Fresh figs are in at the Saturday street market just a couple of blocks away, and they share the display with the magenta-splashed Borlotti bean pods! I bought some of both green figs and black, and enough borlottis to make a pot of something. (I also bought some picadilli tomatoes, slender green beans, pickled onions, dolce “sweet” green olives and cherries.)
As a kid, my only exposure to this fruit was in the form of highly-sugared “Fig Newtons”. Little did I know that the cookie’s core comes from a soft, sweet fruit, that needs no sugar (wonderful when wrapped with prosciutto). I wanted to do a side-by-side taste test of both green and black figs, so I strolled the market to find the best prices, best fruit and best fruit-handler! (Good fruit and pricing is easy to find. A gentle handler is not.) I ended up with enough figs, ultra-ripe and needing to be eaten promptly, that I’ll be eating several a day hoping to keep ahead of their ripeness.
Borlotti beans caught my eye when I was living here a couple of years ago. Now, during each time in Italy, I’ve got to buy at least enough of the pretty beans to sit myself in a chair for half an hour and shuck the soft shells for a meal. I’ll cook up a pot of the speckled beans, with some fresh sage, garlic, fresh tomatoes, red pepper, zucchini and maybe some pancetta.
Mary was sitting there at her desk when I stepped into the little back room adjoining the chapel at Milano’s Cimitero Monumentale – the Monumental Cemetery. Now 87, she’s given her time for close to 20 years, assisting Padre Francesco with the mass, altar flowers and little details.
We spent close to 2 hours chatting after I had surprised her by walking in. I never arrive empty handed; Mary took the fragrant lilies I brought and prepared them in a vase. Her gait is slowed to a shuffle now, yet she can still make it to the other side of the chapel, carrying the flowers to put in front of the Madonna.
A devout woman, with no inkling of doubt, she asked Padre Francesco to give me 3 separate benedictions, which he did at her request. She also pressed another photo of Don Guiseppe Gervasini into my hands and instructed me to carry it next to my identity card so that it would always keep me protected.
During my visit, a drunken, belligerent man came into the chapel. Padre Francesco was away at the time. The man was confrontative and insulting to Mary, much too close, swearing in her face. I was trying to usher him out, and was preparing myself to take a punch to keep him from harming Mary. Fortunately, another woman went off to get father, who deflected the man’s attentions and led him away.
I had first met Mary two years ago, and something as simple as her handwriting has spun me off into a study of Italian penmanship and typography.
After meeting her in 2010, it was touching to say goodbye to her before returning to the U.S. She had pleaded with me to stay.
A bunch of friends and I met up for a lecture at 9:15 pm at the Design Library. I walked almost a mile along the canals and side streets to meet them there.
Afterwards, we all went out for a bite to eat at 11:00, walking to the restaurant. We each ordered our own pizza (I ate half of mine) and some limoncello afterwards. Then we walked part of the way back together; we split up and I continued on home alone, arriving at 1:30 am.
Whether it’s naivete or genuine security, I walk home alone late at night and don’t feel concerned. Especially here by the canals, there are always a lot of people out walking, riding their bikes, talking, gathering in front of the local bars.
It should be no wonder that Italians are, for the most part pretty trim and not fighting the weight issues seen in America. It’s routine to walk 2 or 3 miles to and from dinner, in addition to everywhere else they go on foot and by bike!
Warmest congratulations to Glenda and Massimo! Congratulazioni! The two were wed on Saturday, June 9, 2012 on the hill of Cimiez, in the city of Nice, France, along the jewel-toned Côte d’Azur of the French Riviera.
It was a fairytale wedding with a nuptial mass at the Monastery at Cimiez, during which the bride laid a special bouquet at the feet of the Virgin Mary.
A small reception followed in the monastery garden. A few hours later, at the Villa Alvorada, there were appetizers, conversation, dancing and a full (and very ooo-lah-lah delicious) dinner on a high hill at Cap d’Ail, France, overlooking the bay of Monaco (which presented an unexpected fireworks display).
Not only was the bride beautiful and the groom handsome, but also so were their parents. The two bride’s maids wore spring green, matching the bride’s rose bouquet. Rice was thrown. Balloons soared, and champagne was poured in celebration.
Glenda looked every bit the enchanted, contented bride, and Massimo had a new-groom-adoration in his eyes for his dear wife.
I wish them countless years of deep love and tenderness, respect and mutual applause. They have begun their lives in the sight of family and friends, and we all wish them well.
Journal Entry: Sunday, June 10 – On the train returning home to Milano after a weekend in Nice, France, on the Côte d’Azur.
My brain hit “overload” sometime yesterday (Saturday) in the language department.
I rode for three and a half hours with Miriam, who I did not know, on Friday, and we spoke Italian all the way to Nice as she drove. We arrived in France at our Bed & Breakfast run by a Scottish woman speaking English. We went to our friend, Glenda’s, house on her prenuptial night where we gathered with friends speaking English, Italian and French.
Miriam and I went back to our room speaking Italian all the while until we turned the lights out. We awoke the next morning, speaking Italian to each other, but English with our lodging host. Miriam and I wandered town, commenting in Italian for a few hours, then returned to our room and prepped for the wedding.
We left, picked up two other wedding guests, one that speaks Italian and French, another that speaks English and French. I speak English and Italian. Miriam had the clear advantage; she speaks Italian, English and French. All three languages flew around the car.
At the church, the verbal mix continued until the nuptial mass of two hours, which was said in Italian. At the small garden reception afterwards, I wasn’t sure which language to use with the servers, though my French is limited to about four sentences, but enough to ask for a glass of champagne.
The four of us left the reception, again with languages mixed and flying. I was responding to the Italian-speaking French woman, Michou, in Italian as she spoke her native French to me. We spent an hour driving and sightseeing, switching languages depending on the speaker and the listener.
Arriving at the wedding dinner, served by French, attended by Italians, with a few other nationalities thrown in as guests, my mind was in a mixed soup of sound until the celebration ended and we returned to our room at 3:00 in the morning.
Somewhere along the line late yesterday, my comprehension and command of Italian started waning. I wasn’t understanding a word that Miriam was saying and asked her more often than not to repeat what she had said.
Today, it became almost funny. She and I switched to English and talked about what I was experiencing. I realized that in the nearly one month that I’ve been here, I’ve occasionally seen a few Italian-speaking friends for an hour or two and have had transactional conversations when shopping, but have been alone for the most part.
This weekend, I jumped into 48 hours of continuous foreign language, adding French to the mix! And switching back-and-forth between the three, hearing and speaking, really pushed my brain to overload.
I also realized that, if I’m tired and/or hungry, my language competence quickly diminishes! Low blood sugar and lack of sleep do not improve my language skills. (Miriam even commented on the increased number of errors in my speaking.) I had “hit the wall”.
Another curious thing I noted was my resistance to speaking English because of being in a foreign country. I didn’t come to Italy or France to practice my English, but I recognize that sometimes my resistance to resort to English hampered communication.
After about lunch time today, we switched to English almost entirely, tossing in Italian only now-and-then. Our long drive home was made even richer by conversation because of Miriam’s greater ease with English than mine with Italian.
Grazie, Miriam, per la tua pazienza con il mio Italiano!
Having spent the morning walking all over old-town Nice, on the jewel-toned Riviera coast of France, it was time to eat a bite… or maybe a hundred.
Miriam and I passed many little cafés with people sitting in front of grand, black buckets of just-steamed mussels. It was an enticing choice that we didn’t resist.
When we started eating, I wasn’t paying attention. I’d pick up a mussel in one hand, take my fork in the other, and laboriously work the mussel out of its shell and into my mouth. Who knows how many mussels into the meal I was before I finally saw what Miriam was doing. Duh! She used an empty mussel shell as a sort of mini-tongs to easily pluck the meat out of another shell and pop it into her mouth. It made absolute sense. Clever. Simple. Mussel consumption pared to the essence!
For 12,50 euro per person, we were each served a hundred mussels… or maybe more… plus fries or a salad, and some bread. I could easily have stopped at half that quantity. I felt full for a day afterwards. The mussels were simply prepared, steamed with onion, carrot, red pepper and celery. A light broth remained in the bottom of my black pot, and it was soaked up nicely with crusty bread.
Lesson learned. Thank you, Miriam!
Curious about the nutritional content of 100 mussels, I looked it up and found the FitDay web site and its results. Gee, do you think I got enough protein? Or how about the sodium and potassium?! Or vitamin B12?! Wow. The calories were plentiful, but “only” a quarter of them were fat, and of those only a sixth were saturated fats.
This is real Italian food. They’re not over here just eating pizza and spaghetti. And they’re NOT eating “Fettucine Alfredo”! (If you see it on a menu, it’s only there for the tourists.) The range of Italian food is so vast. It truly does change every hundred kilometers. And most of it is nothing like seen in “Italian Restaurants” in the U.S.
When here, I eat everything that’s regional and typical to an area. I eat what I can’t get in Seattle. As I travel and seek out a meal, I always ask what the local specialties are and then expand my view of “Italian Food”. Here’s a sampling of what I’ve eaten in the last three weeks.
Soprassata Fiorentina • “Head Cheese” from Florence. I had this when living here a couple of years ago. Found it at a street market with no refrigeration, no running water. This is made of all the extra “head parts” that are cooked and congealed together with seasoning. Mmm. Yummy on a slice of bread. Must be 99% fat.
Fragolini • Little, wild strawberries found growing in the weeds in my courtyard. Actually, they had very little flavor, but I have seen them being sold at the market.
Lardo di Colonnata and Gorgonzola Dolce • Aged, seasoned lard (below, with a streak of meat), and creamy, mild “Sweet” Gorgonzola cheese (above). Both fantastic on a good hunk of bread. (Who needs butter?!)
Torta di Mele, con Gelato di Vaniglia • Apple Tart with Vanilla Gelato. A rare, sweet splurge for me.
Insalata di songino, pomodori e burratina con olio e aceto • Salad of “lamb’s lettuce”, cherry tomatoes and “burratina” cheese, drizzled with olive oil and a thick balsamic “cream”. Burratina is a small version of “Burrata”, a fist-sized ball with an outer layer like fresh mozzarella about 1/8″ thick, containing soft, creamy/runny, semi-solid cheese within. Heaven on a bed of greens!
Panzerotto Luini • Deep-fried bread pocket (filled with spinach and ricotta) from Luini’s by the Duomo. Inexpensive, hand-food that the locals all know about. Carry it around and eat it while walking.
Ribollita • Tuscan bread and vegetable soup, eaten in Firenze (Florence). The name means, literally “reboiled”.
Spiedina di carne mista • It WAS a skewer of mixed meats, in this case sausage and pork, eaten in Firenze.
Porcini • Two porcini mushrooms for 12 Euro at the street market (about $15!) All the time that I had lived here I never bought fresh porcini! I had to splurge at least once.
Porcini e Pomodori • Porcini and tomatoes (and brooms), cooking in my 35″ wide kitchen/broom closet. I brought the porcini home and cooked them up; also sauteéd some fresh cherry tomatoes.
Porcini with vegetable ravioli, and sauteéd fresh cherry tomatoes with meat ravioli, fresh from the street market.
Pastries from Spezia Pasticceria. My favorites are the Babá in the upper right: sponge cakes absolutely drenched with sweetened rum, with sweet ricotta filling in the middle. One bite and the rum sauce runs down your arm.
My favorite meats (clockwise from the top): Prosciutto (Crudo, di Parma), Bresaola, Mortadella with pistachios. It’s an art ordering your prosciutto cut! The bresaola is 100% lean (also available in horse meat). Mortadella: think “baloney” from when you were a kid, then multiply by 100. This mortadella has pistachios and peppercorns in it, and yes those are chunks of (white) fat.
Here’s the receipt for the meats above: 50 grams of Bresaola for 1,50 euro; 100 grams (“un etto”) Mortadella for 1,29 euro; 50 grams of Prosciutto di Parma for 1,35 euro. I had also bought “Gorgonzola Dolce”, the gooey, creamy, mild gorgonzola for 1,88 euro, and “Vitello Tonnato”, thin-sliced, roasted veal with a pureed tuna mayonnaise sauce on top for 2,47 euro. This was several days’ food for a girlfriend and me for 8,49 euro, about $10.66. (Makes up for the cost of the porcini.)
Bresaola, my favorite. An air-dried, salted beef that has been aged 2-3 months. Almost completely lean, no fat. Sliced paper thin, and when it’s very good, it is moist and supple, not dry and leathery. Note how translucent it is! I can’t buy Italian Bresaola in the U.S. Too many fears of “mad cow disease”.
Insalata con mozzarella di bufala, pomodori e basilico. Vitello tonnato • A salad with fresh mozarella di bufala (yes, buffalo milk), tomatoes, basil, served with “vitello tonnato”, the thin-sliced veal with pureed tuna/mayonnaise sauce.
Salsiccia e fagioli • Sausage and beans, a very Tuscan meal eaten in Firenze.
Verdure al forno • Tuscan oven-roasted vegetables, in Firenze.
Standing in my skinny kitchen, washing the dishes, I heard a couple of women talking. I looked out my kitchen window and its security bars, across the long, common courtyard and saw two women chatting, five floors up, at the corner elbow of the building.
This must be the Italian city equivalent of “talking over the fence”, like I do with my neighbors back at home.
I ran to grab my camera, leaned over the sink of sudsy water, shot between the bars on the window and caught a couple of images of women that have likely been telling stories from balcony-to-balcony for years.
I pushed my camera to its max and caught what might have been a moment of shocking news.
Do you think they also get together for a coffee or snack, in the same room, now and then?
Living in an Italian apartment, a “casa”, I’m privy to moments of “real life” that I wouldn’t be if I were isolated and insulated in a traveler’s residence or long stay hotel. I just go about my day like “the rest of the Italians”.
“How blessed and full of grace are these days, scented by the jasmine vine along the courtyard rail and set to music by songbirds! The hours are, at last, warm embraces with a freshening breeze, and the time is my own to color. How, and why, I have been so gifted as to have this life I am not sure, but I’ve certainly chosen paths not often selected. So I find myself seated in my own secret garden, with my afternoon coffee resting on my little table made of two stacked stones. All is precisely right.”
What rain in the night! The raindrops must have been a half inch apart and hurled at the ground with such velocity! And I haven’t heard thunder, or seen lightning like that since living in the midwest 40 years ago. I had my “tapparelle” – shutters – down, but my windows open so the freshening air rushed through the slats briskly.
My courtyard plants got their thirst quenched, but this morning my neighbor’s hydrangeas seem a bit battered from the pummeling. That was quite a storm.
I was sitting in my room typing today and heard “snip, snip, snip.” I looked out my window into the little private courtyards to see a woman in her 60s, trimming in her garden which neighbors mine. I said “buongiorno”, and we started politely talking.
We exchanged names, and after chatting a little bit, I asked Enrica if I could take her photo. She was shy about being photographed, but agreed. She stood back in her garden demure and reserved.
When I showed her the pictures on the back screen of my camera, she lit up. “Oh, one of those modern cameras!”
Everything changed. She came over to my windowsill and we talked for half an hour about Milano, language, life, patterns, long time friendships, neighbors, gardens, etc. She became animated and lively (and didn’t realize that my camera, perched on the window sill with my finger on the button, was still going). She mentioned that she and another in the complex had mentioned “the blonde woman” that was living here.
She offered that if ever need anything I could come next door and borrow it from her. “But if you need an onion, don’t bother. I don’t cook.”
Enrica is so expressive!
I LOVE being able to speak the language and have spontaneous encounters like this. It thrills me so much! I’ll invite her over for coffee some time…
When going into a new town, seek out the highest point from which to get the most sweeping overview. This will quite often guide your further exploration. In this case, I was back in Florence – Firenze – and planned to head back up to the top of the Duomo for my second time.
Walking from my hotel, along the Via dei Servi, the Duomo loomed large, dominating the neighborhood street scene. I was heading to the cupola walkway at the top of the double-brick-walled dome!
It was worth paying for the guided tour of the church and its high terraces. There was no waiting in line, and the group had access to places the average visitor cannot see.
The Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (English: Basilica of Saint Mary of the Flower) is the main church of Florence, Italy. The Duomo, as it is ordinarily called, was begun in 1296 in the Gothic style to the design of Arnolfo di Cambio and completed structurally in 1436 with the dome engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi. The exterior of the basilica is faced with polychrome marble panels in various shades of green and pink bordered by white and has an elaborate 19th century Gothic Revival façade by Emilio De Fabris.
The cathedral complex, located in Piazza del Duomo, includes the Baptistery and Giotto’s Campanile. The three buildings are part of the UNESCO World Heritage Site covering the historic centre of Florence and are a major attraction to tourists visiting the region of Tuscany. The basilica is one of Italy’s largest churches, and until development of new structural materials in the modern era, the dome was the largest in the world. It remains the largest brick dome ever constructed.
In this photo, you can see the dome in the background, behind the flat, front facade of the church. Giotto’s square campanile bell tower is adjacent to the south side (right) of the church.
The interior floor of the church is a dramatic eye-full of pattern. Keep in mind that this is all stone, cut and inlaid! Look at the optical illusion of the pattern on the floor in the bottom of the picture!
Above the main door is the colossal clock face with fresco portraits of four Prophets or Evangelists by Paolo Uccello (1443). This one-handed liturgical clock shows the 24 hours of the hora italica (Italian time), a period of time ending with sunset at 24 hours. This timetable was used until the 18th century. This is one of the few clocks from that time that still exist and are in working order. (Wikipedia)
The fresco on the interior of the dome was started by Vasari and Zuccari in 1568, depicting The Last Judgement.
Portrayals of hell, dark and bloody red at the bottom of the fresco, are gruesome and macabre. Inspiration to follow the church and obediently tithe?
From upper, exterior terraces and walkways, we had a different vantage point of the Campanile.
We were close enough to clearly see the stone detail of the Campanile exterior.
It seemed we were almost close enough to reach out and touch the Campanile as we looked down to the ground.
The Duomo’s octagonal top.
The marble of the Basilica is white from Carrara, green from Prato and rosy red from Siena.
We were about to re-enter the high interior and climb the added 300 steps to the cupola.
The dome is constructed of two walls of brick. There is a narrow, convoluted stairway/walkway that winds upwards between the two layers. Occasional, small windows allow light and peek-a-boo views.
It got complicated when those ascending and those descending crossed paths and had to make way. One frequently had to tuck into a tiny blind spot to let the other pass.
In some places there are narrow, steep staircases that go straight up between the dome walls.
Here you can see a couple of the tiny “blind spots” a person tucks into to let another pass by when going in the opposite direction. Imagine designing this staircase!
This is the rustic latch and pendulum on the trap door that opens up to the open air cupola walk way.
The cupola has doorways and columns forming viewpoint terraces. Can you believe that people would write graffiti all over this ancient marble?
Giotto’s Campanile dominates this panorama, looking southwest.
The south-facing panorama looking toward Piazzale Michelangelo high on the hill.
From the cupola we look right out onto the main piazza and the Baptistery.
Looking northwest, we see the Church of San Lorenzo. The green copper roof is the Mercato Centrale, a ponderous central market with every sort of food vendor. And note the white awnings of the street market alongside San Lorenzo Church.
Always climb to the highest point. It’s a good place from which to gaze and contemplate.
Pope Benedict XVI arrived in Milano yesterday for an evening greeting to the citizens that welcomed him at the Piazza del Duomo (Milano’s central cathedral). The event had slipped my mind, so I didn’t make it, but heard the huge piazza had been filled with thousands of people.
This morning though, I got up early, took the subway into the center of town, rose up into the piazza, and found enough space to squeeze into right against the front barricade. I waited, along with countless others, for the Pope’s arrival.
Why did I go? Some of it was morbid curiosity. Some was sociological observation. Italy is 92% Catholic and I am face-to-face with the Church’s presence, literally, at every turn here. Going to see the Pope was like going to see any other festival or holiday event particular to this country. I went because it would, perhaps, inform me about Italy and her people.
Also, I was raised Catholic, but haven’t followed Catholicism for decades. Still, it’s part of my history and I have family and friends for whom it remains vital.
Of the last 4 years, I have spent an accumulated near-2 years here in Italy. And in these 2 years, I have been to mass and in church more than in all the last 30 years combined. For one, it has seemed a part of the “Italian Experience”. Secondly, I’ve often stepped into a church to shoot photos, and have found myself at the beginning or in the middle of mass, so I stayed. And thirdly, there’s something satiating about the ritual, symbology, artistry and essence of spirituality that speaks to me.
But I can no longer abide by the Catholic Church’s teachings, leadership or system. I feel too much conflict with the Church to be a “good Catholic girl” ever again. There are too many things that amount to an affront to me and to those I love.
Granted, my Catholic upbringing is part of what formed who I am today, and of course that influence will always remain. But anymore, I think that I approach spirituality much like the way I cook: I don’t follow any recipes, and I throw a little of everything into the pot. So Catholicism is but one of the many spices in the soup of who I am.
– – –
I stood for a couple hours at the edge of a crowd of thousands waiting for the Pope to arrive. The church was full-to-the-brim with local “religious”: priests (of all titles and levels) and nuns. The public was not allowed in, but could view events inside the Duomo on two large video displays set up on the piazza. As the 10:00 a.m. arrival time neared, the crowd grew larger and more anxious. A helicopter circled overhead. Security personnel, in chic Italian suits, milled around, and volunteers bridged the space between the crowd and the Pope’s planned path.
When the Pope-mobile first came into view, the crowd erupted in cheers and exclamations of wild adoration, screaming all around me: “Viva il Papa!” “Ciao, Papa!” Pope Benedict rode behind bullet-proof glass in an elevated enclosure on a custom vehicle. Security was tight around him. He was driven to the main door of the Duomo, slipped out of his car and right into the church.
From that moment, we were left with only the large video display shot from inside Milano’s Duomo, showing us the Pope’s every move. The greatest disappointment to all – and it truly nearly caused a riot – was that there was no audio with the video! You should have heard the people outside yelling! Elderly, missing perhaps their only opportunity to hear the Pope, were outraged and flashed every classic Italian gesture you’ve ever heard about. The young, all-so-accustomed to the wonders of technology, were disbelieving that they were given visuals with no sound. These rumblings went on for close to half an hour as we all watched the Pope’s silent pantomimes.
As I gaped at this carefully-ushered man of 85 years, who took very few steps unaided, whose every motion was tended to, I thought, “THIS is the man leading 6.5 billion Catholics?!” Figuring that half the population is female, THIS man is, therefore, guiding decisions that tangibly affect the lives of 3.25 billion women! What does he know about families and parenting?! What does he know about decisions women face every day that dramatically affect their own health and well-being, and that of those around them?! I was incredulous and felt all the more distant from the Church.
So, the event WAS eye-opening for me. I was closely surrounded by people that felt a fervent ardor for Pope Benedict and the Catholic Church. And yet I left feeling all the more disconnected.
My late mother, a very devout Catholic herself, once told me that “all roads lead to Tacoma”. It was her way of saying that the eclectic, spiritual soup that I am is OK with her. Perhaps we would have had a rousing discussion today after watching Benedict ride away in his Pope-mobile. And perhaps her comments would have happily surprised me; she had become quite vocal and imperative about change at the parish level in the years before she died. We may have agreed on more things than I realize.
– – –
Just like in the “May Procession” as a little kid (always the shortest, so placed at the front of the line), and pressed against the barricade by thousands of people, all I could do was grab skewed shots of the large video displays off to the side. I haven’t bothered to straighten and fuss with them, but you’ll get the gist.
(Click on the individual photos to see a larger view of each one.)
Milano’s Duomo announced the arrival of Papa Benedetto XVI – Pope Benedict.
The crowd held people of all ages, anxious for the Pope’s arrival. The Galleria, “cathedral to consumerism”, was in the background, adjacent to the Duomo, Milano’s real cathedral.
On the video, we watched an image of ourselves filling the piazza.
Inside the Duomo, the Cathedral, priests and nuns awaited the Pope.
The entry procession began.
Like “regalia” of any culture, the Catholic Church has its “uniforms” that communicate rank and affiliation.
Celebrating the “Festa della Republica”, tricolore flags were plentiful. The security helicopter is just visible to the left of one flag.
The crowds erupted in cheers when the Pope-mobile first appeared.
Security was tight around Pope Benedict’s vehicle.
The Pope set foot into the Duomo and soon began greeting and blessing people.
The cathedral was packed with priests and nuns, and a few non-religious.
The advance-procession led ahead of the Pope.
Pope Benedict’s hand was always raised in blessing.
He did not walk down the central aisle of the church. He was pushed in a rolling cart.
Please tell me they didn’t really segregate nuns to one side of the church!
The procession of blessings continued.
The Pope’s every move was well tended to.
Milano’s Duomo is a grand, awe-inspiring enclosure.
The crowd watched as Benedict prayed… without sound.
This is the altar in the Duomo. The floor is all inlaid stone of black, red and white. Pope Benedict is seated up and to the left in the photo.
Dressed and singing.
Assisted even in his praying.
The Pope addressed the congregation in the church, silent to the thousands outside.
After a brief visit to the crypts, the Pope emerged and exited the church, thrilling the crowd.
This moment was certainly a highlight in the lives of many.
Here is a video clip of Pope Benedict XVI riding in his vehicle in front of the huge crowd.
In the “Vatican Player”, click on the TV tab, then “video news”, then “Sat, 6/2/12” to see videos of the day’s events. http://www.vatican.va/video/index.html
As it turned out just by chance, my dish of gelato was my nod to Italy.
Today is June 2, a holiday celebrating the formation of the Republic of Italy in 1946. The Italian flag is referred to as the “Tricolore”, three colors. Whereas, in the U.S. we say “red, white and blue”, in Italy, they do NOT say “red, white and green”! Their colors are always listed “green, white and red”.
So, here’s to the “pistacchio, limone e mirtilli di bosco”, the pistachio, lemon and blueberry!
Granted, the video’s not great; it’s not intended to be. Just close your eyes and listen to the sounds I hear in my courtyard, most of all, that wonderful, lyrical birdsong that thrills me. There can be sirens and trucks, and conversations between canalside revelers. Kids can be playing nearby, and construction workers finishing their day. But above it all, I hear the birds.
(I’m hoping that someone with European birding experience will listen to this and tell me who’s singing.)
READ THE UPDATE BELOW THAT FOLLOWS THE VIDEO.
June 2, 2012
Walking along a side street in Milano today, I heard “my bird” loud and clear. At that moment, an older woman walked by, then I thought, “this is my chance!”
“Scusi, signora”… “Excuse me, but do you know that name of that bird singing way up there?”
“Usignuolo“, she said.
I thanked her. Wrote down the name she gave me, came home and looked it up.
English: the Nightingale! Latin: Luscinia megarhynchos Italian: Usignuolo
Here’s a page from Birdsongs of Italy and their listing for the Usignuolo. Listen to calls 1 & 3. They sound most like the birds I here around my courtyard.
(These recordings are close, and I’m unsure whether they’re quite right or not. But it’s the most I have to go on right now.)
Shortly after arriving in Milano, I had a nesting moment and went out to pull weeds in and around my little courtyard just to tidy it up and make it a little less jungle-like. It’s really a pleasant garden spot in the midst of these 8-story city apartments. It’s tucked in a narrow passage on the north side between two buildings, just an easy stone’s toss from the canal.
This narrow, verdant swath is divided into 6 separate gardens by chicken wire and chainlink. Between my garden and the canal is a plot that’s being torn up and rebuilt as part of a new art gallery going in along the street. (I’ve been hearing jackhammers and sledges start early in the morning as a part of the remodeling.)
Seeing the demolition going on, and seeing the hydrangeas that were just starting to bloom on the other side of the chainlink, I called out to the workers and asked if the flowers were also being torn out. They were unsure of the flowers’ fate. I suggested that it’d be a shame not to cut and enjoy a few of the flowers, and they agreed. I loaned Marco a pair of scissors, and he cut 2 big stems for me.
I made a lovely bouquet of “Neighborly Hydrangeas” rescued from the rubble, arranging them in a “quartino” pitcher (quarter liter) I found in the kitchen cupboard, and placed it on a vintage tray and damask table cloth, also found amidst the house odds-and-ends.
So simple and so beautiful, here in my Italian home-away-from-home.
Wandering the street market today, I saw this woman in white from head to toe, including white, fishnet gloves. She was beautiful! I tried to take some “stealth” photos, but kept getting just the back of her. So I moved to the other side of the seller’s booth and got this photo from in front of her, thinking she didn’t notice.
When I got home and looked at the photo and the expression on her face, I could see clearly that she absolutely saw me.
Is she Italian? Is she an ex-pat from somewhere distant that settled in here long ago?
I’ll have to keep my eyes open for her next time and stop to chat.
Brrr! It’s been chilly in Milano much of the last week. For late May, temperatures in the low 50s are quite a surprise. I hadn’t expected it, so I didn’t even pack full length pants! Sitting here in my house trying to get my work done, my fingers were cold, my toes were cold, my ankles were cold. I had to run out and get some cheap, long leggings, and a t-shirt, and then I layered them all together under my calf-length pants and other tops. Brrr!
How does one get warm when it’s unseasonably cold in Milano? One cold day I made a pot of chicken soup, with veggies from the street market.
Better yet, another cold night I went to the nearby osteria along the Naviglio Pavese Canal and watched the soccer game with the locals. (Napoli vs. Torino Juventus) The wood-fired pizza oven warmed the room. Add to that the crowd of soccer fans and a glass of red wine and my fingers finally warmed up for the first time in days.
On Saturday, three blocks from my house, is the weekly street market selling fruits, vegetables, meats, fish, cheeses, olives, preserved foods, household sundries and clothing. It’s a hub-bub of people buying their provisions for the week.
You have to know “the system” for shopping there. Decide what you want, then go stand in line at the side, and wait your turn to request your purchase. You do NOT pick out your own produce! And you do not simply ask one of the stall vendors out front for what you want; you will be cutting in line in front of others. (I had to learn this a few years ago through observation.)
My big complaint is that although the produce is displayed so beautifully, and the quality is so high, the handling of it all is so rough! Ask for such tender things as tomatoes and apricots and they will arrive home bruised and punctured from having been roughly pitched into the bag.
It still feels like high-pressure shopping to me after several years. But whether I stock up for the week there or not, the Saturday street market is always an opportunity for gathering beautiful images. In addition to the gorgeous berries, lemons, olives and fish, I enjoy the “Street Market Script” used to write out the quick signs. (Some have begun to use computer-generated signs and they’ve lost all character.)
The Naviglio Grande – The Grand Canal – is between my casa and the metro subway station, Porta Genova. This gives me plenty of opportunity to stroll the canals and see what I can see, to allow my eye to be caught by sight.
Pharmacy and Sweet Shop, with residences above.
This is the door to an artist’s studio. The Naviglio Grande is lined with studios, antique shops, restaurants and gelato sellers. It’s a hot spot in the evening!
Classic look in signage and appearance satisfies the stereotype of “Italian Style”, likely drawing the tourists.
The little courtyard is paved with stones and scraps of ceramic tiles. It’s surrounded by camellia, hydrangea, iris, rose and greens-gone-wild. And the little sanctuary had been neglected by students that cared more about the evening aperitivo social hour than weeds in cracks.
The afternoon was dry and warm and I was in a nesting mood. I’d look for some garden gloves. When doing my shopping for the day, I went up the street to a small shop selling every sort of sundry. I asked the woman for a pair of work gloves. She dug under heaps of products and plastic bags and pulled out a pair of cheap, printed gloves: 2 Euro. Perfect.
Satisfaction. Back at my casa, I cleared the weeds growing around the edges and between the pavers, and the courtyard became more welcoming again. (I spent more time weeding that patio than in my own yard in Burien this year!)
The next morning shone bright with sun coming into the courtyard. An ideal spot for a chair, a journal, a cup of caffé.
WHERE are these being grown right now?! The tomatoes are like sugar candy and the nespole are exotic after apples and pears alone. And they’re so beautiful together! The food alone could keep me here…
After sitting inside all day working, by 6:00 p.m. I had to get out and take a walk from here to my beloved Duomo. I had arrived late Tuesday evening, spent Wednesday getting settled and hadn’t yet been to my favorite landmark in town, 2 miles away from my apartment. I must always go to the Duomo, do a pilgrimage to the great cathedral.
I stretched the 4 mile loop out into just under 4 hours, shooting 200 photos along the way, catching sights that amused my eye. Come take a stroll with me and see what I see.
A Milanese fashion faux pas. I really think this woman needs a good friend to pull her aside and suggest a different outfit. Those are actually leggings printed to look like denim with funky strap markings. Very odd.
Milan has an intense cover of graffiti all over town, some of it quite artfully rendered. When is it acceptable, and to whom? When is it ugly defacing of property?
I find frequent evidence of fascination with Native American representations here in Italy.
These are the locking mechanisms operated by my funky-looking house keys.
Retro Levi’s signage.
One of Milano’s MANY bike-share stations! Swipe your debit/credit card and ride.
I specifically timed my walk to catch the early evening sun on the west-facing facade of the Duomo. (Note the red banner over the main door announcing the Pope’s visit coming up on June 3.)
The Piazza del Duomo is the “living room of the city” of Milano. This is the place to meet friends, people-watch, riot and celebrate. This piazza is the city’s heart.
The Duomo, (building commenced in the 1300s), has something like 4000 sculptures all over it, including this disemboweled man. Macabre! (And the point is?)
Yesterday was pretty chilly, so a warmer day today brought everyone outside onto the sidewalks and piazzas. The city was teeming with nightlife. Some bars had a couple hundred people outside, standing around with drinks and cigarettes.
All over Italy you’ll find freely running water fountains from which you can drink and/or fill your water bottle. (Though I never have.)
The Galleria is smack next to the Duomo: two adjacent cathedrals, one to consumerism, the other to religion and spiritual foundations (among other things, too many to discuss in a photo caption.) At the intersection of the Galleria, under the dome, is a Louis Vuitton store, Prada store and a McDonald’s!
The Galleria floor is richly embedded with mosaic. Last year I saw some men working to replace stone pieces, repairing the mosaic. I politely asked one of the men if I could have a square of black marble and he gave me one! (How many people have a piece of the Galleria floor?)
Part of the Louis Vuitton window display in the Galleria. (Milano has tremendous window displays!)
Of course I had to stop and pay Leonardo a visit. (He lived in Milano for many years and made many contributions to the city in the realm of not only art, but science, architecture, science and engineering.)
This one took me a minute… I did a double-take.
Since I often sign my letters with an “M”, I like these Metro signs scattered around town.
Not the best choice for a small meal, but at 8:00 p.m., with low-blood sugar and in the vicinity of the Duomo, I just needed food. For 5,40 Euro, I got one slice and a bottle of sparkling water. If I could have kept walking a bit, away from the tourist hub, I could have paid 8,00 Euro and had an apperitivo buffet and a glass of wine instead.
Piazza San Lorenzo Maggiore is illuminated and offering a place to sit with friends.
Here’s the same Piazza, earlier in the evening as people relaxed after work.
The street name is “Corso di Porta Ticinese”, which someone has translated with a rebus puzzle: the door is “Porta” + the letter “T”, pronounced “Ti” (tee) + plus the caricature of a Chinese man, which is “Cinese” in Italian. There’s an additional sign which I’d like to know the story behind: “The Way of Irony and Apathy”.
The Piazza XXIV Maggio is about 3 blocks from my home, at the junction of Corso di Porta Ticinese and Corso San Gottardo, where the Naviglio Grande and Naviglio Pavese (canals) meet. Year 1815.
Bike repair and sales shop late at night, at Piazza XXIV Maggio.
Fruit Map of Italy. (I’ve been to all of the places shown.)
The mid-afternoon sunlight is coming into my almost-three-foot-wide, skinny kitchen and it strikes me as so beautiful. It’s almost a black and white shot, except for that delicious green mug, a sprinkling of red, painted petals on another mug, and red pepper lip stains on the cotton napkin. Nothing contrived or set up, yet it is all so perfect. I smile.
At 9:00 tonight I set off for a walk up and over and around the Naviglio Grande zone – The Grand Canal. It was a brisk and breezy 60 degrees out and it felt pretty chilly. But there were still lots of people milling around and the little restaurants were doing well with people cozy inside for appetizers or dinner.
I must say that I seem to have a hard time perfecting the “easy stroll”. I take on the “New York Pace” like a “man on a mission” and hot-foot it as if there’s someone with a stopwatch at the end. That said, I did stop enough times to shoot some photos of the hub-bub, and to browse old Italian books at a seller’s along the way.
May 15 Journal Entry – London Heathrow Tarmac. Departing soon for Milano.
“Sleepy and subdued after the long flight from Seattle to London, but I look forward to flying into Italian skies, seeing the distinctive Italianate architecture down below me. After arrival at Malpensa and retrieval of my one checked bag, I’ll take the train into Cadorna Station, then on to my apartment, my ‘casa‘.*
“Following my previous returns to Milano, there’s always the delight in the ride through town to my apartment, savoring the familiarity I feel for the city and its neighborhoods. Typical of most big cities, the street scenes are peopled and alive. But particular to Milano and to other Italian cities, are the narrow passages, the cobbles, the shutters, the ornate street-facing balconies, the stone work and visual details.
“Maybe this evening, I’ll go for a walk along the canal to stretch my legs and revel in my return (or maybe I’ll just get some sleep early!)
(A “casa“, though it means “house”, is also “home” and is used to refer to units within condo and apartment buildings. “Villa” refers to stand-alone homes on a private lot. I, therefore, live in a “villa” in Burien… and it feels like it!)
– – –
“It’s always striking to me to see that the land surrounding Milano is checkered with glistening rice paddies. Italy is so very agricultural.”
– – –
“I have not missed the omnipresent cigarette smoke!”
– – –
My apartment is along Milano’s canal, “Naviglio Pavese” and this is the nightlife hotspot across the water from my front entrance. The whole length of the canal is like this, as is the Naviglio Grande. Filled with the hip, the young and the artistic.
Canalside view across the Naviglio Pavese (Canal) from my apartment entrance. (Click the photo for a larger view.)
May 16, Wednesday. Milano. 7:00 a.m. Journal Entry
“The wind howled all night and the sound confused me. I thought it must have been pouring rain as well, but the first birds sang at 5:05 in the midst of the gusts. When I got up and looked out into the main courtyard, I was startled. It was bone dry.
“What had been rattling and shaking all night were the ‘tapparelle’, the security/privacy shutters that all of Italy closes after dark, sealing themselves in against ___?____ Now, with my shutters open, I see morning sun on the building across the courtyard and welcome the light. The birds continue to sing.
“I’m in a 2 bedroom student apartment in the Navigli Zone, ‘my neighborhood’. This is home and familiar. It’s where I know and have lived each time before, so it warms my heart to have returned.
Canalside view. My apartment building is the one just to the left of the tallest building in the middle, on the right (west) side of the canal.
“Much of Milano has ‘secret gardens’, inner courtyards invisible from the streets. The building facades front the sidewalks and gates, and inset doors allow entrance.
The large green gate at the left opens wide for cars and motorbikes, but has a smaller door for foot passage to my apartment complex.
“Once inside, there is generally an inner courtyard, often lush green with plantings. My ‘casa‘ here now has a large public courtyard (for residents) with half a dozen large trees. I also have a small staircase off the other bedroom that enters my own private, planted courtyard, ideal for journaling and sipping a glass of wine. (My location smack next to the canal, however, puts me right in the midst of mosquito-heaven, so I may have to buy some citronella candles.)
At the very end of this video, you see my two tall, thin windows into my bathroom and kitchen, and the shuttered windows into my eating/sitting room.
“The wind is easing off. The sky is blue and sunlight is filling my bedroom. Light-junkie that I am, it pleases me.
“Now I will put on some music and set to work tidying this place and making it mine for the time-being.”
– – –
Here’s a walking tour of my “casa” – my apartment – in Milano, along the Naviglio Pavese (canal).
House notes:
Doesn’t everyone have the Pietá on their microwave?
A wild piece of vintage fabric forms a curtain covering some shelving. There are cupboard doors in front of the curtain, but I couldn’t bear to close them and hide the fabric.
I can’t do much “decorating”, so I’m making do with what’s here. For instance, I rehung that painted plate and rooster pheasant painting. The baroque mirror, shelf and chair were already here, amidst Ikea-style. Funny.
The front door, not unusual, opens half-width to slip through. Entering with bags of groceries requires some shimmying… or I could open the full width. Note the locking mechanism and absence of a turning door knob. I use my funky keys for the locks.
The shower door opens to a maximum of 13.5″, so if your body is wider than that at its largest point, you will NOT fit in!
A bidet is standard-issue even in a student apartment.
My kitchen is 35″ wide. (I have not found this to be typical of the Italian kitchens I’ve seen.)
These large, quirky, quasi-skeleton keys are sculpture in themselves.
Backing up a bit, here are some journal excerpts from March 18, 2012, in Burien, WA, as I reflected on my then-imminent trip to Milan:
“I am now just under 8 weeks away from heading back to Italy. At the 10-week mark I felt ‘the shift.’ I am now straddling the globe, neither fully here nor fully there. I’ve notched up my energy and efforts, my focus, all in preparation for being away from here and returning to a life – my life – there. (When I returned at the end of June last year, I really ‘came back’, emotionally and psychologically. But the shift was palpable 2 weeks ago.)
“So I’m consumed with both preparations and completions, and this state is isolating. No one in my life has such a life pattern or makes such choices.
“From where I sit here in my living room, I look out to only tall firs, Puget Sound, Vashon Island, my bright green yard and rain drops hanging suspended from the Japanese maple. The Olympics are hidden by an early-Spring, leaden sky, but would otherwise define my horizon.
“In two months I will be on the third floor of a city apartment, just off the freeway exit, looking out to my neighbors’ balconies and the courtyard with the garbage bins. The sound of traffic will be ever-present and its grit will filter into my living space.
“The contrast between the two places is absolute. I dearly love my home and its location here. But spending city time in Milan brings something entirely different to my days and my experience. Living in Italy requires that I live closer to ‘the edge’ and that is good (though exhausting over time). It both develops and draws on my inner resources, forcing me to stretch. In the midst of and because of this, I feel exquisitely alive when in Italy.
“I sincerely attempt to have that sense of aliveness while here in Seattle (Burien) but am aware of how different it is. It’s a deeper, calmer sense here.
“I look forward to returning to Milan, to seeing now-dear friends and being back in my neighborhood. I like the life of being on foot, bike, subway or train for all my travels. Thought it is limiting, it is also quite freeing. I don’t mind walking 2 miles for a good loaf of bread, and absolutely swoon over riding my bike into the farmland for fresh ricotta.
“Truthfully, my life in Milan is not the typical Milanese life. They are not all going ‘Tra La La’ as they ride out for fresh cheese! But neither is my life typically American. OK. I seem to make it work and it is envied by many. But this choice excludes other choices I could make; they don’t see what I give up to have this.”
May 14, 2012 – Departure from Seattle, through London, to Milano.
Seatac Airport: One of the public art, tiled columns as I head toward the S Gates at the South Satellite. (With On-the-move smartphone blur.)
Awaiting departure from London to Milano.
"Welcome to Milano", the sign says as I briskly leave the plane and head out of the airport, Milano Malpensa.
Could this greeting be any more perfect as I was leaving the airport, heading for the train into Milano?!
Today, under sunny, blue skies, 34 foragers showed up at Seahurst Beach for the Urban Foraging Walk organized by Sustainable Burien. We browsed for edibles between the shore and the woods with master forager, Melany Vorass and hadn’t gone even two feet before the first few edible “weeds” presented themselves for our sampling: horsetail, salmonberry, shotweed and bedstraw.
Urban foragers gathered at Seahurst Beach for their lesson in “Edible Weeds”.
Ms. Vorass studied ethnobotany at Evergreen State College and holds a degree in environmental policy. She has been collecting and eating foraged food for well over 40 years. “Weeds are an abundant source of nutritious food available for the picking. Many of our most common weeds hide huge nutrition in their tasty little leaves!”
Melany shared picking tips, recipe ideas (raw vs. cooked… with garlic and butter, of course), “edibility vs. palatability”, nutritional content and thoughts on herbicides and animal waste in the urban environment.
(To read more about Melany’s work, please visit her website, www.WeedCuisine.co.
Here is a gallery of some of the edible plants we found just within a stone’s throw of the beach’s lower parking lot. (Click on individual photos to view a larger image of each.)
PLEASE NOTE: Consult an authoritative source before ingesting any wild plants. If unsure about a plant, do not eat it! Also, it’s illegal to forage in many parks (that’s why we weren’t collecting much but a sprig here and there during the class.)
This HORSETAIL is past prime, but still edible. The “leaves” and outer skin between the whorls are peeled off for a more tender green. Horsetail takes up a lot of silica into into cells. Once the shoots start branching (with the whorls of spikes shown), it will remain gritty even when peeled.
BEDSTRAW (left) and SHOT WEED (right) were growing side-by-side in the ditch.
Melany discussed the structure of BEDSTRAW, and its silica uptake which causes its prickly, gritty nature, especially when older.
BEDSTRAW, like velcro on a trailing, clinging vine. The bane of many gardeners. (They should just EAT it!)
Puget Sound and Seahurst Beach made a picturesque backdrop to the afternoon’s foraging.
SALMONBERRY. Young leaves and flowers are edible.
When preparing DANDELION for eating, removing the midrib and cooking the leaves lessens the bitterness. They are very high in nutrition.
HAIRY CAT’S EAR looks like Dandelion, is very high in Iron, Vitamins A and C, and is tastier before it flowers.
Master Forager, Melany Vorass (far right), explained fine points about each plant she showed us.
NIPPLEWORT is best eaten raw when the plant is small and low to the ground. When mature, the plant will be up to 2-3′ tall.
ALASKAN FIREWEED is highly edible.
SONCHUS/SOW THISTLE leaves are thicker than dandelion so they are nearly succulent (juice-containing) and edible.
Later in the year, SALAL berries make a wonderful jam (and are very staining).
We were gathering along the walking path between the beach and the hillside woods.
The large, broad leaves of DOCK are best eaten with the midrib removed to create a more tender green.
The tender, young DOCK shoots are enclosed in an outer membrane. Remove that first to eat the new leaves. (They are covered with a mucilaginous fluid.)
Best to wear long rubber gloves and high rubber boots when harvesting NETTLES! They’ll sting you when fresh, but not when dried or cooked.
Forager Vorass talked about the plants as well as environmental issues.
Hey, it may have been a bit chilly, but it was dry! (We had much warmer weather for our walks on January 1 and February 5.)
It’s the beginning of March and it was time to go for another Walk-n-Talk. We met up at Burien Town Square today on the grassy knoll, and started walking at 2:20. It was our eighth monthly Walk-n-Talk enjoyed by folks from different communities coming together for conversation… a chance to talk to people one wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to chat with and get some exercise and fresh air at the same time.
(Click on the photo below to better see all the smiling faces of the walkers. Thanks to Matthew Wendland, of the Burien Daily, for grabbing my camera to get this shot.)
For this month’s walk, we went north from Town Square into the Chelsea Park area. We saw these things, (among others): Dottie Harper Park, Burien Community Garden, white-painted tree trunks, Mortar House, Bird-House House, Stormwater Park, Green House, Purple House.
Getting out on two feet (or two wheels) is a chance to entertain your “Inner Explorer”, to discover visual and architectural details one might not otherwise see. One of the bonuses is the varied route. I don’t know about you, but when I’m in my car, I generally drive the same route every time. Bo-ring! When I’m walking or riding my bike, my curious nature is heightened and I travel roads I’ve never seen before (even though I grew up here in Burien).
Twenty people gathered today, including 3 tiny folks (Burien’s Walkers of the Future), and one four-legged friend. Many have become “regulars” enjoying the Walk-n-Talk each month. (And half of the people went across the street to Burien Press afterwards for a hot-cup-of-something with which to warm their hands and insides.)
Next walk: Sunday, April 1, 2012. 2:00 at Burien Town Square. We should be into Spring by then! See you with walking shoes on…
Last week I was told that this web site had been hacked into and that site visitors’ computers would immediately be infected with a nasty virus. I’ve spent umpteen hours in the last 4 days trying to clean up the mess, and the site’s still not quite right. Sigh.
Today was the seventh, monthly Walk-n-Talk here in Burien; 38 people and 3 dogs came to join the stroll! Of the walkers, 1 person was visiting from Salt Lake City, a family came from Phinney Ridge and others routinely come from Kent, Renton, Bellevue and Lacey. It still astounds me to see how well the idea has taken hold. Some people have only missed one or two walks.
Again, we had a beautiful, sunny, mid-fifties day as we walked west from Town Square, circled around Lake Burien, and then back to the center of town. It was an easy time of conversation and walking.
Next Walk-n-Talk: March 4.
We’ll meet at Burien Town Square at 2:00 and start walking at 2:15.
See you there.
It must have been about 30 years ago that I wrote the following haiku-like thought in my journal as I watched the snow come down:
“Snowfall. Silent action.”
Unless the snow is icy and verging on sleet, it is quite silent as it falls, thus my observation. Over this weekend, all of us in this Puget Sound region have had the opportunity to contemplate the silence of snow fall. And from the news going ’round, we’ll have that opportunity for the next couple of days as they forecast up to 15 inches of snow!
My first image here was as the snow was silently falling, obscuring any view of Puget Sound, Vashon Islands and certainly the Olympic Mountains. As the snow ceased, the sky cleared and became more dramatic above the snowy landscape.
Everyone should have a centenarian in their life. Today, January 4, 2012, Gladys celebrated her 106th birthday. What a delight and honor to spend some of her day with her.
Gladys is bright and sharp and quick. She loves rich, engaging conversation… a back-and-forth rally of sharing stories and following them where they will. Most of all, she loves beauty. She loves to SEE, more than anyone I know. A swatch of color or pattern. An architectural detail. Fabric or a fork. What may seem insignificant will stop her in her tracks: “That just floors me!”
These hands of hers have known both beauty and hard work.
In the three or four years that I’ve known Gladys, she’s allowed me to make photos of her and she’s gotten just a little bit comfortable when my camera’s out.
Gladys and I went to the local pub for lunch one day in 2011. The cutlery there is rolled up in a cloth napkin. When Gladys unrolled her silverware, she held up her fork and said, “Will you just LOOK at that fork! Isn’t that just beautiful!?”
This portrait of Gladys at 105 looks like she’s seeing the unseen… like she’s pondering something quizzical. It suits her. (Her late husband made her necklace using fine opals that he put into the cheap setting she had bought; he grumbled about working with it.)
Gladys loves the flowers and shrubs in her yard. One day in 2011 she sent me home with a bouquet of daisies, fresh-picked.
Here’s Gladys in her living room at 104, surrounded by lush pattern and adornment, much of it decorative arts that she has created in her long lifetime.
There are a special few that have received a hand-sewn Raggedy Ann doll from Gladys. She’s done every stitch with her hands and her machine. At 103, she had this doll nearly ready for the next lucky recipient.
How can anyone resist a woman (whether 103 or any age) in that classic and always-outrageous color combination of hot pink, orange and red?!
How many years has she fed family and friends through this combination of flour, egg and oil? When I came across this video of Elia Neri making pasta dough for homemade tagliatelle, I watched, marveling as her hands worked, so knowing from the years.
The slow pace of this video is like following a Tuscan countryside road on a hot day: you’ll want to hurry to its end, or even leave it unfinished. But watch! Realize that she’s rolling her dough on a small, cubic meter-sized square board. Tell me you aren’t awestruck when you see her unfurl her sheet of pasta onto a table the full length of the room! And then watch as she rolls the pasta sheet, cuts the tagliatelle and again unfurls those ribbons of pasta and lays them on her table.
Elia is my pasta heroine!
(Even though the video is in Italian, you’ll certainly understand the work of her hands.
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Forty-one people showed up under unusually warm, blue skies for the Walk-n-Talk on New Year’s Day! Wow! Rainier was out. It was like a springtime day as people gathered on Town Square’s grassy knoll, having come from near and far to bask in a seasonal glow and chat with their neighbors. Wow. Forty-one people, young and old, plus three pups and many new faces in the crowd. (This was our largest group yet for our monthly walks.)
We started hoofing from Burien Town Square at 2:15, right on schedule, and walked through Gregory Heights’ neighborhoods that were quintessential, classic, and oh-so-retro! The four, patterned cement block homes on 10th garnered much conversation (adjacent to the site of the old water tower).
Everyone walked at the level of their own abilities, so the 3.3 mile route was ribboned with a stream of walkers, some faster, some slower. Back at Town Square at 3:45, Charlene, Amanda and Rosalie, plus little poodle Toby, stopped for a moment to flash peace signs.
The alarm went off at 4:15 a.m. so I could get up on a cold night and watch the moon and its light on the water change with the lunar eclipse. The sky started out pretty crystal clear, but advanced into thin clouds.
I was just shooting with my old, little Canon G9, so I have to accept the equipment limitations, but the image sequence is still dramatic and beautiful.
This image was shot at 5:24 while sitting at my desk, looking out through the window to Puget Sound. Note that the eclipse was well underway. The three red light towers are on Vashon Island. (A street light illuminated the cherry tree down in my yard, and cast just enough light into my office to cause a slight reflection on the window.)
Here’s a series taken during the two hours that I watched out my window, shot at these times:
4:44
5:05
5:15
5:18
5:48
5:59
6:01
No, the moon did not “flare” and cause a brighter image in the third shot. At times I changed the camera settings to pick up details either in the moon’s shadow or highlight.
They had predicted a very orange moon, which my eye did not see at all. The camera did, however, in the 5th and 6th shots, when I adjusted to capture the shadowed part of the moon.
A couple of notes jotted:
5:58 Just a shimmer of light.
6:00 A wisp at the bottom edge.
6:04 Not enough left in the sky to shoot.
6:15 NO moon. NO light! Time to go back to bed.
Scroll down to view each phase, or CLICK HERE to see a separate, horizontal version.
I’ve run out of fingers and toes to count on. Damn this cancer stuff! Too many people in and around my life, either have it, have “beat” it… or have been beaten by it. It’s frightening. It’s angering. It’s sobering. And it keeps a fire under my butt to have as much LIFE in my life as I possibly can, every day. Yikes.
