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Posts from the ‘Travel Prep’ category

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

Charleston For Easter

Some of the window treatments and planters in Charleston

The Windows of Charleston

This post is a break of sorts from the Italian vacation prep. Well sort of. My husband and I just returned from Charleston, one of the greatest cities in the United States. It has everything…… cozy neighborhoods, fantastic architecture, history, cobblestone and cannonball streets, terrific shopping, sea breezes, did I mention the food? Fabulous! We spent the weekend walking, walking and more walking the neighborhoods, which I never tire of. I love the vibrant colors on the homes, one of my favorites is the tangerine color of these shutters. Or maybe the cameo pink of the skinny house. Or maybe the pigeon white of the antebellum. I really can’t decide which one I like best! Temperature in the seventies, the azaleas were in bloom, the fountains gurgling. Around every corner is a hidden garden, certainly one on the side of the Charleston House. We peek through the wrought iron gates. The flower boxes are overflowing at the windows. The churches, especially St Michaels and St Phillips were decked out in fine Easter greenery and floral arrangements were going up on the doors, along the pews and at the altar on Saturday. The ladies stroll Market Street in Easter parade outfits wearing beautiful flowing dresses, pastel hats and gloves. It’s been a while since I saw women so dressed up. Reminded me that I do own a fancy hat!

I also had a method to my madness. I was breaking in a new camera. I wanted to make sure I could take the shots I wanted without fiddling with the camera for ten minutes. I like to shoot and go. My current Canon camera has an eye problem. The shutter won’t shut all the way or it catches sometimes and won’t close at all. So I opted for a Nikon with lots of buttons, settings and zooooooom. I have my friend Katy from PraguebyKaty to thank for even thinking about getting a different camera. She takes wonderful pictures. She takes unusual shots and great videos too. Who knew a camera could have twenty scene descriptions alone? I know indoor and outdoor, ha! This camera has a close-up, food, snow, beach, fireworks, museum, dusk/dawn, sunset, party/ indoor, panorama and pet portrait, to name a few. For the first hour or two I had the camera on auto select. It kept telling me I needed the flash, but it seemed really sunny out to me. So I snapped away with the flash on. The pictures looked washed out. Then I switched to the scene mode. Much better! I didn’t get the really flashy camera, with different lenses and such. Too much to learn before I leave for Italy. I’ll keep playing with this one until I get it right. Here are more of the pictures I took in Charleston.

There are plenty of great restaurants here. This time we tried out some that were new to us and we were not disappointed. Now I must add here that I have been on Nutrisystem since January 1st and eating out in Charleston was a delight I had been saving up for. I love low country food. Shrimp and grits, fried green tomatoes, mustard roasted brussels sprouts. The first place we went to was The Dixie Supply Bakery & Cafe. A hole in the wall place, that could easily be passed by. The locals eat here, need I say more? We just wanted a no fuss lunch and to eat outside in the nice weather. The place was packed both indoors and out. The Dixie Burger is a hamburger with fried green tomatoes, bacon and pimento cheese. AND homemade pickles on the side. Awesome! The other items that caught my eye were the tomato pie and the bacon pecan pie. I didn’t try those, but I wanted to. Oh and they serve Nehi Orange in the bottle. Can’t remember the last time I had a Nehi. I was in heaven!

Going to Charleston was also a chance to break in shoes. The shoes I am thinking about taking to Italy. I wanted to get some mileage on those shoes. Would they be comfortable after walking three to six hours? I test all shoes before I pack them in the suitcase. Many hours, many miles. It will save me heartache and foot ache later. My favorite shoe shop is the Charleston Shoe Company. They specialize in the cobblestone to cocktail shoe. The shoes are very stylish, come in a bazillion colors and styles and are very comfortable. They are machine washable!!!!! I am showing some of my favorites here that I am narrowing down for the trip. I really am leaning toward the red to wear as my dress up shoes. Maybe I will see the Pope and we can compare shoes!

Safety and the Babushka Ladies and Gents, Elderly Grandparent Types

The most important safety and security rule to know when starting out on your vacation abroad is KNOW WHERE YOUR PASSPORT IS AT ALL TIMES. Once I have landed at my destination, found my luggage and gone through customs, I head for the bathroom, my adjustment area. I wear a silk passport protector around my neck so my passport can be worn on my chest. My protector also holds my cash and my credit cards. In my wallet in my purse I carry only what I think I will need for the day. So I put my passport, money and credit cards in my safety passport protector and away I go somewhat secure in the knowledge that my stuff is safe around my neck, on my chest, and under my bra. Here is my scoop on bathrooms. I have never forgotten this. I once read about Debra Dean, author of the Madonnas of Leningrad, going to a restroom in the Copenhagen Airport. The walls of the stalls went all the way to the ground, even the door to the stall. When she tried to leave she pulled on the door of the stall and it would not budge. The lock, like one on a school locker, would just spin without catching. Eventually, a woman came into the bathroom and Debra frantically tried to explain her predicament in English, and realized the women on the other side did not speak English. The woman left. Debra, now in panic mode, tried the trick that works in all the movies. Run a credit card up and down the space between the door and the jamb. It didn’t work. The woman returned with another women who spoke a little English and Debra tried to describe her husband so they could find him. Her husband was eventually found followed by the airport security. There was an exchange of words about breaking the door down, then the sound of metal on metal and the door of the stall swung open. So….the moral of the story is Always Look Before You Lock. If the walls go all the way to the floor I gently prop my foot up and hold the door closed, not locking it while using the toilet. No easy task, but hey I am not locked in the stall! I try to wipe down the door with a Handywipe before I leave it too. This episode reminds me why I like the Babushka Ladies, the word I use to describe the helpful grandmotherly type women. Sometimes you can find them seated out in front of the bathrooms in big traffic areas of markets, museums, etc. in European cities. They look like someone you would not mess with, a meaty sort of woman with big arms, no smile. She sits behind a table with small toiletry items on it. You pay her to get into the bathroom. Men and women must pass her and pay her. She knows who goes in and out. I love this woman! I know if I don’t come out she is going to come looking for me. I know no one will be fooling around in her bathroom. I know I can adjust my passport protector. I know she can break down that door if she needs to!!!!! I look for the Babushka Lady bathroom! I’m sharing my private trade secrets here!

I have found that same security in other areas. Babushka ladies can be found at train terminals. For some reason I have problems with tickets and how to use them properly in the machines. Safety and Security Help #2: Watch the person in front of you to see how to operate any kind of machine, any machine that requires a stamp or placing a ticket into a slot. In Paris I once put my ticket in the train turn style in the wrong slot. How could there be two slots and I pick the wrong one? Well, anyway it ate my ticket. So my hubby trudged back to the line to buy another one. The line was long so I pushed the luggage to the side of the turn style to wait. While I waited more people approached the turn style and had the same problem that I had experienced. Except, one little detail, they just picked up their luggage, and pitched it over the turn style with their body following suit. What? Not long after, teens came along, no ticket at all and just jumped the turn style altogether. I just stood there. That’s when the Babushka Lady Police showed up. They asked me questions in french. I did a lot of arm waving and pointing and mime trying to explain about my ticket. They shrugged their shoulders and looked the machines over until my husband came with a new ticket. But, I thought all along someone was watching me on a camera and sent the Babushka ladies to see what was going on.

Safety and Security Help #3. Be on the lookout for Babushkas

Last year I stood perplexed at the train station turn style at Victoria Station in London. I fiddled for the right ticket, why are there always so many? Before I could say Jack Robinson there was a Babushka lady there who opened the turn style and told me to just go on through. There must be lots of cameras and ladies for me. I take comfort in that.

While at the Prague train station I encountered the Babushka Man. I placed my luggage at my side on the floor while looking up at the screen to see what platform I should be going to. The next thing I knew a man had picked up my luggage and was walking off with it. I was so surprised. I rushed after him, tried to speak to him, tried to take my luggage back. He kept walking and talking, with me huffing and puffing behind him, going through a tunnel, up the stairs and to a platform. As he put the suitcase down, I took a good look at him for the first time and noticed he DID have some sort of uniform on. Well it was a blue shirt and slacks that matched. I got the message to stay put. He left, but I didn’t think that I was on the right platform and how did he know? The train did pull in that I was to take, but not my carriage. There are numbers on the carriage that match your ticket and seat number. The Babushka Man came back to the platform to make sure I was still there. I watched him out the corner of my eye as he helped other people with their luggage. He watched me while the carriage I needed was brought round and hooked to the train. He motioned for me to get on. I obeyed and was so surprised when I boarded. There were little red velvety booths with sliding wooden doors instead of individual seats. Inside the booth a wooden table separated the cushioned seats. I felt like I was in Agatha Christie’s book, the Orient Express! I’ve never been on such a beautiful train. The Babushka man waved goodbye and I was off. I was the only person on that carriage. I felt bad that I was so stupid! While on the train a concierge came by and took my order for food and brought it to me. He brought me maps of Budapest where I was headed to. When I arrived in Budapest the door of the train opened and there stood a new Babushka Man to take my luggage. I let him. He talked and talked all the way to the cab area while I just nodded and smiled. I had no clue what he said. I tipped him big and wished he could share it with the Prague Babushka Man, who I knew thought I was a jerk.

I have encountered the Babushka Lady in Italy too. The Italian ladies tend to be skinny, older, wearing a black or flowered dress with hose to their knees and black comfortable looking shoe string shoes. It was raining, pouring actually. I was in the Piazza of the Vatican when it started to rain buckets. I noticed an unorganized queue forming in the street and thought it might be the line for a taxi. A taxi stopped. Five Brits jumped from the curb and stumbled over each other to get in that cab. An Italian Babushka lady materialized out of nowhere. She pulled the back door of the cab open and in no uncertain terms told the Brits what she thought of them. Evidently she had been standing there a long time. She was soaked through and through. When they didn’t get out she opened the taxi driver’s door and let him have it too. By now the Brits understood that she was having that cab now! No ifs, ands or buts! The Brits got out and she got in. I went to look for the metro.

In times of need, the Italian Babushka Lady is there for you. I have stopped them to ask questions. I have been lost. I like to greet them on the street. I talk to them on the bus. I know they are thinking my Italian sucks, but they always try to help me. In Milan, again at the train station, I waited by the yellow machine that needs to stamp your ticket before boarding the train. It didn’t stamp properly. Sure enough here came the Babuskas‘ to look at it. At least I had already made it through the turn style right? The ladies moved on and as I stood there a young woman rushed up and asked me in Italian if this was the right train to some city that I thought I had recognized on the boarding screen. I answered her, in my best Italian, trying to reassure her that it was indeed the correct train and she had enough time to make it. She looked shocked that I was not Italian. She scurried on, but I was so happy to realize I was now the new Babushka lady!

PS I have not had the nerve to try to get a picture of the Babushka, maybe this trip!

You Have to Know How to Hold Em’ and Know When To Fold Em’

Traveling in the summer months is easier to pack for. Clothes weigh less and are not bulky. For any trip over seven days I take seven outfits that mix and match. Seven tops and seven slacks. And two lightweight sweaters that go with anything. Interchangeable. Period. This makes a very big wardrobe and believe me it so much easier to deal with. To dress something up add a scarf!

Sacs from Eagle Creek

The next best thing to soap is Compression Sacs from Eagle Creek, the kind that don’t need a vacuum to suck out the air. Put your clothes in it, and then roll the sack like you are rolling out a pie. The air escapes and it is flat as a pancake. A miracle! You will be amazed how much you can get into these sacs! The sacs come in three sizes. Small, medium and large. I take one large Compression Sac empty, to use for dirty laundry. I can separate the dirty from the clean stuff so I always know what is what. They are extremely durable and I have been known to mail home my dirty laundry in these sacs, when I bought too many goodies on vacation. (You’ ll still need to find a box to mail them in, but it will be a small one!) Also, if you go to a laundromat in Europe it is easier and less noticeable to carry your laundry to and fro in these sacs. Mark one for clean and one for dirty, so you can bring back clean clothes in a clean sac. Put dirty clothes in marked dirty sac, roll it up, squeeze out the air and place sacs in Veggie Borsa and off you go to wash! Scented laundry sheets are a real winner. Place them in the dirty clothes sac and in your suitcase and everything will smell heavenly!

Envelopes

The other must have is the Eagle Creek Envelopes and it’s matching bags. These come in different shapes and sizes, the items shown here are the ones I use. One for pants, one for tops, one for underwear and one for toiletries. I love it because it keeps my clothes sorted and I don’t have to pull everything out of my suitcase to find something. Also, if I am staying in one spot for a long time I take the envelopes out and put them in the dresser drawers. Easy! It is amazing how your clothes stay freshly pressed in these envelopes too.

How to do the Shoes

For shoes, your new best friend, will be the plastic sleeves that the newspaper comes in. Perfect for shoes, slide the shoe in and pack them. Keeps everything clean. I wear my heaviest shoes on the airplane and pack another pair in Papa Borsa’s front pouch, which is easy to get to.

Small plastic bags in assorted sizes come in most handy for makeup, lotions or hairspray that may leak. Place all toiletries in a plastic bag before it is put in the toiletry bag. Bring only what is necessary and in small plastic travel containers. A small bar of soap and detergent is handy, to wash out underclothes in my room. I also carry a small nylon stretchy clothes line.

Stuff to carry in your purse at all times:
A Tide to Go pen. You want to get at a possible stain before it has time to set. Ever been to a bathroom to discover no toilet paper? Carry Handywipes always and a No Rinse Hand Sanitizer. Carry a very small umbrella, if you have it with you, you will never need it.

Oh, and duct tape in some bright color to make a fashion statement! Put it on the back of your ankles and you will never get a blister, no matter how far you walk!

The Knee Bone is Connected to the Thigh Bone. The Thigh Bone is Connected to a Headache

Bellagio, Italy

I really want to talk about luggage here. See all the steps? What if you had to go from a) the bottom of that tiny stoned stairway to b) the top where your lodging is? Would you want to drag a large overgrown bear with you? Or better yet, could you carry that bear over your shoulders? Now let’s also throw in, it’s hot outside, you are tired and you are not even sure if this is the right stairway to heaven. Get the picture? Less is more. You can’t take it all with you. Italy like any other place has stores. AND carrying too much will give you a headache to boot.

So you say you will rent a car? Well you still have to get from the airline terminal to the rental car agency. Sometimes in order to get there this will include stairs, tiny narrow escalators, long tunnels with more stairs at the end or a combination of all of them. How much does that suitcase weigh? What about the Borse, how heavy are they? (See the previous post about the Borse family) Some of the most beautiful villages in Italy are all uphill. Even downhill feels uphill to me. Be prepared to pull or carry. Light.

Varenna, Italy

Once after landing at the Florence, Italy airport I made my way to the car rental area and found myself in line behind a group of two men and three women, who were traveling together. Now I could sense this was going to be trouble from the get-go because the women were telling the men, in detail, what to do. One gentleman filled out all the paperwork, as instructed by the ladies and when the agent thought they were through and handing over the papers, the women decided the other gent should be added as a driver as well. Back to the beginning. I stood in line for over an hour and the line behind me got longer and longer.
“Hellooooo, my knee was saying. Why are we standing still for such a long time?” When it was my turn it took ten minutes and out the door I went. Note: Make all your car reservations at home and it will save you time and trouble. When I got outside I found my car parked right behind The Group and watched in awe as they tried to get fifteen pieces of luggage into a mid-sized sedan. Big luggage. They tried every which way under the sun, again at the direction of the ladies and finally decided that the two large cases would have to go in the back seat of the car and the three women would sit on top of them. Bent over. Noses touching the seat in front of them. Those poor men! I hoped they didn’t have to go very far! How would they be when they arrived at their destination? I did not want to know.

I like to take the train most of the time. The trains that are “Mind the Gap” are easily accessible, just step from a platform over a small open space and you are easily on. Prince Charming is never around when you need him. Some trains in Italy are small. The trains in Italy may look like this: 1. Narrow entrance to get on and off . 2. Three or more giant steps that you must be prepared to hoist your luggage to and then yourself. For me it is luggage first than me. 3. Trains are on time (well Italian time) so you have to get a move on when the train comes to a halt. 4. Be prepared for the entrance to be crammed with people who do not want to move to a seat. Picture this. I was taking a train from the Zurich Airport by way of the local train. I had to take a train to get to another train. The train stopped, the door opened and all I saw were faces and piled high luggage. I quickly assessed the situation. The train was ready to depart so up went my case and I scrambled on behind it. Nobody moved. We were eyeball to eyeball with my suitcase squeezed between us. I couldn’t even turn around to face the door and just hoped my fanny would not get caught in it when it closed. I looked up and read the sign. Do not lean on the door. Luckily, I only had one stop to go before we all poured out.

Menaggio, Italy

Sometimes after you reach your destination in paradise there are stairs just waiting to greet you. So you have a room booked on the first floor? Well that will be the second floor in Europe. Most hotels do not have an elevator or if they do it is tiny, not room enough for you AND a large suitcase. You must be able to carry your luggage up the stairs. By the time you get there heavy luggage will make your knees weak, your legs screaming, your back aching, and give you a killer headache. You will need a drink! Or two, but won’t want to walk back down those stairs!

So what kind of luggage do I travel with? One on wheels, durable, but light weight. It measures 16X23 inches and has an easy to recognize name tag

My new best friend

and strong pull out handle to slip on Papa Borsa because he doesn’t like to be carried. Remember that your luggage does not like cobblestones, so it must have a durable handle that can lift it to carry and will not break easily. My favorite accessory is the luggage scale. Don’t leave home without it. You don’t want to get to the airport upon departure to have the smiling attendant say your ticket is now @$$%%^^^%#$$$$ because it is overweight. You will be directed to another line to take stuff out or re-arrange it. Re-arrange it to what? Use that scale beforehand and know how much the suitcase weighs. Practice walking with your suitcase full. Go up and down your stairs at home carrying it. Can you do it? Remember the knee bone is connected to the thigh bone and the thigh bone is connected to the back bone. All the way to your head. Save yourself a headache. Travel light.

Next….. what do I pack and how do I pack it?

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