to say here another great way I practiced speaking Italian. One of the first things we noticed going up the mountain were all the different colored trash bins along the tiny road. One for paper, one for glass, one for trash. They were everywhere. The bus stop, a little down the mountain where we would walk to, covered three things. The stop was at the corner of the mountain, beside a set of three trash bins and the hairpin curve. In order to go up the road further and make the curve you had to go slow, stop your vehicle, inch forward turning your wheels, back up and repeat about 30 times and then you were good to go the rest of the way up to where our apartamento was. This was why the bus only made two trips a day up to our place. So the rock mountain/trash bin area/bus stop was the meeting place for the locals. While you waited for the bus you read the beautiful obituaries, up-coming marriage banns and local festival plans that were plastered on the face of the rock. You could also talk with the women who waited in long lines in their small cars bringing trash to the bins. It was a regular hen peck. There was no trash picked up at the home they had to haul it to the roadside bins. Here they greeted their friends, caught up on the news of the day and spent a great deal of time taking care of business. It was their town hall. I could talk to the bin ladies while waiting for the bus. Awesome! No one was in a hurry and they didn’t speak English. Perfetto!!!

Now I am ready to make another trip to Italy. This year I started my third year of Italian with Fluenz. Right off the bat there was no Sonia. Now there was an Italian woman speaking like a bat out of hell. I knew the words, but was convinced she wasn’t saying them. I had to go over Lesson 1 many times, boy did I cuss and complain. I thought I would never get it!!!! But she sounded just like the Italians speaking. (Fast and just skimming over some of the little words) I plodded on. Eventually my ear was trained to their language. I am slowly not hearing Italian words, translating the words to English and then translating back. I am hearing the spoken Italian. So I decided to jump in the deep end of the pool. I will be attending a language school in Montepulciano, Tuscany. (Il Sasso) for almost a month.

No English. Italian only, complete immersion. It is a small town with locals, who don’t speak English. I have been there on vacation so I know the area. It’s really laid back. The administrator has answered a truck load of questions from me. She suggested lodging, was helpful with train schedules and found Verio Neri from the Cucina Povera cookbook for me. (earlier post about that) The students who have attended the school have raved about it. Bring it on. I am ready.

For more information look up Fluenz Learning Languages, I just think it is THE best! and………..the school
Scuola di Italiano il Sasso, Montepulciano Italy (a Tuscany hill town)
internet: http://www.ilsasso.com or Facebook: Il Sasso Italian Language School

The apartamento near Menaggio, Italy, Apartment Le Eriche, Villa per Barna, Plesio, Italy. It is Italian owned and our neighbors were Italian. They own a B&B also, but we stayed in the private apartment!

Il Negozio di Alimentari (Grocery Store)

Sant Antonio, Montepulciano

I was on the plane from DC to Zurich. At the beginning of the flight the seat next to me was empty for a while, then the stewardess directed a young man to the seat. He proceeded to strip. One layer of shirts after another, six layers in all. He folded everything precisely and placed them in a Disneyland plastic sack. As he sat down he added that he was wearing several layers of pants too. We got to talking. The young man from Switzerland had been in the US on a student exchange and work program. But, he also had been shopping. In Wal-Mart. He told me he had never seen anything like it. So much to choose from, so cheap. When he was not working he was at Wal-Mart shopping. He had bought gifts for all his friends and perfume for his mother.

On the train from Switzerland to Italy a young couple boarded the train struggling with huge suitcases almost bigger than they were. I struck up a conversation with the shy young woman from Indonesia while my husband talked with her husband.
“Have you been to the US,” I asked. Yes, her husband had studied there.
I eventually got around to, “What did you like best about the US?”
“Shopping in Wal-Mart, my husband would drop me off and I would spend the entire day there.” Her eyes lit up as she talked about her shopping experiences.

Shopping in Wal-Mart. I heard it over and over. Visitors to the US loved walking down all the aisles, looking at all the merchandise. The Wal-Mart that had the grocery store included was a special treat for them. Double delight.

Shopping in Montepulciano The grocery is to the right with red letters on the building

I know what they mean. My first grocery shopping experience in Italy was a highlight for me. We arrived at the monastery outside Montepulciano on a Saturday night and at the welcome/introduction were told the grocery shops were closed on Sunday in Italy. After the welcome the guests made a beeline to their cars and the grocery store on the outskirts of Montepulciano. We had to wait a while to get a parking spot. It wasn’t really a parking lot just a pull in. Cars were parked at the front doors of the shop like someone had just dropped someone off so they could run in. Except no one was waiting in the car. Finally we followed other cars to the church lot on the corner and squeezed the car into the piggly wiggly parking spaces. There was no rhyme or reason to the parking. It looked like the cars had just stopped and parked. It didn’t matter if you were blocking cars or if the backend of the car blocked the road. Total chaos. It was exciting! We walked down the hill and into the store that looked on the outside like any grocery store in the US only smaller. There were not many carts and the store was crowded with shoppers. In order to get a cart you put a euro into the box on the cart to release it from the line. The aisles were tiny with just enough room for the cart to pass. As we zipped around the store I tried to figure out what the items were by looking at the pictures on the labels. I found peanut butter next to the Nutella. Was Nutella peanut butter? There was lots of that. We got to the vegetables and fruit. I’ve learned to watch before I leap. The women placed plastic gloves on before touching the fruit or vegetables. I followed suit. There was a counter with meats and cheeses that I just pointed to as I made my selections. The store closed at six, hurry hurry. There was an aisle of t-shirts, shoes, mops and brooms. At the check out the woman gestured, did we have a bag for the groceries? No? Plastic disposable bags were dispensed, with a fee of one euro. A deep breath and out the door we went. What did we buy? It was all such a blur to hurry up and shop.

Uptown Menaggio

Another time arriving in Menaggio, late on Saturday afternoon, we walked up the hill from the boat dock. On the corner was an old building with a grand stone stair entry that faced two sides of the street. It was the local grocery complete with so many sticker advertisements on the windows one could not see in or out. While I stayed at the bottom of the stairs with the luggage my husband hiked up the stairs and into the shop. I waited and waited and waited. Finally he came out with two cans of coke, Pringle looking chips and candy bars. What? “You will not believe that store, it is one way with yellow tape arrows on the floor to direct you through the aisle. I had to go around twice to find this stuff,” my harried husband revealed. I would get my chance to see the grocery later in the week.

On my visit to the store I found items from the floor to the ceiling. How you reached the items on the top of the shelves was beyond me. Everything was jumbled together so I had to go slow and look at it all. There was a vegetable and fruit section with a young woman there to provide you with the plastic gloves. I had to go around the store three times to find my items, each time passing the cashier, leaving my items, and then going out and in again. If there was someone behind me with a cart they had to go at my pace because the aisle wasn’t big enough to pass. The store had everything, I just had to really look for it. Again I paid for my plastic sack. One thing you didn’t have to worry about was parking. There wasn’t any. No one would take out a grocery cart. You had to go up and down many steps to get in or out. There wouldn’t be weekly shopping, too much to lug home at once. Daily shopping, walk to get there, bring your sack. I also did not notice any new cars. The small cars had scrapes, scratches and dents on them. The buildings had swatches of color on their walls that matched the colors of the cars. Nobody got too bent out of shape over parking here. Just stop the car and get out.

Shopping in small towns

In the smaller villages of Italy the grocery shopping is more defined. A different shop for selected items. The wine store, the cheese shop, the butcher, the baker. I didn’t find a candlestick maker. These shops tend to be very small and full! Everyone knows everyone. I had a great time. Enjoy the pictures of the shops in Italy!

War in Val D’ Orcia

The Road to La Foce

This will be my last review of books I read as part of the Travel Prep for Italy. In 2009 my husband and I spent a week in a monastery outside of Montepulciano. Surrounded by olive groves and grape vines this was our home base as we discovered the hill towns of Tuscany. It was ideal and everyday we jumped up and were ready to explore. At night we returned to visit with the other guests and compare notes over dinner. Driving in Italy can be very hectic, the Italians I am sure get tired of the slow pokey tourist moving as slow as a snail so they can see everything. One of the highlights of the week was our day trip to La Foce. La Foce, bought in 1924, is a large estate with a sixteenth century farmhouse, and the home of Iris Origo, an American, who with her Italian husband, Antonio, restored the baked barren olive green landscape, neglected by soil erosion and wars between the Italian states, back to life. Fifteen years of hard work produced one central fattoria (farm), where the Origo family lived surrounded by fifty farms of one hundred acres each with each farmer sharing all produce with the owner, but depending on the owner for a home, equipment and capital. This was the mezzadria system of farming similar to sharecropping in the United States. Here Antonio Origo introduced modern farming techniques and managed the estate while Iris (the Marchesa) set up a school for the children and adults (eighty percent illiterate) and a hospital for their growing farmstead, eventually six thousand people in all. Then came World War II.

La Foce

The Gardens of La Foce

La Foce

Gardens of La Foce

War in Val D’ Orcia, An Italian War Diary, 1943 -1944 written by Iris Origo is the story of La Foce and its inhabitants during the war and the build up to it. It describes their life under the fascist administration of Benito Mussolini, who came into power in 1922, their move to La Foce and then their everyday life during the war, trying to survive. I think the most important fact for me was that Iris decided not to edit any of the pages she had written when the book was published, in 1948. Her papers were originally written as a personal journal during her pregnancy, as a pastime, in the middle of domestic isolation and boredom. When the war came to the Val D’ Orcia, her writings became a way to concentrate and clear her mind by writing each days events as she had heard or witnessed them first hand. She left it as it was written, sometimes in scribbles, sometimes lengthy, written in the cellar, or in her children’s nursery, hiding the papers among the children’s books because she didn’t think anyone would look there and eventually burying her diary in the garden. Good or bad they did what they thought at the time was the right thing to do. Coulda, woulda, shoulda times and more. Sometimes those decisions turned out for the best and sometimes not. She tells it all.

The road we took to La Foce was a two lane paved highway, surrounded by plowed olive green fields ( I have never seen a field that color before or since) bordered by the tall skinny plane trees, that everyone thinks of when they think of Italy. We zigged-zagged down that road and on the crossroads found La Foce, a bright yellow cheery pallazzo, surrounded by beautiful gardens and a pool flanked with lemon trees in big terra cotta pots. We took the tour with an English speaking guide, walking through the gardens and learning about Iris Origo’s garden design, statuary and the choice of flower variety for her garden. The estate was so beautiful, restful and peaceful. During the tour, the guide mentioned that the marchesa had written several books. I looked them up when I returned home and was pleasantly surprised that one of her books, the War in Val D’ Orcia, was written in English. So I read the book after returning to the United States. Little did I realize, before reading the book, that the beautiful home of La Foce and the families that lived there had seen so much hardship.

The Dirt Road

When we left La Foce, I thought I would give the Italians a break from driving an inch from my rear bumper and then speeding around me on the curves. We took a dirt road. I don’t think I ever saw a marking for any road except upon leaving the North-South A-1 corridor to and from Rome. After you got off the A-1 you were on your own. Even with GPS in the car it was nearly a day before I realized that the beautiful sounding Italian voice was actually speaking English. English with a very heavy Italian brogue. Seena? Does she mean the turn off for SI EN NA is this one? See what I mean? She pronounced cities that I was sure were not even on my map. Anyway, the dirt road seemed like a good choice at the time and we were not that far from Montepulciano. How bad could it be? The juts in the narrow dirt road seemed to get deeper and deeper and larger and larger. Sometimes I had to come to a complete stop and creep across them, the rental car bottoming out. In the middle of nowhere we came to four or five houses and an old castle. There was even one streetlight. Who lived out here? We stopped to look and to give the car a break. When we started up again that dirt road seemed to go on and on. It was getting dark when we pulled into a farm lot. The road had ended. There were clothes hanging on the line and a tied up barking dog going crazy with our arrival. The farmer (plaid shirt and everything) came out in total disbelief that we were in his barnyard. Loudly in case we were deaf, but in rapid Italian and gestures he told me in no uncertain terms to turn around and go back. I did. We finally did find our way back to Montepulciano, but I want to find that road on my trip this time, because now I know after reading the book what it was.

Leading Up to the Castle

I never thought of soldiers from many countries being prisoners of war in Italy. There were seventy thousand of them. Early in the war the Fascists in compliance with the Germans informed the Origos that their home would be used to house the P.O.W.s. A high ranking official came to look the place over and decided he would be more comfortable at the castle up the hill. The Origo family and their tenants would be in charge of feeding them, and caring for them. The peasants kept them alive and helped them escape. General O’ Connor wrote after the war, “ I can only say the Italian peasants and others behind the lines were magnificent. They could not have done more for us. They hid us, escorted us, gave us money, clothes and food – all the time taking tremendous risks. Without their help it would have been impossible for us to live and finally escape.”

Iris had the hospital, meager supplies and the only nurse. This is not to say she helped only the Allied forces, but also young Italians, who took up arms against the regime and joined partisan groups, (she hid them in her forest, fed them and reported movements of troops from either side). She also cared for wounded German soldiers stranded from their units. Yes, she tells all about that castle and what went on there.

When Genoa and Turin were bombed and seeing heavy fighting the city dwellers begged those people who lived in the country to take in their children. The children would be safe, in the middle of Italy, so far away from the fighting, or so they thought. La Foce and Iris Origo took twenty-six children in, in addition to the two she had of her own by then. Eventually, when the American forces landed near Rome and moved north, the war came to her doorstep literally. As the war raged close to La Foce, she walked the children to safety in the hill town of Montepulciano, as the shelling went on all around them. The children were tied together so they would not get lost, and many of the children so accustomed to the bombing and planes thought they were playing a new game. After the war many men, from different countries, wrote her and told her they had survived the war thanks to her kindness. I am sure the children, who for the most part were re-united with their families felt the same way. There is a great deal to be learned of strength, determination and courage from Iris Origo. She shares her life, simple acts of everyday life during a war, with the hope of human kindness. Her book is a must read.

P S I hope I find that farmer too. I have studied Italian for two years and will be learning more in Montepulciano. Maybe we can discuss the weather!

The converted monastery we stayed in was: Sant’ Antonio/The Country Resort, Via della Montagna 6/8, Montepulciano, Italy. Web site: http://www.santantonio.it

Pinocchio and Pizza

Montepulciano Italy

I would rather eat a fresh baked piece of bread than just about anything. To tell the truth, I could eat an entire loaf if left to my vices. For Italian bread lovers there is focaccia, ciabatta, pizza. FCP. I love it all. Italian rustic bread with olives and rosemary, bring it on. In Florence I was first introduced to Ribollita, day old bread covered in a tuscan vegetable soup (reboiled day old soup). Italy is famous for using day old bread/ no salt bread, in their dishes and I was curious about this. In one of the most popular places for cuisine on earth, recipes have developed from a history of malnutrition and hunger. During the war, the working class lived on what they could gain from their meager rations and gather from the land.

The cookbook, Cucina Povera, by Pamela Sheldon Johns, tells the story of Tuscan peasant cooking. Simple dishes inspired from fresh seasonal ingredients, cooking and eating in season. It is also a history book and picture book. Traveling throughout Italy Johns interviews older people to see how they managed during hard times. They tell heart warming stories and share their recipes and how they cook and how their parents cooked in days gone by. The photographs capture the Tuscan countryside, the families, and the prepared dishes. Most of these men and women ate bread that was baked in the community forno (furnace/oven) once a week. Salt, which was highly taxed, was too expensive to use in bread. It was needed for curing meat and making cheese, not making bread. Bread made without salt quickly dries out, because the salt holds in the moisture. Nothing was wasted, so dishes prepared including dried out bread were essential for survival. From these facts classic Italian recipes were born. Panzanella anyone? Bread salad made from day old bread, tomatoes, cucumber, onion, olive oil and basil. I can not wait!

Uptown Montepulciano Italy

Pamela Sheldon Johns, the author of Cucina Povera, owns a bed and breakfast (I wanted to write Bread and Breakfast) called Agriturismo (Farmhouse) Poggio Etrusco and teaches cooking classes there. It is located outside Montepulciano, Italy where I am going to a language school. I will not have a car while I am there and did not know about this place when I made my arrangements for the school, otherwise I truly would have considered staying there. She speaks very highly of the village cobbler, Virio Neri and he speaks highly of his mother’s cooking. These are pictures of Montepulciano, where I will be living for almost a month.

Notice the guy on the roof that looks like Pinocchio? I wonder if that is who he is? Pinocchio can be found in full glory all around Florence. So maybe he is here too?
Carlo Collodi, the pen name of Carlo Lorenzini, was born in Florence, Italy in 1826. He wrote de Avventures di Pinocchio. (Italian spelling). It was published in a weekly newspaper written for children called, Il Giornale per i Bambini. In the early versions of Pinocchio, Pinocchio was made of bread, not wood, and at the end of the story he was hung. A little radical for a children’s fairy tale. So the story was re-written and Pinocchio was fashioned from a piece of wood and taken care of by the carpenter/woodcarver, Geppetto. As we all know reading Pinocchio, all he wanted was to be a real boy and go to school. Well we know his nose grows when he lies too. I think all Pinocchio wanted was to be a real boy and EAT bread and pizza. I am going to try to find Mr. Neri, in Montepulciano. After all, he is the carpenter of Montepulciano and he cooks.

My Take on Magnificent Corpses

Duomo Florence Italy

The Duomo, Milan, Italy

I find myself drawn to historical books (and some not so historical) about saints, pilgrimages, the Medici clan, Leonardo da Vinci and the Catholic Church. All throughout Italy there are beautiful small churches, grand duomos, magnificent basilicas, filled with beautiful earth shattering art and sculptures. When I was in high school I had to take an art appreciation class as a freshman and I hated it. Pictures in a book. However, when I went to Italy and saw the real McCoy I wanted to know more. Who were the painters, the sculptors, the saints? What did it all mean? In the churches I had known, there might be a small cross, maybe a statue of Mary, or stained glass windows of Jesus as a shepherd with baby lambs. Church buildings looked to be a gymnasium. You get the picture. The Italian church soared into an azure sky, the pink marble glistened in the sun, the saints peered down at you. In Italy the fresco scenes were filled with gnashing of bodies or cherub angels floating across an Italian landscape. Sometimes both in the same scene. The detail and brilliance of color and depth in the scenes of people in deep distress or in a trance beyond words was captivating. There were armored men going on crusade urging their followers forward. A woman standing steadfast while holding the bloody head of a man in her gnarly strong hand. The man triumphant over the defeated slain dragon. The pictures became real. The pictures told stories. You didn’t even have to know the story, you got the message. No matter what language you spoke, words weren’t necessary. The frescoes and paintings said it all. Passion. Faith.

The Duomo, Milan, Italy

And I wanted to know more about those bones. Those pieces of bodies and what they were there for. I think the first relic (term for holy bits and pieces of people or their clothing) I remember and payed any attention to, was inside a tiny glass window lit up in an alcove in a small exit way leaving a church. It was a hand. I thought well that is odd and went up closer to take a better look. It was a real shriveled up cut off hand. I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked around me. Do you act like you didn’t see it? Ho hum that’s nice. Do you drop to your knees and pray? Why was that there? I was taken back. I had to know more. So I decided to read up on it. Hence, I started reading that………

During the early years of the church, the body parts of holy people were highly prized and sought after for their healing powers, and brought fame and followers to any church that presented these body parts or even the clothing these people wore. Remember the man touching Jesus’ clothing and being healed? So rich patrons and crusaders scoured the holy lands and returned with their riches to put them on display in their local churches. Or perhaps a holy person died and was buried on the spot. Believers came to this site to pray. A church was built. More people came. The believing flock became the first tourists. In those days the only reason to leave home was to go to war or go on pilgrimage. Sometimes a penance of traveling to a particular holy place to pray, repent and receive forgiveness was given to the sinner. The penitent had a lot of time along the way to think things over. The road was not easy. Some would be killed along the way and would never return to their homeland. The Holy Land was too far for most. Rome was a good choice, centrally located, and the Way of St James or the Camino de Santiago through France and Spain was best for others. Most of the people could not read or write. Story telling frescoes, awe inspiring churches rising to the heavens to meet God and the bodies of saints brought the people to the churches. My adventures to following the saints in books began with………

Sant Bartholomew

A Stolen Tongue by Sheri Holman, documents the travels and travails through the journals of Father Felix Fabri to find his spiritual mate Saint Katherine of Alexandria. Her broken body parts are scattered in several churches and have gone missing. He carries her dried up tongue in a pouch around his neck. He needs to find her. Need I say more? Who would not want to know what happens along his path? I was hooked.

Over the years I have read The Holy Feast and Holy Fast, Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women by Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Holidays; the Catholic Origins of Celebration by Greg Tobin, Why Do Catholics Eat Fish on Friday?: The Catholic Origin to Just About Anything by Michael P. Foley, Catholicism for Dummies by John Trigilio and Kenneth Brighenti, The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, and just about every book written about the Way of St James or El Camino de Santiago. I have studied the saints……. and their

Magnificent Corpses. This book written by Anneli Rufus is a travel book with a difference. It encourages you to seek unheard of places contemplating on life and relics of life and what we regard as holy. Anneli focuses not only on the saints, but on the people who come to see them. She follows fifteen of the saints through Italy. So what does this all mean? If you build it and believe it, they will come. And we do. Abundantly.

Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan, Italy

Books and the Mafia

Cortona Italy

I think this is a good place to talk about the book reading prep I have done for the trip to Italy. Not just this time, but over the years. I love to read and cook, except by now you know I’ve been doing the Nutrisystem thing since January 1st, I have that day etched in my mind, so I just read the cookbooks for now. I’ m saving up the eating part for Italy. My book choices are varied because I like history and mysteries too and of course I have to read the books that talk about people who have actually moved to Italy. There are lots of books to pick from, but these are the books that stuck in my mind. Years ago I read Under the Tuscan Sun, At Home in Italy by Frances Mayes, after I saw the movie. I knew then and there I would go to Italy. I was enthralled by someone who could find a villa, fix it up, live amongst the land and people. Who hasn’t seen that movie or read the book? Since reading that book I have been to Italy several times and visited Cortona, where Frances Mays lives.

The Church Below Cortona

Italians really do have their own time. Italian time…… slow to slower, to never get on with it. Nothing is ever easy. It gets done when it gets done. It would take a lot for me to get used to that as an everyday occurrence. Frances has written several more books about her stay In Italy, learning to cook, growing her own food, keeping a slower pace, and I have read them all. Then she wrote about the pool incident. The village wanted to place a public pool at the end of the dead end lane where Frances lives. She already had people and bus traffic from tourists who parade by her home. She thought it would just add to the congestion. She tells stories of how she can hear what the tourists are saying about her as they stand by the gate and she sits in one of her rooms. Anyway, she wasn’t crazy about the pool idea and neither were her Italian neighbors. So she did the American thing and put together a petition, opposing the pool, to present to town hall. Her Italian neighbors would not sign it. She couldn’t really understand this and decided it was because they did not understand the idea of a petition. Soon after, while picking up the stuffed animals and other souvenirs left by tourists at her gate, she picked up an oblong shaped grey thingy, not really paying too much attention to it. When she looked at it more closely she realized it was a hand grenade, and froze in her tracks, afraid to move any further. Attached was a note telling her to lay off with the petition stuff. The police were called for a bomb threat. The bomb disposal / explosive ordinance team arrived. The grenade was real but inactive. There was a follow up investigation. The police drew no conclusions to who may have placed it. Finally, one brave neighbor explained to Frances, there were certain people you did not cross when they wanted to do something or approved of something. The Mafia. It was her first realization that they exist and still play a part in Italian society. I began to re-think that I actually wanted to move to Italy, because I usually say what I think and would have to pick up grenades everyday.

Cortona

The Church in Cortona

More of My Favorite Steps

I moved on to Marlena de Blasi and started with her book 1000 days in Venice, an Unexpected Romance. Marlena, is my kind of girl, a chef, journalist and food critic. She goes to Venice to work on a cookbook and falls in love with an Italian banker. Through her books you discover the Italian life from Venice to Tuscany to Orvieto. You also discover life with an Italian husband. Soon after they marry, she moves to Venice and he quits his job at the bank. Or maybe he retires, they can retire early there, but anyway, from then on they rely on her book income and his retirement savings. As her books have progressed from their move from Venice to Tuscany to Orvieto, I have felt an edginess develop after the writings of the early book. In the early days there were romantic candlelit perfumed baths taken together, regularly. They enjoyed long walks, holding hands, looking deep into each others eyes.

Now it is, “Marlena, you are spending so much money and you need to get away for a few weeks to write?”

“What, who buys all the fancy clothes? I don’t see your pay going for them!”

“Away from me? Who will cook for me? I have spent two years creating the perfect palazzo for you and you are going off to write? You spend the money on silk furnishings and pillows!”

She now spends more time with women. Her books have really ran the gamut and I have enjoyed them. And she writes about the Mafia. There it is. How they came to be, the influence they still have. Now I have learned another thing. I would not like being married to an Italian man. I have never taken a perfumed candlelit bath with anyone, and I would not like to take care of a husband as I would a child. I would love to see my husband’s face if I suggested that to him, both the bath idea and the supervision! Another reason to love Italy, you realize there are different ways of doing things. When in Rome do as the Romans do. I find it fascinating. I hope this has given you an idea for some great reads. As usual I have typed on and on and never got to the cookbooks or mysteries, so I will leave that for my next post. Grazie!

All Roads Lead to Rome

Easter or Any Time in Italy

The Duomo in Florence Italy

Easter……..I thought I would share some pictures with you. It has been cold in the south the entire month of March to me. No rabbits, no eggs, no peeps. The birds are hardly looking for a mate. Or have they found their mate and are trying to stay warm? This is why I love Italy. On every corner you are reminded of God, of something bigger than you. In Rome there are nuns and priests everywhere all the time. There are Cardinals in their bright red robes and some in magenta huddling in groups to discuss who knows what. There are masses of people in the churches or waiting in line to get into church.

The smallest church will have the most fantastic art. But, what I like are the statues, crosses, stained glass windows, icons, churches big and small, bells ringing and the small memorials on the sides of buildings and at crossroads in the countryside. The Italians say, “God is always watching and it is a good way to remind you to choose between good and evil.” I like to think of it as God is always watching over me. He is everywhere in everything. I like to be reminded.
In a very small Italian village, Montisi, just a blip on the map, my husband and I took a narrow steep paved path from the car park up the hill. At the top was a tiny stone church perched on the cliff. Here on the front of the church was a stone with a map of the village etched into it. In Italian it read, “you are here.” The path took you to the church and back down making a circle. A beginning with no end. Have a blessed Easter!

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