I’m grateful for the little reminders of Italia that I encounter here in Seattle, going about my day. Names for cookies and chips. Old ladies wearing tavern jackets in the “pot pie” frozen food section. “Proud to be Italian” License plate frames. Even shrink-wrapped prosciutto piques my nostalgia, though it’s a far cry from having my favorite butchers slice it off the leg for me.
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This return is both emotionally and mentally harder than I had expected. I had a LIFE and friends that I left behind. I had my patterns and my joys; I was wide open and received openly. My busy zone in the city held familiarity for me. The unknowns had eased into old-jeans comfort, and the quirks were either treasured or tolerated.
I sought such nestling in, the knowing and being known. Contrary to the anonymity of tourists, I wanted the intimacy of friends. And I received that, more deeply than I could have dreamed when I first imagined making such a move.
So I find myself stirred and mixed. I am nostalgic for a place I left just 3 days ago. I am not finished with Italy and her people. They remain with me.
Just because I’ve returned to Seattle, will my blog come to a halt? No.
There’s still more to say. I have more mulling over to do. Comparisons to draw. Reflections to note… And having shot 16,314 photos in my close-to-14 months in Italy, I have more images to share.
I’m not sure how often I’ll be posting, but do keep checking back now and then. I’ll be adding posts about Seattle, too. Next week I’m being taken on a personal tour: “100 Amazing and Bizarre Sights in Seattle”. As a native Seattleite, I want to see this city with the same wonderment and freshness I reveled in while exploring Italy.
How often do any of us put ourselves in the position to meet so many people in so many ways in so short a time? How readily do we open our lives to the touch of strangers?
I came here to Italy wanting to have relationships and experiences, and to gather images. I have done all of that in greater ways than I could have imagined and I now carry the faces of new friends with me. Their eyes, their voices, our conversations and our laughter will follow me as I leave this place behind. Most I will likely not see again. Some I may. But they have all become a part of my life by stepping into my days here.
Please meet some of the people I’ve met since January.
On New Year’s Eve I wrote about the new friends from my first six months here in Milano.
It is harder to leave them than I had imagined.
MARY – Italian. She’s 85 and has been working at the cemetery for 15 years. She works with the priest in the small chapel, preparing for the memorial masses. Her “Rotondo” handwriting started me on a quest for classic, Italian penmanship samples.
NINNI & AGNESE – Italians, from Sardegna. Dear-hearted, they own the Carlotta Cafe and serve memorable meals.
ANGELO – True Milanese Italian. My “History Buff on Wheels”. He showed me some of the one-lane farmland roads that have become my balm and my delight.
SARA – American. An artist, sculptor and creator studying fashion design in the Summer courses at NABA. Her work is poetic and rich and I anticipate very creative work from her!
MICHELANGELO & TERESA – An Italian and an American, in Venice. They’ve been married for 15 (or more?) years and are the only sellers of the most beautiful glass beads in Venice.
BRUNELLO – Italian. We had a freezing-cold bike ride together in the middle of January. Brrr!
SIGNORA ADA – Italian, and Venetian restaurateur. She’s an imp with a sparkle in her eye.
ALESSANDRO – Italian. He’d love to move to the U.S.
NICOLETTA – Italian. A WOMAN on the bike path! A rare sight, so we talked about it.
ERIK – Italian, with Sardegnan family roots. He served me octopus and potatoes several times.
EWA – Polish. My first independent, spontaneous friend here in Italy.
CLAUDIO – Italian, from Genova. He and his wife, Marina, hosted me for an impromptu city tour and lunch.
LUIGI – Italian. Industrious and resourceful, gathering firewood and compost along the canal to carry home on his bike.
MELTEM – Turkish. One of the “Aperitivi Girls”, we know each other through the Italian language classes.
SANDRA & MATIA – Turkish and Italian. Sandra and I met, like many others, in our Italian language class. With our interests in Art and Design, we have much in common. We traveled to Bologna together, with Matia, for a wintertime, city-wide Arts exhibition.
MAUREEN, BRUNELLO, NOEMI – 1 American and 2 Italians. Brunello and Noemi are with NABA, and there were several of us together at the Mayflower Pub, relaxing at day’s end.
GERRY & CONNIE – Americans. Goofy cousins visiting Milano for one night before they move on to Venice.
ANAIS & HER FRIENDS – French. Anais and I were in Italian language class together. Her friends came over for the weekend to celebrate her birthday.
ASHLEY – American, from Chicago. She’s studying photography at a school nearby.
CARLO & VICENZO – Italians. Dressed like jailbirds and co-guests at an impromptu aperitivo.
ROBERTO – Italian, from Milano. He was our beloved and silly Italian teacher. He made the 3-hour-a-day class a kick-in-the-pants. We all joked a lot.
MARIA – Italian. We met at an ONAV gathering and enjoyed an animated conversation. She’s a dear.
CESARE, MAUREEN, ROBY, VALERIO, ANTONIO – 4 Italians and an American girl. I was surprised to find that I had been seated at a table of men at a wine-tasting event.
NINO – Italian. His oil paintings are exquisite and two of them will hang in my home in Seattle.
MARCELLO & RAFFAELLA – Italians, from Bologna. The three of us have an American friend in common. That bond alone opened their door to me. They invited me in and we talked for hours. A lovely couple offering cooking tours of Italy, through Bluone Cooking Tours.
TANIA – Italian. Leader for NABA’s Fashion Design Program. A fine, bright woman that I’ve only caught a hint of.
EARL & MATHEW – Americans. Long-time family friends, here for a whirlwind tour of Italy and lots of pizza and pastries.
MARINA – Italian, from Genova. We met when I bought hat forms from her at the antiques market along the Naviglio Grande. Later, she and her husband hosted me for a day in Genova.
EMILIO – Italian. A friend from my cycling community.
FEDERICA – Italian. A fellow student from the wine-tasting class.
EUGENIO – Italian. The teller from my bank.
GIUSEPPE – Italian. Another ONAV wine-tasting student.
THE APERITIVI GIRLS – French, Australian, Turkish, American. We are linked by our Italian language studies and have gotten together once-a-month or so. We speak in multiple languages at our table.
HASSAN – Iranian. A fellow language student.
KERYN – Australian/New Zealander. Another of the group of women that meets for aperitivi now and then. We traveled to Verona together for a weekend.
LOREDANO – Italian from Veneto. He’s a painter with a studio along the Naviglio Grande. If you scramble a few letters of his name, you get “Leonardo”.
ZIBBY & HANNAH – Americans, daughters of friends back home in Seattle. We had less than 24 hours together, but they were full of conversation and curiosity.
MAKO & QING SHENG – Chinese. We ate our lunches side-by-side, then strolled the antiques market together, 2 Chinese and 1 American speaking Italian, our common language.
THUSHAN – Sri Lankan. Our “portiere”, Thushan keeps our office/apartment building running smoothly.
MARIO – Italian. One of the regional heads of ONAV, the National Organization of Wine Tasters.
ROBY – Italian. “My favorite bartender”, which makes it sound like I’m always at the bar… but he hosts many of the student social evenings at his Mayflower Pub, so I’ve been there a number of times. Or sometimes, when walking by, I’ll stop just to say “hello”.
MAURO, SANDRA, MAUREEN, SANDRO – 3 Italians and 1 short American. My landlords and a friend of theirs, all from Sanremo on the Italian Riviera. We were in Monaco for the day.
ROCCO & GIANNI – Italian. ONAV wine tasting students. One night, class was getting out very late, close to 11:30 at night, so several of us left early to head to the subway before it closed. Gianni had a nice red wine in his glass still, so he walked down the street, into the subway and onto the train, sipping his red. (Never in the U.S.!)
OZDEN – Turkish. Another friend from my Italian language classes and one that joins the group for aperitivi.
SALLY – American. A dear friend and art lover from Seattle that came for a visit and “Maureen’s Eye View” of Italy.
SALVATORE – Italian. Comically stereotypical while trying to “score” on the 2-hour train ride. He said it was a hot day and that’s why he was unbuttoning his shirt down to his navel. Yeah, right.
VALENTINA – Italian. Another friend from the ONAV wine tasting class.
MAUREEN, QUENTIN, BEATA, PAOLO – 2 Americans, 2 Italians. We met at NABA and ended laughing through the evening and planning a cycling tour of Italy for the future.
OMAR – Italian. Omar sat next to me in the ONAV wine-tasting classes and speaks a bit of English. If I didn’t understand what was said in class, I could glance over at Omar’s notes and see if I could understand what he had written.
PIERO – Italian. We saw each other a couple of times along the street and exchanged a nod and some music.
It’s Thursday afternoon. On Saturday morning a car and driver will meet me here at my apartment and drive me, with whatever I’m carrying home to Seattle, to Milano Malpensa Airport. Though I’m not much of a shopper, I still have too much stuff to manage the taxi-train-plane, with all the transfers, on my own. My flight leaves at noon.
Less than two days remain for me in Milano… for now. I’ve eased the panicked voice of “I didn’t go here! I didn’t see this! I didn’t taste that!” And I’ve come to a calm reconciling of all that I didn’t experience in these near-14 months, and am beyond grateful for all that I DID.
…And I’m already talking with friends here about my return sometime next year for a month or two. (Why not?) I’ve had offers of places to stay. I want to see friends here in the north. Travel and do design research in the south. And plan a bike-tour for a week or two in central Italy. (Why not?)
So in these days, as I’m seeing my friends, I give them an Italian kiss on both cheeks and an American hug. (They don’t do that much here.) We’re not saying “goodbye”, but rather “see you later”, or “until the next time”.
“Alla prossima.”
And sometimes I blink away watery eyes.
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(I DID it! I packed up and moved to Italy for over a year!
And I have faces in my mind’s eye to prove it.
It wasn’t always easy, but it was oh-so-worth it!)
Journal Entry: 24 Luglio
The bus just left Aosta, heading back to Milano. I have been visiting my friends, Ewa and Piotr, in Cogne for two days where the “uniform” is hiking shorts and boots, muscular, suntanned legs, and walking sticks. The street signs are in French [and Italian] and at any time I can hear a half dozen languages.
The buildings have fish-scale, slate rooftops, with an undulating alignment. They all look the part of a Hobbit’s house with stone, scroll-cut wood, lichen patches and shutters.
I like this old couple. I wonder how long they’ve lived in Cogne.
He’s not afraid of cherry red pants!
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I have had to remind myself that this, too, is Italy.
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Cogne draws tourists from all over Europe, especially those interested in the many miles of mountain trails and climbing routes ranging from easy-to-difficult. The town is at the start of a valley that leads to the Parco Nazionale di Gran Paradiso, the National Park of “Great Paradise” Mountain.
Attend the Italian School of Skiing here in Cogne.
The town center is a hub of cafés, food stores, services and gift shops. Aosta’s regional bus company, Savda, makes its loop in the area at villages along the valley between Aosta and Cogne. (It also runs to and from Milano.)
Looking north down the valley from our rented house, the view shows the one main road that passes through the few blocks of town. Parking is almost absent in the town center, bowing to the heavy pedestrian traffic, so a lower lot is available for cars and motor homes.
Not surprisingly, the shoe stores in town sell hiking boots and sturdy walking shoes.
The date on the clock on the wall of the Casa dell’Orologio – Clock House – says “1806”.
And someone has an incredible salad garden going!
Here’s the backside of the clock building.
Though visitors fill the town, the locals seem to go right on with their daily lives in this mountain village, chatting with friends, sipping a caffé normale – a simple shot of espresso – or making their passeggiata – daily, walking stroll.
Two women were chatting outside of the small, local fruit and vegetable seller’s shop. They appeared to be locals and long-time friends.
There’s plenty of lodging available, in the center of town and around its edges.
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Though the town of Cogne is pristine and quaint, that doesn’t seem to be a show put on just for the tourists. I got the impression it’s always looked about like this. It’s not that Cogne is reminiscent of Leavenworth (WA), Leavenworth is reminiscent of Cogne (and other European regions).
This older home is just up the valley in the village of Lillaz, gateway to local waterfalls.
I have seen more sundials in the last year than in all of my life combined. Whether this is really from 1903 or not, it’s quite beautiful wearing its patina.
Ewa and I stopped into the local macelleria – the meat shop – to buy some meat for goulash. (She’s Polish.) The butcher scooped up a spoonful of ground, raw meat, much like a “steak tartare” and presented it to us for sampling. I reached out and grabbed a wad with my hands. It was delicious.
We also asked about the near-black meat in the center, (below), next to the wrapped tongue. The butcher gave us a sample, including a piece for Ewa’s 4-year-old grandson, Filippo. We LOVED it. The meat is raw, yet “processed” by being covered in hot salt. (I had wondered how it compares to Bresaola.) We bought a half dozen slices and Filippo and I fought over them as we ate the meat walking through town, licking our fingers.
I appreciate that a “Certificate of Provenance” for the meat is prominently displayed on the counter. It tells the ID number for the animal; when and where it was born and raised; and when and where it was butchered! The next day I wanted to go back for more of the “salt-cooked” meat.
On Thursday, the bus pulled away from a 95 degree day in Milano and headed into increasingly blustery skies in the Valle d’Aosta at the far northwest of Italy. (Find it on the map here.) I shot a few crude images through the dirty, tinted bus window as we rolled along, watching the scenery and the weather change. We went from the corn fields surrounding Milano, to castles and mountainside vineyards.
Today, two days later, on my return trip home from Cogne, the weather had changed and I sat on the north side of the bus to be out of the heat of the sun.
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Some notes from my journal entries to-and-from:
22 Luglio, 1:00
Milano – Lampugnano. (One of the metro stops on the red line and a major bus transfer point).
Heading west to Aosta and Cogne to spend a couple of days with Ewa and Piotr. They were my first new friends here and I will say my goodbyes to them as they’re spending this month in the mountains.
The bus has just pulled away from the station.
From Aosta, I could throw a rock north into Switzerland or west into France. I could pitch it to the top of Mont Blanc. Great to have this opportunity to see another spot in Italy, one of its mountainous regions. This is part of my “Say Yes!” program: say “yes” to what presents itself.
(Late in the ride, this is the closest I got to a view of Mont Blanc, obscured by clouds.)
2:30
As we head deeper into the Valle d’Aosta, the proximity to Switzerland is apparent. The architecture has changed. Rooftops bear flat, gray slate instead of red tile.
(This very old rooftop has lost its distinctive fish-scale pattern as the slate has broken up.)
The mountains are steep at both north and south. Vineyards face southwest on steep slopes.
Castles sit atop high promontories. Lettering has changed to old gothic. I’m sure the language is different, too. The rivers are gray-green and opaque. (Language is the “secret, magic decoder ring” to other worlds.)
Aosta 3:15
Switch buses and then continue on to Cogne, (pronounced CONE-nyay) 50 minutes south, into the mountains. Signs are in Italian and/or French. Houses look like Americans’ stereotypical view of Swiss chalets, complete with decorations of gnomes and trolls. This is a different italy. Imagine how UNlike it is to Napoli and Sicilia!
This is a deep, narrow valley. Houses and farm fields climb the slopes to the north and south of town. An alpine community, certainly.
I think of their having united as one Republic less than 100 years ago (1946). About like binding New York City with Montana: separate worlds without commonality.
(“This way to beds in Europe.” Are Holiday Inns everywhere?)
One week from today, at this time, I will have schlepped my bags by taxi and train to Milano Malpensa airport; checked in, with machine gun carrying guards in the mezzanine above me; gone through security; waited; flown over the Alps to London two hours north; gone through security again; eaten an airport meal; wound my way through Heathrow; boarded, gotten settled and begun my 9 hour flight back to Seattle.
I just went grocery shopping. What favorite foods do I want to eat again (and again) before I go? I bought bresaola, and mortadella with pistachios, buffalo milk fresh mozzarella, fresh figs and sicilian tomatoes. One (or two) more meals of octopus? Who do I want to see and say goodbye to? How many more last hurrahs with my girlfriends? Where do I want to go? What will wish I had photographed?
As I buy groceries and supplies this week, I have to calculate how much I can use in six days. As I go for a bike ride, or subway ride, I have to realize it may be the last one (for a long while).
From a journal entry today:
“I have grown a sweet affection for this country. It’s not the starry-eyed, naive enthusiasm of a tourist’s love of the sights. But it’s a complex recognition of the quirks, an all-too-recent connection with individuals along my path, the creation for myself of a way of being, and as yet, merely a hint of who these people are. How can I stay away for long? I am leaving a part of myself here, and have lodged a part of Italy in my heart, to carry with me. Under what circumstances will I return, and for how long?”
It would have been impossible to leave Milano without saying “goodbye” to Mary.
Our first meeting is a story in itself, finally happening last March after much anticipation. We’ve seen each other a few times since then, meeting in the little office behind the cemetery chapel.
Today I showed up in the afternoon, after the typical Italian lunch break, with red lilies in-hand for Mary. I found her at the altar, preparing everything for the next Mass. She lit up in surprise, and immediately went into the back room to split the lilies into 3 vases: 1 for either side of the altar, 1 for the Madonna.
She’s the sweetest, and implored that I NOT move away from Milano. But as I’ve told her before, I have family, friends and work back in Seattle that pull me there, so I must go. Don’t think she didn’t try to convince me to stay though!
We sat at her desk and talked for a long time. We exchanged mailing addresses and I told her that, with the computer, I can call her for free. She was thrilled.
She rummaged through the cupboards, wanting to send me home with gifts. She found a bottle of Muscat sparkling wine produced by the friars, a bracelet with pictures of 12 saints, a rose-scented rosary, a little bottle of holy water and half a dozen copies of the photo of Don Giuseppe Gervasini, Milano’s very own protector. If I carry his image with me, he will protect me from all harms, she explained.
Mary also gave me a couple dozen pages on which she has written, in her “rotondo penmanship”, the names of the dead being honored at the chapel masses.
Father Francesco came into the office a few times. I had met him in my previous visits; during the last, Mary asked him to bless me for the answer to my prayers.
When we finally said our goodbye, I said “first, an Italian kiss, then an American hug”. We kissed on both cheeks, actually several times, then I gave her a big hug goodbye.
What a dear, dear lady. Meeting her has been one of the great treasures of my time here.
It’s been toasty-o here in Milano lately, with temperatures in the high 80s to high 90s, and humid. When I walk out of my apartment, it’s like walking into a sauna! I’m grateful to have air conditioning.
One solution I find at the major hub subway stations around town, is the installation of fans spewing a fine mist. It’s refreshingly cool…and mesmerizing.
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