Tall Corn and an Alpine Arc

The corn stalks are more than knee-high. The rapeseed has been harvested and the poppies cut along with it. Workers are driving tractors along the canal, using flail-choppers to cut the meter-high grass and weeds.

There’s a firm breeze on this 80 degree day and the sky is bright blue. The air is clear enough to reveal the Alps forming their broad arc of one third of the horizon. That always impresses me: looking up from my bike and seeing the Alps in the distance. What a sight, and the stuff of dreams.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

This day was not set aside to mark the beginning of barbeque season.

Memorial Day is a time to remember and honor those that have given their lives while in service to their country… OUR country.

The bell is rung at the calling of each name, newly engraved on the memorial wall. A salute goes up and tears fall.

Please take a moment…

300-Year-Old Pages

300-Year-Old Pages

Another day at the Antiques Market along the Naviglio Grande. Summer is in full swing and tourists have found this hot spot. It’s “the” place to be on the last Sunday of the month for anyone wanting a very diverse selection of some pretty choice items. “Antique” in Italy covers a broader range than “antique” in the U.S.!

The sellers know full well what they’ve got and the high demand for what they’re offering and they’re not giving any of it away for cheap! Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing there. I have no budget for this stuff! But I remind myself that there’s value in simply SEEING it. Tools and instruments. A world atlas from the 1700s. Household goods and fixtures. Old nuns’ handwritten devotional cards in hand-stitched envelopes. Embroidered linens. Letterpress printed prayerbooks of handmade paper bound in hide. Maps and etchings of former cityscapes. The historical reference alone makes it worth spending a day gently handling 300-year-old book pages.

I find the very old and the very curious. (A Lamborghini wooden rowing machine?!) I look around for hours until I’m mentally saturated and physically hungry, unable to really appreciate any more. By then I’m going home with a few little trinkets that are affordable and packable, and a mind full of imagery I hope to never forget.

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At right (below) are leather-working knives.

Clean Streets

Clean Streets

12:20 a.m. Why go to bed when they’re just outside my bedroom window pressure washing the streets and sidewalks? (At 12:20 in the morning!? Hey! They’re early tonight! It’s usually at quarter to one!)

Might as well wait, rather than lying there watching the pattern of their flashing orange lights and the patterns they make as they shine through the metal filagree bars in front of my window. It makes quite a light show.

LATER: 12:50 a.m. One wouldn’t think they’d need to make 5 passes on a one-block, dead-end street! I can go to bed now. Buona notte.

Young Legs

While riding the subway this morning heading into town, the train came to a stop and an elder man got on. I was pleased when a young woman offered him her seat, but he declined it. He and I were standing next to each other and he leaned over to me and said “my face is old, but my legs are young.” He told me he’s 82 years old, and I told him he looked 70. “And you’re 12, right?!” he said to me. We both laughed and continued to chat until two stops later when we got off and wished each other a nice day.

I came here for encounters such as this.
These little moments are big pleasures.

Nino: A Contemporary Master

Nino: A Contemporary Master

It was another sunny afternoon and a good time to go to the Piazza del Duomo to wander around. I hadn’t known that there was a sidewalk art sale going on. Much of the work was very mediocre, as if the artists were uncertain. I saw the work of a few painters that showed surety, fresh thinking, sophistication and a developed style. And then I saw Nino’s work, and it stopped me.

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In the last year I have seen so much art of the old masters in the great museums and galleries of Italy and France. Portraits, landscapes, abstracts… and still lifes. When I saw the small oil paintings of Nino L’Annunziata, I could have been in the Uffizi or the Louvre. He has a finezza, a fineness, an eye and hand, a sense of color and detail that I don’t often come across in contemporary painters, especially in a casual sidewalk display. Nino has skill, control and certainty that elevate him to “contemporary master”.

We talked for about 45 minutes in an engaged, pleasant chat. We gave each other the classic two-cheek kiss, said goodbye and I walked away with two of his small paintings. When I take them back to Seattle, they will bring to mind a pleasant connection with a fine artist on a sunny, early summer day in Italy. And I will smile.

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Early Bird and a Late Night Girl

It is 4:14 a.m. No. I haven’t gone to bed yet but the first bird just sang!

I could say I’m in the throes of jet lag, but really it was the seduction of a book given to me by my friend Anne and her kids before I left Seattle.

“The Glassblower of Murano” by Marina Fiorato, takes place in Venice. Tonight I couldn’t put it down. I settled into the couch and acquiesced to its pull.

And now the birds are singing…
Good night. (Or is it “good morning”.)

Make Like a Sculpture

Make Like a Sculpture

What to do when the temperature is in the 80s on a Saturday afternoon, post jet-lag? Go for a bike ride with a cyclist friend, start along the canal, ride through the farmland to a little lake, get and fix a flat tire and make like a sculpture.

Cyclist Emilio and I rode out west of Assago (south of Milano) to the Villaggio Santa Maria. They have a man-made lake, a pool, a path around the lake shore, and grass to lounge on. It was a nice afternoon of chatting on winding farm roads, climbing overpasses, and seeing new bike routes.

Grazie, Emilio.

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Sometimes when I meet people here, I tell them my name is “Maria”. They can handle that. Or I do tell them my name is Maureen, and that “Maureen” is like “Maria” in that they both mean “Mary”.

Inter Milan Won!

Inter Milan Won!

The whole city is going CRAZY! Inter Milan won the soccer Champions League final against Bayern Munich and the neighbors have been screaming. I hear car horns honking, whistles blowing and a general elevated noise level throughout the city. I have a feeling that if I were at the Piazza del Duomo tonight there wouldn’t even be standing room.

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European news reports tell more about the story:
Milan’s Corriere della Sera
London Telegraph

UPDATE: The revelers continued their partying until about 2:00 this morning, as I was curled up with a good book on the couch until 4:00.

Here are photos from April 29th:

Lullaby

Seven in the evening after a mid-80s day. My french doors are open and I hear a music box playing “Lullaby and Goodnight…” with that classic, shallow sound of the child’s music maker. Where is it coming from?

(It’s much better than the mid-day Italian soap operas I hear during the week.)

Rapeseed & Red Poppies

Rapeseed & Red Poppies

My flight arrived yesterday evening, followed by a train ride into the city. I caught a cab and loved the winding ride through the tight streets. Summer had arrived. It was warm. People were out strolling and the sidewalk seating was filled with people enjoying their aperitivi with friends. The whole mood had shifted in two weeks! (Although I was told that the Milanese just came off a spell of rain while I was enjoying sunshine in Seattle.)

Today, less than 24 hours after returning, I was riding my bike along the canal under a sunny sky and a low-80s afternoon. I rode for more than 2 hours and smelled wild rose, jasmine, gardenia… and some plant whose scent approximates the combination of sweat and urine.

Just 15 minutes south of Milano by bike, I was enjoying the sight of bright yellow fields of rapeseed (canola) speckled red with poppies. The stuff of masters’ paintings. Beautiful.

The cottonwood fluff was so thick that I had to hold my breath as I rode through certain areas. The pathside has become downy-soft.

As I had seen both flying into Milano and on my ride, the rice paddies are being flooded and reflect the blue of the sky above. (Who would think that Milano is surrounded by rice paddies?!)

I like the summary that this ground-level billboard provides, illustrating signature Italian food products. “Giant in quality. Small in price.”

There’s a new section of bike path whose “official” opening every cyclist has been waiting months for. They long ago gave up on waiting and simply ride around the barricades. The problem is the two underpasses that were built below the level of the canal and have been flooded all winter and spring. Today, though, they were clear of water and allowed me to keep riding without risking my life in the alternate: a busy roundabout ON A BIKE! I went further today than I normally do, almost to the town of Pavia.

This collection of signs amused me. The drainage ditch and small road behind are closed. Fishing is forbidden, as is harvesting mushrooms. What are they thinking? Such a sign TELLS me that this is a hot spot for gathering mushrooms. It gives a person reason to cross over and start hunting! (Don’t they know you should always keep your mushroom spots SECRET?!)

This poor snake didn’t make it, but the salamander I saw at the last second did. I wonder what kind of snake it is…

A sculptor has taken over this old hydraulic plant and has built a workshop (low, with the blue trim) and sculpture garden, right next to one of the canal’s many locks. One of these days I’ll have to stop and chat with him.

It pleases me to have nearly completed one year on the Naviglio Pavese Canal, with its seasonal changes. It holds something different for me each time I roll along at its side and I continue to marvel and revel. I find myself singing and speaking Italian to myself. (Uh oh. Scary.) And I certainly find myself smiling.

Lycra or Linen?

Seattleites wear fleece, gore-tex, lycra and denim. Their fashion sense is inspired by the sporty, athletic look, whether or not they’re either sporty or athletic. Some are so casual as to be sloppy.

The Milanese wear cotton, linen, silk and wool. Denim seems reserved for the colder, winter months. More women wear skirts and dresses, and more men wear suits than I ever see in Seattle. The look is lean and trim…and sexy.

Is it a matter of level of formality? Fashion awareness? Traditional mores? What drives such visible stylistic trends?

Of course these are generalizations and certainly there are a hundred other directions seen in both places. But to have just been in Seattle for two weeks, able to observe with fresh eyes, the differences are remarkable.

The Air is Fresh and Clean

The Air is Fresh and Clean

It’s a lovely day here in Seattle. The sun was shining first thing this morning while I scurried around to get the irrigation system up and running. Now it’s pouring rain and my dry yard is thankful. I stepped outside, heard the birds singing and enjoyed the cool, fresh, clean air and smell of salt water.

These last 2 weeks here have been sunny and warm. Wow! No, I did not bring the sunshine from Milano. They had forecast a week of rain the day I left. There was no sunshine to bring!

Flowers are blooming, my yard is at its most beautiful and the days have been comfortable.

I leave this afternoon to return to Italy and my last 2 and a half months there. They predict temperatures in the mid-80s for the end of this week, so I’m dressed in layers, able to peel them one-by-one as I approach Europe.

The sense of things for me is SO different as I prepare for this flight than when I was preparing to fly to Italy last June. The unknown doesn’t loom so large. The timidity has been eased. I’m returning to Milano with familiarity and surety now and that changes the whole picture.

In this last dab of time, I will have visitors, I will travel, I will gobble up as much as I can before I pack my last bag and come home again to this fresh air.

A Question of Perspective

A Question of Perspective

My house in Seattle is a mansion. My living room here is as big as my whole apartment in Milan. All of this space for one person?

Really, it’s just a two-bedroom, 1950s rambler with a basement and a great yard. But after almost a year in Milan, my house seems enormous. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I had an American mega-mansion.

I arrived in Seattle two days ago for a couple of weeks seeing family, friends and clients. The days have been sunny, but cool, starting at 40 degrees in the mornings; it feels brisk after 77 degrees and humid.

It’s incredibly quiet, the only noise coming from the chorus of robins singing throughout the neighborhood. A sunny, still afternoon spent sitting on the front porch looking out to the water is a balm to my soul. What a treasure.

It’s good to be home, and I look forward to my final return at the end of July. But it won’t be without some wistfulness about the people and flavors I’ll be leaving behind.

Fast on the Canal

Fast on the Canal

The fence joints along the canal were interesting to Dad, so I had stopped to take some detail shots. One of the cyclists, Emilio, stopped to ask if I needed any help. I explained about the fence, then we stood at the canalside and continued chatting for 20 minutes or so. On this cloudy day, we covered everything under the sun.

“Do you want to ride together for a while?”, he asked.
“Sure!”

Courteously, he seemed to be letting me set the pace, so I picked it up, pushed it and we rode hard for much of the way. “Wow!”, he said. He was surprised by the pace I could keep, which he clocked at 35 kph (almost 22 mph).

What fun! Nice to have a cycling companion.
We may ride together again another day.

Grazie, Emilio! Molto piacere.

This is what 53 looks like in Italy:

No Shoehorns

This has been crystallizing for a while and I finally honed it to this kernel:

“If you have to use a shoehorn,
maybe it’s not the right shoe.”

Think about it. This applies to much of life.

No. I’m not saying that “right things” are effortless. I’m simply noting that sometimes we want so much for something to be “the right thing” that we try to shoehorn it into a place it isn’t mean to be.

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Luigi’s Garden

Luigi’s Garden

There’s a farm field along the canal, across from the Zibido Cemetery, that has piled up a rank-smelling mound of rotting straw and organic matter. Luigi sees it as prime compost for his garden and is hauling it home one bucketful at a time.

As I was riding along, I didn’t recognize him at first. Since the weather has gotten warmer, Luigi’s many-times-mended clothes have gotten more summery. (He was in a heavy jacket the last time I saw him.) As we stood there talking, I noticed that at some point in years past, he’s customized his shirt. The collar’s been removed, and careful stitches finish that edge.

We had a nice chat. Luigi told me that he grows green beans, chicory, potatoes, tomatoes, salad greens and a little bit of everything else in his garden. We talked some more about his 70-year-old bike, and some of the long-time Italian bicycle brands: Bianchi, Silvestrini, Rossignoli. Any brand markings on his bike have long since yielded to the rusty patina.

Luigi reached out and shook my hand. We said our “arrivederci” and look forward to our next conversation along the canal.