It is with deep gratitude that I look back today on my 30 years in business. I have had, and do have the pleasure of working with wonderful people, and they make all the difference in my days. Great clients, associates, family and friends and been supportive through the years, whether I’ve been near or far. Thank you.
At long last, Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi is going bye bye. The whole world has been incredulous and outraged for years, watching his shenanigans.
After dominating Italian politics for 17 years, Berlusconi resigned on Saturday, November 12, 2011. Crowds jeered and cheered and played Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” as they celebrated the end of a long, tedious and detrimental era.
Italy is at the crux-point of economic and political crisis. The world, again… still, watches and waits as the country shuffles to create new, leading political structure.
Wish her luck.
Tanti auguri, Italia!
During elections in May 2011, Berlusconi was promoting Letizia Moratti, from his party, “The People of Liberty”, “for the good of Milano”.
Playing on xenophobia and Italy’s immigration problems, Berlusconi’s party claimed that if the other party were elected, Milano would become “a gypsy city with nomad camps and the biggest mosque in Europe”.
A singular minute in our lives. We’ll have to wait another hundred years to have such a congruence of numbers in time and date. Next year, we will have 12:12 on 12/12/12, but that is a combination of two numerals, not one. I suppose that, more accurately, the year 11 would have been the true 11/11/11, but I doubt that they were blogging about the numeric congruence back then.
So what were you doing at 11:11 today? Where were you?
As I have been doing for a number of years now, I spent today, 11/11, at Evergreen Washelli Cemetery in north Seattle attending the annual Veterans Day Memorial Celebration. For me, this day, and this celebration, are times of homecoming and gratitude. There are many veterans in my life, those that have served – or are serving – in WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan and many other places and times I’m unaware of. I admire, respect and am grateful for their commitment and their service.
Knowing it was Veterans Day, and knowing that 11:11 on 11/11/11 was momentous, I specifically chose this time and place for my photo op of the minute. I watched the clock, as the rain just began to fall, and shot the following three images at 11:11.
The Memorial Chimes Tower stands in the distance, beyond the graves of fallen warriors.
I greeted, with hugs and handshakes, the old friends I’ve seen twice a year for years now at the cemetery, on both Veterans Day and Memorial Day.
Walt Gallagher, in the American Legion, is a longtime friend of my friend Joe. He gave me a flag to carry home.
The “Parade of Colors” was just getting underway at 11:11. Note the narrow, white posts around the headstone beneath the large flag on the right; these posts mark the grave of Medal of Honor recipient, Lewis Albanese.
There are a few faces that no longer greet me at the cemetery on Veterans Day, and I’m saddened by their passing or their infirmities. One man in particular is WWII Vet, Joe Feldman, (a story in himself!) He passed away in 2009, at the age of 92 while I was away in Italy. As a tribute to him, I present this photo, one of many that captures his spirit, pride, dignity and honor.
Every Memorial Day (this shot in 2007), Joe would stand front-and-center, and salute as wreaths were laid at the Grave of the Unknown Soldier. Because he was blind, I escorted and steadied him as he saluted. No one else knew his trembling, or his tears, as he had the honor of saluting.
I had not anticipated that this worldwide 11/11/11 event would, for me, become about those veterans in my life, and so much a time to reminisce about good, ole Joe. I miss taking him to coffee, walking him to the podium, and seeing his thrill at the sound of the marching band.
Thank you, veteran friends, for your service.
Five colored gems – the Cinque Terre – are strung like pearls along the arching neckline of the Ligurian Sea, Italy’s northern “riviera” (See map).With color palettes that include melon, kiwi, citron, honeydew, persimmon and apricot, the five towns are visual jewels and favorites of travelers from all over the world. Four of the towns are tight, steep clusters of colorful cubes rising up from the sea; Corniglia, in the center, sits atop a high, waterside knoll.
Monterosso al Mare harbor.
Vernazza harbor.
Corniglia on the hill.
Manarola at sunset.
Riomaggiore waterside.
Monterosso al Mare (the northernmost of the five), Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore (at the south) are remote, linked by the regional train, and by the Via dell’ Amore, the “Way of Love”, walking path. You can hop on the train, spend just a couple minutes riding to the next town, hop off, explore, hop back on the train, then get off again at the “next pearl on the string”. Or, you can spend the day walking the long path – parts of it paved, parts of it rougher terrain – stopping to explore the towns as you’re passing through.
Via dell’Amore pathway sign.
Via dell’Amore, leaving Riomaggiore heading north toward Manarola in the late afternoon.
Cliffside train route between the five towns, this spot on the way into Manarola.
It was getting late and time to get off the trail! Caught the train below Corniglia and headed back to Monterosso.
The Five Lands, Cinque Terre (CHING-kway TARE-ray, not “TARE-uh“), have been enchanting visitors for years. I visited the area in 2008, arriving in Riomaggiore on my first ever, full day in Italy. I couldn’t get enough of simply opening my eyes and seeing. Plus, eating the grilled seafood in the fishing village of Riomaggiore… musing over the town elders in their heavy discussions… attempting to lure the many un-lure-able cats… winding my way up, around and through the passages and stairways… sampling the signature sciacchetrá… attempting to order breakfast in my then-modest Italian… How could I not be enchanted?
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Monterosso al Mare
Monterosso boat beach.
Monterosso has many walls that are painted with faux details.
A hazy, humid morning in Monterosso.
Pizzeria la Smorfia in Monterosso, was highly recommended.
This grocer in Monterosso was selling typical products of the Cinque Terre.
The inn in Monterosso had a rooftop terrace, surrounded by lemon trees. This is where breakfast was cooked and served-to-order.
Monterosso al Mare: “Beachtown U.S.A.” No wonder the tourists love it!
Another wall in Monterosso with the faux, painted details (and black skivvies).
Dear Vernazza, my visual favorite of the five with its embracing harbor, lively color palette, signage and architectural details. Time passes too quickly with a camera-in-hand in Vernazza.
Vernazza’s harbor beach.
The Blue Marlin Cafe in Vernazza. Ernest Hemmingway ate here?
These decorative Vernazza curtains are a perfect foil to the flaking stucco and scrolled ironwork.
Cats are everywhere in Vernazza and they are NOT inspired by tourists trying to pet them!
Vernazza’s main plaza at the harbor has many colorful cafe umbrellas (in addition to the requisite laundry.)
Weaving through Vernazza’s narrow passages, I looked UP and saw this comforter airing against the wall.
A view into Vernazza’s harbor and main piazza.
Menu in Vernazza: anchovies, salad, pizzas, focaccia bread, sandwiches, breads with chopped topping (bru-SKE-tuh not bru-SHEH-tuh), vegetable torte.
This detail in the train station at Vernazza is a thrilling composition.
Manarola at sunset.
Juice press and a stone wall in Manarola.
Colors, sunset light and Little Princess laundry in Manarola.
This way to the train and a glass of wine along the Via dell’Amore in Manarola.
Evening light is waning at the waterside cafe in Manarola.
This small town is the fishing village of the five, less touristic than Monterosso at the north. It’s “tight in”, clutching its narrow water access and ensuring fitness with its high and narrow stairways and passages.
Fishing boats and floats are essential to Riomaggiore’s livelihood.
You’d better have “packed light” when you come to Riomaggiore in the Cinque Terre!
Riomaggiore is a working fishing village.
Homes are built on the upended, striated rocks of Riomaggiore’s little harbor.
THE business to be in is that of “green paint and shutter seller” in the Cinque Terre!
This small piazza in Riomaggiore is one of the play areas for local children.
This woman rests near the door of the meat market in Riomaggiore. Note the beaded door curtain, which, for the most part, prevents the flies from entering, yet allows fresh air and customers to come in.
Up, up, up. In a community like Riomaggiore, stacked so tightly on a steep slope, staircases like this wind throughout the town.
A favorite menu in Riomaggiore.
Not quite stairs, not quite simply a slope, this stepped ramp in Riomaggiore is reminiscent of the “Cordonata” stepped ramp, designed by Michelangelo c. 1537 in Rome at the Piazza del Campidoglio.
How can one not be enchanted by this vision of Riomaggiore on a hot summer day? But I think those colors would also be delicious as they blaze through fog and rain, too!
It was like a punch in the gut a week ago, (October 25, 2011) when I heard that the Cinque Terre had been devastated by flood waters and mud. I had been in those five towns in 2008. I photographed them with an intensity and passion that yielded a sort of intimate affection for the area. Take a look. The colorful beauty, the resourcefulness, the geometric, playful stacking… and the few people that I was able to talk to at the time, (due to my own language limitations) made me easily love the Cinque Terre.
In last week’s flooding, the towns of Vernazza – one of my favorites – and Monterosso were especially hard hit. An Italian friend wrote to me and said “Cinque Terre is destroyed. So sad.” I was speechless. As I looked at photos and videos online, I saw buildings I had photographed, places I had stood, things I knew. This made Vernazza’s flooding more personal.
In 2008, I stood in front of this meat and cheese shop and enjoyed the blue curtains against the russet-colored wall in Vernazza.
Watching newscasts of the flooding last week, the “Salumi e Formaggi” awning jumped out at me. The entire first floor throughout the town of Vernazza was filled with water and debris, and now remains filled with mud.
In 2008, I was tickled by the “faux painting” around the town of Monterosso, such as this painted brick pattern.
This image on news sites tugged at me: the building I had photographed, now deep in mud and debris. (Picture by Miriam Rossignoli (http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=523038047)
Vernazza’s harbor, shot in 2008, features the local church, central piazza, places to eat, play, swim and sun.
Though this site is in Italian, the pictures tell the whole story. Move the central cursor line back and forth to see before-and-after images.
This video shows the rush of water and mud flowing through the center of Vernazza:
Watch as cars tumble through the streets and out to sea in Vernazza:
Cinque Terre’s regional blog has many videos and photos showing the destruction caused by the flood. http://www.cinqueterre.com/blog/
This video shows the torrent rushing through the town of Monterosso:
More news reports:
“Mudslides and Flooding Ravage Areas of Scenic Beauty in Italy” (NYT)
“Storms claim six lives in Italy. ‘Everything is flooded. Monterosso is gone’ says mayor” (ANSA.it)
This blogger, Nicole, gives an overview of the cleanup efforts: http://culturalcomments.blogspot.com/2011/10/disaster-strikes-vernazza.html
Reports are many, and astounding. Do an internet search on “Vernazza flood” and you can read for hours. Personally, I remain stunned.
My return to Haida Gwaii was so complex and deeply personal that any public writing about it will, by choice, only skim the surface of the experience.
Last week, in Italian style, I trained up to Vancouver B.C., spent the day and night, then hopped on a puddle jumper to fly north for two hours. Haida Gwaii (two years ago officially changed from being called the Queen Charlotte Islands) is a cluster of two large islands and 150 or so small islands, so far north that SE Alaska is on the horizon.
You have to WANT to get there; there’s no easy way. 1) You can fly from Seattle to Vancouver to Sandspit (on the south island), then take a shuttle van, then take a little ferry to the north island, then rent a car and drive an hour and a half north to Old Massett. OR, 2) you can drive for 13 hours inland to Prince George, then drive 13 hours the next day to Prince Rupert on the coast, then take the 8 hour ferry ride to Skidegate, then drive north for an hour and a half. OR 3) you can do what I did and train or drive to Vancouver, spend the day and night there, take the sky train to the airport for an early morning flight, and fly directly into New Masset.
Haida Gwaii is far north of Vancouver Island.
The scene out the window, along the “Inside Passage” and the coast of British Columbia.
Landing in New Masset.
Years ago, I used to spend a month during summers in the town of (New) Masset, at the north end of Graham Island, fishing and beach combing. During that time, I developed friendships that I treasure to this day, especially with Merle – a Haida basketweaver – and Knud, their family and their Haida community. It was a solemn reason for going up this time. Merle’s dear sister, Emily, had passed away, and I went to take part in her memorial celebration.
Merle & Knud.
The fishing cabin and its current condition.
Lunch shortly after my arrival was delicious smoked salmon spread on Knud’s homemade Danish rye bread, along with a soup of seaweed, salmon eggs and eulachon (candlefish or smelt) oil. The soup is reminiscent of low tide and is high in nutrients. A traditional food for the Haida.
Seaweed soup and smoked salmon.
I stayed with Merle and Knud at their home in Old Massett, the Haida village. Expressions of the creativity within the community are all over town, with totems, flags, signs, church altars, and clothing.
The sign at the entry to the Haida village of Old Massett.
The pole out in front of the community center.
Beaver tail detail.
Flags of the Haida Nation, Old Massett Village Council and Canada.
The pole section at the entry to the new portion of the Haida cemetery. It is a remnant from a burned pole.
The pole outside the Health Services building.
The memorial celebration for Emily was a sit-down dinner for 500 on Saturday. Imagine the logistics and preparation! On Friday and early Saturday, about 25 people gathered to help the setup. In the kitchen of the community hall, we baked pies and yeasted rolls, cut up veggies for fresh eating, prepared meat and veggies for stew, and made jello with wild berries. Other folks were in the large hall, setting up tables and chairs and preparing each place setting.
How do you throw a dinner party for 500?
Women had been baking cookies for weeks to add to the supply at each place setting. Every plate was heaped with cookies, an apple and an orange, a dinner roll, salt, pepper, butter, sugar, cream, a cup and juice glass, napkin and plastic cutlery. Each place setting also had a brown, paper bag so all the goodies could go home with the person. Plates of cut, fresh vegetables were a new addition to the table since the last big “Do” I attended. Every three feet on the tables sat a just-baked pie or cake, for dessert at the dinner, and then later, back at home.
Emily’s granddaughter, Robin, made 500 cookies one day, and 350 Rice Krispie Treat squares the next.
A place setting, complete with a paper bag to carry it all home in.
Just before it started to pour down rain, we paused before heading off to the memorial: Merle, her friend Judith, and I.
Judith, Merle, Maureen.
Judith and I had spent time sewing a new wool dress for Merle for the memorial, with a design by Merle’s nephew, Robert Davidson. The dress was finished in the traditional “button blanket” manner, with pearl buttons for accents. Her headband is cedar bark with abalone buttons, vintage red glass beads and fur trim.
Merle has such dignity, elegance and grace.
I shot less than a dozen photos while at the memorial. I chose participation over observation and was really IN it in all ways. It would be tough to fully describe. But the “End of Mourning” song ended the period of sadness over Emily’s passing and launched the celebration of her life with traditional music and dancing.
The visual lushness of such an event cannot be described!
On Sunday, the day after the memorial and following almost two years of preparation, Merle and I relaxed. We went for a walk on the beach, and she showed me the Raven’s Tail weaving she’s doing.
Merle is learning the Raven’s Tail weaving process.
A close-up of the fine and complex Raven’s Tail weaving.
Merle showed me her first Raven’s Tail weaving. Her carved, silver bracelet was done by her nephew, Emily’s son, Carmen, Chief of Dadens.
While on Haida Gwaii, I MUST make a pilgrimage visit to my favorite beach in the world: at the base of Tow Hill on North Beach. “My spot” is covered with rounded pebbles of lovely, varied stone, and the tumbling clatter when the waves roll out is the music I yearn to hear.
I clambered over the slick, black stone with the waves crashing in so I could get to “my spot” of pebbles.
Whether bear dung or not, I didn’t want to find out while gingerly making my way over the rocks.
The tide pool pockets in the lava rock are so visually artful.
How curious, this lichen spiral, found on the lava stone.
Next to my favorite pebbly beach is a beach based on the striations of lava.
This little stone, wedged between two boulders, amused me.
When it was time to leave Old Massett and the islands, there were more people leaving than had been coming in. We flew out in a tin-can-with-two-wings-and-two-propellers. I couldn’t even stand up straight in the plane, and I could see right into the cockpit!
A flying tin can.
These images only show tidbits of the external experience of being in Old Massett. They say nothing of the deepening connection I feel for those in the Village that are close to my heart, or of the home-like tie I feel for the place.
We’re just a bunch of folks, of various ages and abilities and speeds, out for a nice walk together. We show up once a month, whomever wants to amble on two feet, and we go from here to there in Volksmarch fashion.
Today we walked from Burien’s Town Square westward into and around the Seahurst neighborhood. I grew up there. As a kid, when I wanted some peace-and-quiet away from a busy household (6 kids, Mom, Dad, Grandma, 1 dog, 1 cat), I took off for a walk into these same streets. Today we passed through the intersection where there had lived 36 kids, 40+ years ago. These were the streets that gave me calm… and they still do.
We had another Burien Walk-n-Talk today, with 23 human walkers and 5 canines. Woof woof. We took off walking and soon clustered according to speed and propensity. I like that people end up walking with those they’ve never spoken to before, and the conversations lasted the duration… about an hour and a half. (Whenever else is this opportunity?)
Our westernmost spot was the entrance to Eagle Landing Park. We arrived at precisely the moment when artist Galen Willis (right) and scout Sean Kent (left, Scout Troop 392) were working on the installation site of Galen’s cedar sculpture of an eagle. The sculpture is expected to be installed in the next month. (Keep your eyes peeled and ears open for announcements.)
These walks are scheduled for the first Sunday of every month. We meet up at the appointed place… walk… talk along the way… then bid adieu until the next month. On November 6, we’ll gather again and see where the conversation leads us. Care to join us?
Stayed tuned for details about our next Walk-n-Talk. The route may change. The group certainly will. Who KNOWS who you’ll have an opportunity to talk to!
How dreamy to stroll under clear blue skies on a warm September afternoon, with neighbors from near and far. We had our second monthly Walk-n-Talk yesterday with a dozen two-footed walkers and three four-footed walkers, Lulu, Dingo and Khan. People came from as far away as Olympia, Kent and Bellevue to join the amble through the neighborhoods and around Lake Burien.
The walk is meant to go at an easy, comfortable pace for participants, so our group split into two clusters. By the time the last of us made it back into town, the low wall at the gateway to Olde Burien was a welcome rest stop.
Such a simple thing, just taking a walk with others. We all smile at the company and the shared exercise.
Next month, on October 2nd, we’ll pick another route from some that have been suggested by others. There are many areas of Burien to explore, and we see new things when on foot.
Ignite an early enthusiasm for being on two wheels. Teach “bike sense” and street smarts to little ones. Gather people from the community for fun, conversation, fresh air and healthful exercise. These are the goals of Burien’s Bike “SaFaRis” – Safe Family Rides, launched by the enthusiastic, former Burien City Councilmember, Sue Blazak.
The first SaFaRi was yesterday, Sunday, August 21. One little one, still a babe-in-arms, rode in a bike trailer behind his Dad, while another little guy was in a bike seat behind his Dad. Other kids rode on “trailer bikes” connected to a parent’s bike, or they rode competently on their own knee-high cycles. In all, 19 people gathered at Gregory Heights School for a bicycle tour through the Seahurst neighborhood and around Lake Burien, including a swingset-break at Lake Burien Park. The whole ride lasted about an hour and was generally flat except for a few small hills near the lake.
You see new things on a bike! Along the route, we all noticed things that we just hadn’t seen through our car windshields, and we traveled on streets we’ve never traveled in all the time we’ve each lived here. Conversations were spontaneous and varied as the group mixed along the way. New connections were made.
The group will meet Sundays at 3 p.m. through Sept. 25th. This is a FREE event, and all are welcome (either with kids or without). The group will make variations on a loop around Lake Burien each week, between 2-5 miles. Participants will meet in front of Gregory Heights Elementary, on the 16th Ave SW side, at 16201 16th Ave SW in Burien. ALL participants must wear bicycle helmets (parents included), and riders are taught to follow safe cycling practices and the rules-of-the-road.
An e-mail list was started for staying in touch with interested riders, and notifying people of route changes. For more information, please contact: design (at) RedRedCircle (dot) com. (Write it all out as a standard e-mail address.)
People came in ones, twos and threes and gathered on the grassy knoll in the center of Burien’s Town Square. Mothers and daughters. Couples. Clusters of friends. A man and his dog.
And people traveled from other towns just to join the walk. Amanda and Anne both came from Kent. Sharon came from Renton. Cathy came from West Seattle. Tina and Glenn came from Auburn. Tami and her daughter had just moved here from Indiana… The rest were Burienites.
We couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful, blue sky day in the high 70s. At 2:15, there were about 30 of us, and we were enthusiastic and ready to walk and talk.
For the most part, people paired up and walked with someone they didn’t know, and they chatted along the route. That was part of the whole idea: meet and talk to people you’ve never talked to before… get to know some neighbors.
We passed other walkers along the route and picked up three more people that joined our group! Many onlookers were curious about the big group walking past them so we told them what we were doing.
We stayed strung out in clusters of conversation as we headed down the hill toward Lake Burien.
When we arrived at the lone lookout to Lake Burien, some of us stopped to point out sights along the shoreline, and to nibble a few of the ripe blackberries.
As the group strolled back through the center of town, walkers variously peered into shop windows, stopped for sandwiches, or bought a few skeins at the yarn shop, continuing their talks along the way. Arriving back at Town Square an hour after we had begun, much of the group wrapped it up with a drink and a snack at Burien Press, the ideally-located coffee shop across the street.
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The next Walk-n-Talk is scheduled for Sunday, September 4th at 2:00. That’s Labor Day weekend, so if you’re not out of town and are looking for somthing to do, come walk! There’ve been suggestions of other routes, so we’ll see what we can cook up between now and then. Information will be posted here, on the B-Town Blog or through e-mail. If you’re interested, send me a note and I’ll add you to the list. Come Walk-n-Talk!
Burien’s Walk-n-Talk is being launched this coming Sunday, August 7 at 2:00!
Put on your comfy shoes and come for a casual Walk-n-Talk with friends and neighbors. On the first Sunday of every month, meet up at Burien Town Square with friends, old and new. Enjoy conversations and a walk through town. Grab a local coffee or snack before or after your stroll.
On the day of the recent Olde Burien Block Party, I had dinner with friends Rochelle and Shelley and we talked about the idea of starting a walk-n-talk… So I ran with it! (…or walked with it.)
Intentions for Burien’s Walk-n-Talk:
Location: Burien Town Square
Who: Walkers of every level and ability
Date: First Sunday of every month
Time: Meet at 2:00 p.m. Start walking at 2:15 p.m.
Route: A 2.25 mile loop from Burien Town Square, around Lake Burien, and back to Town Square.
Burien’s Walk-n-Talk was inspired by my time recently living in Italy for over a year. In Italy, people walk a lot, not just to get from place to place but also for the social connection. In addition to daily commuting and errands, Italians have their traditional “Passeggiata” – the evening stroll. In the evenings, the main streets fill with people making walking tours through town. Not only is it exercise, but it’s also the social hour. Families walk together. Old folks push other old folks in wheelchairs. Sisters and girlfriends go arm-in-arm. Elder men gather and solve the city’s problems.
Additionally, in Italy, every city and town has a central church, in front of which is a large central plaza – the piazza. This piazza is the “living room of the city”, it’s the central gathering place, the place to hang out with friends in the evening, and to meet up before going on to other destinations. The piazza is where the city both celebrates and mourns.
Burien’s Walk-n-Talk is a means to encourage OUR stroll, and to affirm Burien Town Square as our central gathering place, “the living room of OUR city”. The announcement has been picked up by our B-Town Blog and by KOMO News, so it’s possible that we’ll have 50-100 people walking!
There’s some heavy petting going on, and purring fills the house. Nonna is queenlike on her fat cushion. And Ziggy – “Big Zig” – reigns as king from his high perches.
Nonna is a 10-year-old, 11-pound, little-old-lady cat with an eye infection, dandruff and arthritis… and she’s FIV+. Poor kitty. She needed a good home with someone to dote on her. She’s loving, demure and full of affection. She’s a short-hair, golden tabby with soft underfur, a white chin and a creamy belly. Nonna’s happy just to have a cozy, quiet place to take a nap all day, and loves it when I sit next to her and pet her or brush her. (At the Seattle Humane Society they called her “Fluffy”, but I felt that “Nonna” – Italian for “grandmother” – was more fitting.)
Big Zig is a 2-year old, 16-pound, sleek, handsome, loverboy cat… also FIV+ (Yeah. Kitten energy with 16 pounds behind it!) He’s a lean and long, muscular, gray tabby and also has a white chin and creamy belly like his “Auntie Nonna”. He adores cuddling with me in the big chair, head-butting his nose up against my face, and burrowing his head into the palm of my hand. Once in a while, he’ll give me little love bites, gently closing his teeth against my hand or arm.
When Ziggy first came to the house two days ago, he immediately escaped into the dark recesses of the basement: one behind the furnace and water heater; the other, now his favorite sleeping place, on top of some six-foot-tall bookshelves, nestling in the niches between the floor joists. Silly cat. I’ve stair-stepped the boxes piled next to the shelves just to help him come and go: “cat accommodation”. (Silly me.)
What have I done?! I wanted to get a kitty, but came home with two “special needs” cats. But how could I have walked away from them? Because they’re both FIV+ (the feline equivalent of human HIV+), they have weak immune systems and can’t go outside and be exposed to other cats. They must be indoor cats. And since Nonna has the eye infection, Ziggy can’t be around her until the infection is cleared up. So, she’s cozily quarantined on her cushion in my office and I now have a litter box eight feet from my desk (oh, lovely!).
And Ziggy gave me the clear signal that he likes to be UP, so now there’s a cat tree with a top perch in my living room next to the dining table. (“cat accommodation” part 2.) I’d rather have him hanging out upstairs than down in the dark basement, but that’s just me. And I had to give him the means to work off some of that young energy, stretching, scratching, etc.
These two will both be sweet companions, each in very different ways.
(I’ve really tied myself down now!)
Part of what makes this feel like home is having my dear neighbors show up at my door with a fresh harvest of arugula – rucola in Italian – and radishes. I did have sweet people in Italy (over)feeding me, but the friendships and interconnections here in my Burien neighborhood, south of Seattle, make me feel more deeply rooted and appreciated.
Added to my neighbors are crab feeds, bike rides and brunches with family, and it makes it easy to say “There’s no place like home”.
For my lunch today I took the whole harvest of rucola, shaved the radishes, added some raspberries from my berry patch and some parmesan and fresh mozzarella bocconcini. I drizzled it all with a homemade roasted red pepper vinaigrette, Sicilian olive oil and crema balsamica.
Journal Entry: June 27, 7:00 a.m.
Jet black crow in the Stewartia tree, and other morning birds singing. The Olympic range makes a ragged, still-snowy horizon to the west. My surroundings are verdant and nearly luminous. It’s a cool, fresh morning… and I’m home.
It’s easier this time to leave behind dear Italy, for whom I have such a range of feelings. I didn’t invest myself as I did before. Though I wasn’t just a typical two-week traveler, at two months, I was still a “short-timer”. I had warm reunions with the dear folks I had met before, and I met more people that extended themselves to me with new, treasured bonds. I moved about with an open heart, but it was touched by the reserve borne of a known departure.
I’m ready to be home now. To unpack my things and nestle back in, something I didn’t fully do when I returned a year ago after a long year in Italy. I now have a better inkling of what that country is – and isn’t – for me.
Friday, June 24
Just after midnight last night I checked into a cheap motel along the highway in Atlanta.
I had been traveling and in airports for close to 24 hours and I was tired. The muggy, southern air was heavy and close. I had a discount voucher from the airline for one hotel, but while standing out on the curb waiting for the hotel shuttle, a hustling driver from another place came by and said that, instead of my waiting a half hour for the other shuttle to arrive, he could get me to the hotel he works for in a matter of minutes (uh huh. yeah right. sure.) and that they would honor the voucher.
Perhaps not the best means for choosing lodging at midnight in a city I don’t know, but I was full-up with waiting, said “yes” and got into the marked van. He loaded my bag in the back, said he’d return in a couple minutes then I watched as he went off to hustle other women travelers, suggesting that they also switch hotels and ride with him. (Sounds like a scam. He must get a commission.)
I was expecting the hotel to be on some perimeter road across the street from the airport. But we seemed to drive and drive on the highway, getting nowhere. “Hey!? how far away IS this place?”, I asked. He explained the size of the airport property itself and how long it takes just to get beyond it’s borders. It took about 12 minutes and we arrived at the EconoLodge “Hotel”. (Calling this place a “hotel” was a real stretch. More like the “No-Tell Motel”.) I checked in, walked up the stairs and when going along the exterior passage to my room, noticed a dead potted plant in one of the room windows. Apparently there are more than just stranded airport travelers that stay here. Perhaps some folks stay longer than they ever anticipated… and some only stay for an hour. (wink wink.)
I double locked the door, turned on the AC against the stuffy room and muggy night, washed up after the long day traveling, and at close to 1:00 a.m. crashed into bed. The sheets appeared clean. (or clean enough.)
With the alarm set for 5:00, I wasn’t expecting much sleep and indeed, didn’t get it. Anxious to get home, afraid of my alarm not going off and feeling either too chilled or too stuffy, it was a fitful few hours.
Why the cheap hotel? Twenty-four hours earlier, I had hailed a cab in Milano, taken a train to the airport, then waited anxiously for a Milano-Atlanta seat assignment on a Summer, early-weekend morning. Flying standby comes with no assurances. About three minutes before they closed the flight, I was handed a card for seat 5D. I had gotten on the flight (!) and into Business/First Class! For the ten-and-half-hour flight, that was a much-welcomed surprise. I was treated like a queen and would have had plenty of room to stretch out legs twice as long as mine.
I slept some. Put a big dent in a murder mystery and arrived in Atlanta at 3:30 with three hours to kill before the first evening flight at 7:20.
I went from number 15 in the standby queue to number 5… and the flight left without me. The next flight was scheduled for 10:20 p.m. I hung out near the gate with other passengers, both confirmed and standby, and watched my position go from 16 to 5 again. The flight left an hour late, again without me. I had been waiting at the airport for 8 hours.
Stranded standby passengers queued up at the counter for information about baggage that had been checked, hotel vouchers and being rolled-over to the first flights for today.
Arriving at the airport this morning at 6:15, after little sleep and an only moderately-acceptable “Continental Breakfast”, I got through security and to the gate. I started at position number 15 in the list and the attendant at the check-in counter said “I’ll start praying for you now” when I asked her about my chances of getting on. She told me that there were seven flights to Seattle today and that I could hang out at the airport and see if I might get onto one of them. In the meantime, my position in the queue crashed to number 30.
No! I was flying home today one way or another! She told me there were two paid spots left available on the flight. At 7:40, I hustled down to the distant end of the concourse to a ticket counter, bought a ticket for the 8:20 flight and hustled back. I paid enough to gag a horse, but I had spent eight hours waiting and hoping yesterday. I was NOT going to hang out all day just to SEE if I could get on.
I arrived in Seattle at 10:30 and my bags were already there waiting for me.
Good to be home.
– – –
Postscript:
It’s now Sunday night, the 26th. I got to my house Friday at about noon and have had a chance to unpack my bags, restock the fridge, go to the gym 3 nights in a row, mow my lawn, tidy up the garden, sort my mail and see friends. And I’m all ready for Monday morning and back in full swing for work. If I hadn’t bought that ticket, I might still be in Atlanta waiting for a ride home.
Morals:
“That’s why God invented credit cards.”
“How much is my time worth?”
“Friends don’t let friends fly standby.”
What a way to begin and end a journey… Embedded in the platform at the Cadorna station, leading in and out of Milano, is a slab of stone engraved with this phrase: “Every step I have taken in my life has led me here, now.”
That’s something to ponder thoughtfully…
As a cyclist, I must be ALWAYS vigilant! This particular stop sign on the way to the bikes-only path, both amuses and frightens me. Stop? What stop? And this ain’t no “California Rolling Stop!” This is hardly a hesitation, a pause.
A stop sign is a guideline. If there’s an accident and YOU had the stop sign, then you’re at fault. Poof. Simple. Other than that, it’s a guideline only.
Notice the pedestrians that try desperately to get across the street.
I just had to. I’ve been here in Italy for almost 2 months and my apartment here in Milano is just 3 doors away from the best pastry shop in the city, Pasticceria Spezia Milano. I hadn’t been in yet for my favorite: Babá, a sponge cake filled with sweetened ricotta cheese and chocolate bits. The whole thing is so saturated with sweetened rum that it gushes and runs down my hand when I take a bite.
After a bike ride and a shower, I finally went over to get a little something sweet. MAYBE the bike ride offset the Babá, but I don’t care either way!
And they wrap them so beautifully with an arch of gold to lift the custom paper off the delicate pastries. The whole thing is tied with a red ribbon and a bow.
A couple of days ago I went to Venice for the day just because I could. In a few days it’ll no longer be so simple to do.
My fourth or fifth time there, this visit was entirely different. I wasn’t on a mission, I wasn’t in a mad dash to fill the memory card of my (still-malfunctioning) camera. I wandered in a very relaxed, spontaneous, slow manner and it was nice. (Read my previous posts here.)
“Benvenuti a Venezia” – Welcome to Venice.
San Marco square, the large piazza in front of San Marco Cathedral, is the destination for every visitor stepping off the boat or train into Venice. (That and the Rialto Bridge.) All signs point to San Marco, guiding the flow of foot traffic.
And yet, upon arriving at San Marco, it is FORBIDDEN (on threat of fine) to simply sit in the piazza to enjoy the sights. This law is entirely contrary to the countrywide custom of the main plaza being the “living room” and gathering place within an Italian city. In fact, there is NO place to sit in Venice unless a visitor orders food and pays a cover charge to sit at a table. This astounds me.
As I’ve learned about Venice, there are major walking routes always filled with tourists. But step off those routes onto the side streets, and the city becomes very quiet and local.
Italy is wall-papered with supergraphic advertising, even covering classic, historic buildings. This Mario Testino ad created a blue channel through which the gondolas floated.
Visitors to the show were required to sign a release form. They might become quite disturbed (read: freak out!) when walking through the pitch-black tunnel titled “Dirty Corner”.
Milan is hosting the work of internationally-renowned artist, Anish Kapoor, at the city’s newly opened “La Fabbrica del Vapore” – The Steam Factory – and also at the Rotonda di Via Besana. (Click on “La Mostra”.)
From Wikipedia:
“Anish Kapoor is a British sculptor of Indian birth. Born in Mumbai (Bombay), Kapoor has lived and worked in London since the early 1970s when he moved to study art, first at the Hornsey College of Art and later at the Chelsea School of Art and Design. He initially began exhibiting as part of New British Sculpture art scene. He went on to exhibit internationally at venues such as the Tate Gallery and Hayward Gallery in London, Kunsthalle Basel, Haus der Kunst Munich, Deutsche Guggenheim in Berlin, Reina Sofia in Madrid, MAK Vienna, and the ICA Boston. He represented Britain in the XLIV Venice Biennale in 1990, when he was awarded the Premio Duemila Prize. In 1991 he received the Turner Prize. Notable public sculptures include Cloud Gate, Millennium Park, Chicago, and Sky Mirror at the Rockefeller Center, New York.”
From the Exhibition Website:
The exhibition at the Steam Factory – La Fabbrica del Vapore – consists of the monumental site-specific installation titled “Dirty Corner”, specially made for the exhibition in Milan. Installation – achieved with the support of the Galleria Continua, the Lisson Gallery and Galleria Massimo Minini – consists of a large volume of steeldown about 60 meters long and 8 meters high, crossing the space of the “Cathedral” and within which visitors can enter. The work will be covered gradually by a mountain of earth about 160 cubic meters, carried by a system of conveyor belts.
For a more personal experience, site visitors wait at the entrance until the previous entrants are out of sight and ear-shot.
The piece, titled “Dirty Corner” is an engineering and metalwork marvel. The voluptuous curves are quite remarkable considering they’re made from 5/16″+ Corten steel sheets.
When it was my turn to enter, I looked up at this beautiful form against the roof of La Fabbrica.
Upon entering, I turned around for the view in the opposite direction.
Stepping into the black tunnel, I had no fear. It was a curious time for self-observation and sensing my body in space. (I thought of going through in bare feet.) Could I get turned around inside the tunnel? No. The pathway is flat, and where it begins to curve upward my feet clearly got the signal, so I easily kept walking in a straight line toward the end.
The tail end of the tunnel is finished with a hemisphere. The exit is off to one side, preventing the eyes from picking up light along the passage.
The structural and textural details make the exterior quite rich.
I wonder how many people have noticed that a strand of grass has sprouted in the dirt that has tumbled over the sculpture? The dirt was not falling during my visit, but I imagine it must add an element of sound when inside the tunnel.
FABBRICA DEL VAPORE – via Procaccini, 4 – Milano Italia
The show is open until January 8, 2012.
“I think I’ll go to Venice for the day…”
It’s so outlandish to say that, and it’s not often that I CAN just go to Venice for the day, that I’m going to! I bought train tickets for tomorrow and will leave in the morning, wander around, have a nice meal or two at the good restaurants I know there, then come home in the evening.
The train trip is about two and a half hours each way and has none of the stress of driving a car somewhere. (And I’ve driven much farther/longer than that for the day!)
The Biennale di Venezia International Art Exhibition is on right now, so the place will be packed with people and art in every corner.
And I know a few people there, so I can stop and say “ciao”.
A little Venetian jaunt as my last hurrah before I leave next week. How perfect. (I love Venice.)
Such dear, dear people. I feel so welcomed by Agnese, Ninni, their son Erik and Ninni’s sister Bea. They greeted me so warmly and then said goodbye with hints of visiting Seattle this year!
It was three years ago that I had “Warm Octopus with Potatoes and Olives” for the first time at the Carlotta Café here along the Naviglio Pavese canal in Milano. I’ve been dreaming about it ever since and longed to know how to make it myself. Almost a year ago, on Friday, the day before leaving to return to Seattle, I had hailed a cab to go to the restaurant for an Octopus-cooking lesson. Ninni and Agnese had offered to teach me sometime.
When I arrived, they were closed up tight. I didn’t know they were away on vacation.
Back here in Milano for these two months, I’ve been traveling quite a bit, and have only gone to the Café for one meal, with a big group of friends. With my departure imminent (next week!), I just had to get down there for my Octopus Lesson!
Today was the day. I packed my apron, hopped on my bike and was there in 10 minutes to hang out in the kitchen for the afternoon. I had called ahead and arrived during a quiet lunch hour. Ninni immediately asked his son, Erik, to pour me a glass of prosecco. Bea, (short for Beatrice), Ninni’s sister, works at the restaurant and showed me step by step what I needed to know.
Piovre Tiepida con Patate e Olive
Warm Octopus with Potatoes and Olives
Octopus – previously frozen, thawed. 2.5 – 3 lbs. each.
Have a BIG pot of water boiling and ready. Put the octopus into the boiling water, tentacles up, with two fistfuls of coarse salt. The octopus will cook for an hour to an hour-and-a-half until it has the tenderness of a cooked roast when poked with a 2-tined fork. No other ingredients are added to the water. (No onions, celery, pepper, etc.)
These octopus are bigger than the ones I’ve found at the Pike Place Market in Seattle.
THE OCTOPUS SHOULD BE COOKED AND THEN COOLED THE DAY BEFORE SERVING (or at least earlier in the day). This is a big key toward its tenderness. (Today, to show me the preparation, Bea used octopus that had been cooked yesterday.)
Potatoes – Moist, yellow potatoes, such as a Yukon Gold, are best.
Cook the potatoes ahead of time and let them cool to room temperature. When ready to prepare the dish, peel the potatoes, cut them into chunks and set them aside.
Italian Parsley – Take a handful of Italian Parsley and chop it finely.
Oil/Vinegar Dressing – 1 liter Extra virgin olive oil, about 1/2 cup of red wine vinegar, 1 large clove of garlic, about a Tbsp. of salt. Put all of these ingredients into a deep, narrow mixing jar and use a hand blender (or similar) to pureé it into a smooth dressing. This dressing will suffice for quite a while and can be stored in the fridge for later use.
Olives – Use the very small, distinctive, taggiasche olives (from Liguria).
Assembly – When ready to prepare the meal, take the octopus from the fridge and cut the body/head away from the tentacles and set it aside. If it hasn’t already been cleaned out, at the junction of the body and tentacles is a round sack about the size of a quarter (depending on the size of the Octopus) and the beak, both of which should be removed and thrown away. Cut the tentacles apart from each other up at the thick ends. The skin is NOT peeled off. The thickest part of the tentacle can be cut crosswise if desired. Cut into 1/8″ thick rounds, cutting the whole tentacle, suction cups and all. Take the body/head, like an empty pouch, and peel away the outer skin. Cut into bite-sized pieces.
(The body/head is the rounded, fist-sized piece sitting at the edge of the cutting board in the picture below.)
Depending on the number of people being served, gather octopus chunks, potato chunks and a good handful of olives and place them into a sieve. With a pot of water already boiling on the stove, place the sieve and its contents, into the boiling water. Allow the food to heat for only about 3 or 4 minutes just to warm through.
Remove from the water. Drain well and toss everything into a bowl. Add a handful of chopped parsley and a good glug-glug-glug of the prepared oil/vinegar dressing. Serve with a wedge of lemon, if desired.
Bea finished prepping the octopus, Ninni plated it and gave me a delicious lunch. Out of this world. So very tender. From now on, everyone that comes to my house for dinner will be served octopus.
Surrounded by such kind people: Ninni, Erik, Bea and Agnese
The next time you eat sausage, thick pork chop, sauerkraut, polenta, hot mustard and horseradish, think northeastern Italy. Delicious and nothing like what Americans think of as “Italian Food”.
Rovereto is not far from both Austria and Switzerland and the influence is clear in the food. Certainly, the buildings have more painted, decorative facings, but their rooftops remain tiled (unlike Valle d’Aosta with its fish scale slate).
I like Rovereto and it seems as-yet-undiscovered. The waitress said there are the tourists that come here, but I haven’t seen one tour group or souvenir gift shop. If this is a “tourist spot” this is fine with me.
Rovereto offers art, history, culture, environmental beauty… Daily life and necessities. It has been well-tended-to without seeming like Disneyland-surreal. I have the impression on this, my first afternoon/evening here, that I could explore this small city for a long time. It could hold my interest.
In my travels around Italy, sure I want to see the highlighted spots, but more than anything, I am intrigued by the many, different, characteristic places that, together, comprise Italy. I am aiming for a full picture of this country and it’s land. The typical view is so narrow; the real view is so broad.
It began with a Campari bottle. A classic design they’ve used for decades. Hmm. Curious. I googled it and found that the bottle was designed by Italian artist and designer, Fortunato Depero, in 1932. I also found out that he was the initiator of the Italian Futurist Art movement and that there’s a museum exhibiting 3,000 of his works in Rovereto, Italy: Casa Depero. There’s also quite an extensive and beautiful modern art museum associated with it: MART.
Where’s Rovereto? It’s way up in the northeast of Italy, north of Verona, northwest of Venezia, close to the northern shore of Lago Di Garda – Lake Garda – and not far from both Austria and Switzerland. Rovereto is in the Trentino-Alto Adige region of Italy. (The best bread I’ve found in Milano is from a deli with food of this region, Austrian-inspired.)
At noon, a cab ride brought me from Sirmione, where I had been for one day, back to the train station at Desenzano. Then I trained to Verona, changed trains and rode along the lake’s eastern shore and the Adige River to Rovereto.
So, here I am for three days, with museums on my agenda. I don’t have Internet in my room, so I’m sitting here at the library. I’m writing on my iPad and still haven’t figured out how to upload photos from here, so there aren’t any images for these few days and will be added later.
My camera is malfunctioning (!!!) and I have no control over the flash, the color balance or exposure (!!!) but I CAN still gather images. (I stopped into a camera store in the middle of tourist-ville today just to check on worst case scenario prices if I feel compelled to buy a new camera to use during the rest of my time here. Yikes. I hate to do that. Technology is pricey in Italy, and the exchange rate is terrible right now.)
The cab dropped me at my B&B and I immediately loved it: B&B Casa Bettini. On a narrow street in the historic area. Beautifully but simply refurbished. a perfect home base for these few days.
I dropped my bags and started walking, malfunctioning camera in hand. Rovereto is charming, intriguing, photogenic and historic. The city has much to offer a visitor yet it seems that there are only locals walking around. There’s the photographic exploration that I enjoy so much, the art and other museums, shopping for those so inclined, narrow passageways to explore, a castle and surrounding hillsides that create a beautiful environment. Plan part of your next Italian vacation here: as-yet-undiscovered Rovereto. (I checked and couldn’t find it mentioned anywhere on Rick Steve’s web site. Get here before he does!)
So I will gladly stroll this town ’til Saturday morning. It tickles me at every turn.
(Now I’m off to find a dinner of the typical foods of the area. Ciao!)
I bought some train tickets! Yesterday I traveled from Milano to Sirmione, an historic town at the end of a finger-of-a-peninsula that juts into the south end of Lago Di Garda – Lake Garda. I explored the town in the pouring rain, umbrella in one hand, camera in the other hand, soaking wet shoes on my feet.
Sirmione’s centro storico – historic center – features the requisite castle, Rocca Scaligera, with swans swimming the moat, and roman ruins a 15 minute walk away, Grotte di Catullo – the Grottoes of Catullo. It was a highly touristic area, even with the drenching rainfall. A wet afternoon and a sunny morning there were enough for me.
What started all this exploration of Italy? A nudging query from a friend. An internet search. And far too many reminders that life is much too short. Too many friends and family members have “had their numbers come up”. They’ve gotten “that news”. It’s a gulper and has rattled me each time.
They say you can’t learn from someone else’s life. I want to refute that and take their news as a lesson to put as much life in my life as possible.
When on the metro here in Milano, on those occasions when I stop at “Fermata Montenapoleone“, I enjoy the tilework on the columns, and it reminds me to enjoy my life.
Milano is a fashion maven’s paradise: Prada. Dolce & Gabbana. Armani… etc. But dresses and handbags don’t interest me much. I’d rather have knives and scissors. I’d rather have tools for making things. I’d rather have a well-crafted implement.
A girlfriend wrote to me last night and mentioned G. Lorenzi Coltellinaio on Via Montenapoleone, and a book that they have available. That’s a knife shop on the most fashionable, high-rent street in all of Milano! …I added it to my list today.
When I walked in and was greeted by several salesmen, I spoke to one and said that a girlfriend had asked that I buy a copy of their book, “That Shop in Via Montenapoleone”. He told me they had it, and that he would GIVE me a copy of the book. He started to giftwrap the book, then I saw him talking to a manager. Soon, he was giving me a copy for my girlfriend and one for me.
As I glanced at the display cases surrounding me, I thought “Oh my, I’ve GOT to buy something here!” That was easy to fulfill.
The salesman and I went into the basement showroom where they have kitchen, sewing and smoking tools. I “ooohed” and “ahhhed” for a while. Everything gorgeous. Everything well-wrought and will last a lifetime… at least.
When we came back up top, I swooned over the horn spoons, HAD to have a pair of kitchen scissors that would – many years later – go to a niece or nephew, and then I fell apart over the hard-cheese-knife-so-lovely-as-art.
We introduced ourselves finally. Roberto was a patient dear and waited while I selected my spoons.
That was one of the most pleasant buying experiences of my life! The things that I will carefully transport home will be coddled and treasured like nothing else.
I was in that small shop for about an hour, yet it remains a “treasure the size of several hours”. Roberto and I shook hands. Expressed our enjoyment of the chatting time. I gathered my new things into a special shopping bag and commented on the spitting rain that was foreboding… Roberto GAVE me a black and white umbrella to get me back to the Metro safe-and-dry.
How sweet.
If you are in Milano, just a little north of the Duomo and the Galleria, step into G. Lorenzi Coltellinaio and find something that you wish to pass on to those that come after you. What you leave them, they will one day need to choose a recipient for. It will last lifetimes. (As will the stories.)
G. Lorenzi
Via Montenapoleone, 9
Milano, Italia
Telephono: 39 027-602-2848
It was just starting to spit a little rain as I got off the subway at “Fermata Moscova” and walked toward the cemetery, “Cimitero Monumentale“. It’s a remarkable place, but what draws me now is a wonderful, elder woman, Mary. I met her in March, over a year ago, and we’ve been “sweet on each other” ever since.
At the entrance to the cemetery, I bought flowers… of course. Then I walked into her little office area behind the cemetery chapel… “Ma-ry…”, I said. She looked at me, hesitantly said hello, then excitedly said, “Ahh, Americana!” It was so sweet.
She shuffled slowly over to her cabinet where her purse was locked up. She opened it, dug into her bag and pulled out the note card I had written to her over a month ago telling her I was coming. “I’ve been carrying it around with me for a month!”, she said, so happy.
We hugged and talked, and hugged and talked. Then we arranged the flowers to take to the statue of the Virgin, special to both of us since our names are both variants of “Mary”.
Father Francesco came in and we said “hello” again. (We had met last year when I lived in Milano.) The two of them chuckled together.
We talked. She gave me food. She gave me pictures of saints that will protect me. We smiled and hugged. She asked why I don’t stay in Italy, and I told her I’d be back to see her before I leave Milano. At 80+ she doesn’t stop, and her smile continues. And she reaches inside and tickles my heart. “Mary.”
At the Saturday street market yesterday, there were a couple of meat vendors selling rotisserie-cooked chickens, still rotating behind them. I stood in line with the rest of the crowd because the aroma was irresistible. One woman gave up on the wait and gave me her number, “90”, just 4 spots away.
For 5,50 euro, I walked away with a whole, hot chicken and couldn’t wait to get home to devour it. When I arrived at my apartment, hungry, I opened the plastic bag to see the paper bag holding the chicken… and chuckled. How macabre!
The bag has an image of 6 chickens sitting around watching one of their friends, another chicken, turn round-and-round on a rotisserie. Who came up with that!?
Buon Appetito!
Seattleites delight! There’s quarter-inch hail rocketing down at this moment in Milano! (And I’ve even worn a light sweater today.) the hail isn’t just falling, it’s being propelled to the ground like bullets. It’s 73 degrees out! I have the doors wide open. An odd phenomenon, certainly. They’re still predicting mid-80s for the weekend though, which will be perfect for the antique market along the canal.
– – –
Fifteen minutes later. Wow! This is monsoon-like right now! I, thankfully, never see rain like this in Seattle. I just closed all the doors and windows. The neighbor’s laundry just flew off their line. The rooftop across the courtyard is filled like a pool. The sky is dark at 6:00 p.m. and flashing with lightning. Incredible.
– – –
Forty-five minutes later. Now the sun is bright in my eyes. Traffic is recovering. The pooltop roof has cleared and it may be safe to step outside again, although it still looks grim to the northeast.
It’s hot and I’ve had too much salt. My fingers and toes are like little sausages. My skin is tight. I don’t think I could put my shoes on if I had to. My sandals are uncomfortably snug.
I’ve eaten too many pickles.
I’m 4 doors away from the best pastry shop in town but I haven’t been in there yet. I have, however, devoured 3 jars of dilly pickles in the 4 weeks I’ve been back in Italy (and I was gone for 2 of those 4 weeks).
These are my favorite pickles and I’m making up for lost time. I got up yesterday morning and ate 4 before breakfast. I’ve been eating them freely during the day: no fat, almost no calories. A “free” treat and I eat them like candy. But the sodium! (I had figured that with hot days, riding my bike, walking, sweating, I could get away with all that salt. Nope.)
They’re so good. Just the right balance between vinegar-acid and a touch of sweet. Small and very crisp. No aftertaste like some pickles. I simply haven’t found any like this in Seattle.
And now I’m feeling it, like my skin is a stuffed casing. Sigh. I guess I need to ease off on the pickle consumption.
Il Picchio Crockioli • Cetrioli Croccanti • Gewürz Gurken
(The label is in Italian and German. After googling the company, Develey, I see they’re located in the Italian region of Trentino Alto-Adige, up next to and influenced by Austria. They also produce “McDonald’s Tomato Ketchup” for the European market.)
On a narrow, stair-stepped passage in the “centro storico” – historic district – of Taormina, there was a small shop that sets up fruits and vegetables outside. The lemons pulled me, looking like seventeenth-century Old Masters’ paintings. Some fruit was cut and drying at the edges, more thick-of-skin than there was flesh. Some was left corpulent and uncut.
.
.
“The essential is invisible to the eyes.” Painted graffiti on a wall in Palermo.
Ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka. The signs that indicate Milano’s M2 green line subway destination were malfunctioning and rapidly rotating through all the options. It was amusing, but noisy with its constant “ticka-ticka”.
Wouldn’t you like to stop at Gorgonzola?
A pigeon wandered into the other bedroom, twice, off the balcony.
A child was practicing lessons on a recorder flute, playing “Somewhere (There’s a Place for Us)”. The sound was amplified through the courtyard, allowing us all to “enjoy” the practice. It actually wasn’t too bad.
The neighbors next door must be good cooks, or at least they use aromatic ingredients. Our corner balconies are just 10 feet apart and I’ve been enjoying the scent of their meals wafting through the balcony doors at lunch and dinner.
– – –
I arrived in Milano yesterday after my southern tour, and got into my apartment at 5:00. After a bit of a breather, I launched into nesting, making it mine. This is a “student-grade” apartment, for 19-to-22-year-olds, and they’ve cleaned it about like one would expect of 19-to-22-year-olds. I scrubbed grime until 1:30 in the morning. I had bought groceries, but couldn’t put them away until I cleaned the fridge. I couldn’t clean the fridge until I had a clean sink and counters to work on. And so it went. I couldn’t go to sleep until I had a clean bed to sleep in.
This apartment building is two blocks away from the apartment I had when I lived here, but that one was on a quieter, dead-end street. This first floor (one floor up from the ground) apartment has one balcony that looks out onto a four-lane road that dumps right onto and off of the highway. At 1:15 in the morning, just before heading off to sleep, sure enough, the street cleaners – my nemeses – were out pressure-washing the streets and sidewalks, as if to say “Welcome Back.” The traffic noise is a constant “white” in the background, but I actually slept well last night.
Everything got scoured: floors, counters, stove, dishes, fridge, desktops, sheets, bathroom fixtures, shelves. I couldn’t put things away until I had clean places to put them. I took all of the unneeded items and stashed them out of sight in the other bedroom, or decoratively on the wall storage units. I rearranged. Then I bought some string and tied the two scrawny-thin beds together to get an approximately queen sized bed. Ahh. Room to turn over at night! I also bought a new shower curtain, and a few other cheap details that add a little character.
“My Room”, with shelves, desks, string-tied beds, closets:
The other bedroom, with my attempt at “art” of 4 fans and 3 lights. (My towels and toilet paper are similarly arranged in “My” room.) The poster was already on the wall, and I decided to leave it:
Of the shower curtains readily-available for cheap, this was the best option. (The old one was torn and mildewed. Being here for 5 weeks, I can afford to buy a new shower curtain for the pleasure – relief – it will give me!)
I’m 4 doors away from the best pastry shop in the city, Pasticceria Spezia Milano. Too bad I generally don’t like pastries. I make an exception for their “Babá” though. That’s the sponge cake that’s soaked in rum such that the rum runs down my arm to my elbow when I take a bite.
The apartment’s also only 2 blocks away from my treasured Naviglio Pavese Canal, along which the paved bike path runs! I’ve got a bike in the other room waiting for a ride tomorrow.
(If I told anyone that I have a two-bedroom apartment with 4 beds, 2 balconies, fabulous kitchen, full bathroom and ideal city location I’d probably have a crowd flying into Milano Malpensa Airport for a visit! What a great apartment, all to myself. Shhh. Don’t tell.)
Now that I’ve cleaned, organized and gotten settled in for my 5 weeks here, I can breathe easy and get back to work on my clients’ projects, and I can post some of the 1600 photos I’ve shot in the last 3 weeks. Stay tuned.
In Italy, one can go 100 kilometers and find a very different food culture. There are dishes and combinations found in just one town, and certainly in one region, not others. What Americans think of as “Italian Food” is a tiny representation of what Italians eat. In planning to visit the south of the country – Sicilia, Calabria, Puglia – I was looking forward to seeing how the food differed from what I’ve eaten in the north. When traveling, I ask the hotelier what some of the typical, local foods are, and where the locals eat. This serves me well.
ARANCINE – Palermo
A classic Sicilian quick, snack food. A deep fried rice ball, stuffed with prosciutto and mozzarella. (Sometimes with ragu sauce.) Probably as much fat as a Big Mac.
CANNOLO – Palermo
Another classic Sicilian treat. A deep fried shell, filled with sweetened ricotta cheese. I had to have one to say I did, but they’re really much to sweet for me.
DATTERINI TOMATOES – Palermo
Purchased at the street market. The vendor made a cone out of a scrap sheet of paper, and filled it with tomatoes. They were perfectly ripe, red and sweet.
MIXED PALERMITANI APPETIZERS – Palermo
A great way to sample all the best: caponata, grilled eggplant, caciocavallo cheese, green olives, fried dough balls and potato.
SPAGHETTI CON SARDA – Palermo
Buccatini pasta (with a hole through the center of the noodle), with sardines, bread crumbs, wild fennel, raisins, pine nuts.
MILZA – Palermo
Fried spleen, served on foccacia with grated cheese.
RISOTTO NERO – Palermo
Rice, cooked slowly with black squid ink.
SPAGHETTI CON GAMBERI E COZZE – Palermo
Spaghetti with shrimp and mussels.
POLPETTE SPADA – Palermo
Swordfish meat balls in tomato sauce.
INSALATA DI POLPO – Palermo
Octopus salad.
GNOCCHI SARDI CON SALSICCIA E SCAMORZA AFFUMICATA – Palermo
A different sort of “gnocchi” pasta than I’m accustomed to… unlike the little dumpling-types. This served with sausage and smoked scamorza cheese and some tomato.
SPAGHETTI ALLO SCOGLIO – Palermo
Flat spaghetti with mussels, swordfish, clams, squid and parsley with a light broth. In this case, the house wine was poor. (It’s often pretty decent.)
BUDELLO/STIGLIONE GRIGLIATA LUNGO LA STRADA – Palermo
Cooked on a roadside grill, these are veal intestines, skewered, grilled, cut and squirted with a little lemon juice.
CUNZATU – Monreale
The woman at the bakery made one big “grinder-style” panino, drizzling the bread with LOTS of olive oil, laying down some sardines, a slab of cheese and some tomato slices. Simple and perfect. I shared it with two friends.
SPADA GRIGLIATA – Cefalú
After all that pasta, I just wanted a simple, grilled filet of swordfish. The Donna Fugata Anthilia wine was wonderful with it!
MELANZANE PARMIGIANA E CAPONATA – Taormina
Eggplant parmigian with eggplant caponata. (I wanted veggies!)
PASTA ALLA NORMA – Taormina
Tortiglioni pasta with tomato/eggplant sauce and ricotta cheese.
TONNO CON CIPOLLE – Taormina
Grilled tuna with sauced onions.
MACCHERONI CON POMODORO E MELANZANE – Taormina
“Macaroni” with tomato and eggplant.
STREET LUNCH: FOCCACIA, MORTADELLA, BLUE CHEESE – Catanzaro
Foccacia with tomato, mortadella slices, blue cheese folded together on a park bench.
BAVETTE ARRIGANATE – Catanzaro Lido
Like a flattened spaghetti, with a slightly “mad”, spicy sauce in Calabrese style.
DINNER AND TRAIN LUNCH – From Catanzaro Lido
Fresh peas-in-the-shell, mozzarella di bufala, rolls, datterini tomatoes, biscotti, pears, mandarins.
GNOCCHI CON ‘NDUJA – Catanzaro Lido
Gnocchi served with a sauce of ‘nduja, a soft, spreadable aged sausage of ground meat and red hot chili peppers. Very Calabrese!
SCALOPPINA ALLA MARSALA – Catanzaro Lido
Veal with a marsala wine sauce.
VERDURE GRIGLIATE – Catanzaro Lido
Grilled eggplant, zucchini and radicchio.
SOPPRESSATA – Catanzaro Lido
Aurelia’s gift of spicy, slightly smokey soppressata.
PITTULE – Lecce
An appetizer of fried balls of dough with potato, tomato and…?
MIGNOLATA – Lecce
Freshly made whole grain flat noodles, some fried (called “tria“), some boiled. With mussels, fresh squid, clams, garbanzo beans, parsley, tomato.
CICCORI CON OLIVE NERI – Lecce
Cooked chicory with black olives.
ORECCHIETE CON POMODORO – Lecce
Orecchiete – “Little Ears” – pasta with tomato.
GNOCCHI DI OLIVE NERI – Alberobello
Gnocchi made with black olive paste, served with cooked tomatoes.
FRICELLI CON FUNGHI E SALSICCIA – Alberobello
Fricelli pasta with mushrooms and sausage, with a creamy tomato sauce.
PESCE MISTA GRIGLIATA – Rimini
A mixed selection of seafood, grilled. I don’t recognize the fish here!
CHE RIMANA – Rimini
The leftover backbone and head. I did fish out the tiny cheeks afterwards.
INSALATA DI RUCOLA, GRANA E POMODORI – Rimini
A perfect salad of arugula, grana padano cheese and cherry tomatoes.
Finding out about Alberobello, I itched to stay in a trullo for a couple of nights! Through an internet search, I found Charming Trulli, and dear Antonella. (“Trulli” is plural for “trullo“.) I had a long, complicated Sunday traveling up from Lecce, and finally arrived in early afternoon by train and bus. On her only day off, Antonella picked me up and took me up the hill to my little trullo, adjoining her parents’ house. We dropped my bags, then went next door for coffee and pastries with her parents, Franco and Dora, and her little daughter, Mara. What a sweet reception!
Here’s my perfect, little trullo, with a kitchen, double bed, living room and bathroom. Franco restored the trullo himself.
When I awoke the next day, Dora and I met out in their garden, and we talked about artichokes, fava beans, lilies and holly as we compared our different gardens. That evening, Antonella called me and invited me to have dinner with them at a local pizzeria. We sampled some fabulous local appetizers and we each ordered our own pizzas. Of course they just had to give me a piece of each of theirs to try, so I carried half of mine home for “train food” the next day. In the morning, a little rain falling, Franco drove me to the breakfast shop and he and I had a long philosophical conversation about life and death and living fully. He gave me a ride to the train station, and waited with me until the train came. We hugged goodbye and waved. What dear people…
– – –
On Monday, my only full day in town, I had set the alarm for 7:00 because of forecast rain. I know from experience in Venezia that tourists usually aren’t up-and-at-em very early, and I wanted morning light and clear streets. After walking for just a few minutes, the sun came out bright and the sky was vivid blue. The white-washed trulli were brilliant. Perfect.
On the long walk up the road to the Trullo Church, I was photographing the cluster of trulli that have more symbols on their peaks than elsewhere in town. A woman was out cleaning in front of her shop and invited me in to go to her upper terrace for a broader view. I did, and when I came back down, we introduced ourselves and talked for about an hour.
Anna Maria is a weaver and runs a business through which she employs several dozen local women to produce materials to sell. I had no idea that Alberobello is know for its woven textiles! (Uh oh. Trouble.)
She showed me the traditional patterns, the table cloths and hand towels. I swooned at the fabric and had to bring a piece home with me. In her shop, she sells the woven goods, as well as hand-made, hand-painted ceramic whistles crafted by artists in the region. She gave me one of the whistles-on-a-string to wear for good luck.
Anna Maria and I had such a remarkable connection so quickly. A little later, I returned to my trullo and wrote her a note telling her that she had made my time in Alberobello a treasure. When I went back to give her the card, and read it aloud to her, she was near tears, and therefore, so was I. She said that meant more to her than any sales, and insisted that I follow her next door into her home. She dished up a delicious and heaping bowl of lentils, vegetables and pasta with fresh bread and grilled eggplant. I could NOT say “no”. (I had, though, JUST eaten lunch at a restaurant nearby.)
We talked about life and love and loss. She invited me to stay at the trullo she keeps for friends, the next time I visit. We hugged each other, looked into each other’s eyes and had a hard time saying goodbye. Wow. Touch my heart.
– – –
Sunday, late afternoon, I was getting a little hungry while wandering around, but wasn’t ready for dinner. I stepped into a little shop selling regional food specialties AND giving taste tests: Trullo degli Antichi Sapori di Marco Maria Concetta. I sampled wine, cheese, meats and chatted with Antonio and Rosa. I tested their “Salsa di Tartufo Nero” – black truffle salsa – and snatched up 4 little jars. They nicknamed me “Maria del Tartufo” – Maureen of the Truffles. When I stopped by the next day just to say “hi”, they called me by my nickname. How funny.
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One of the days, caught in a brief cloudburst, I took my broad scarf out of my bag and wrapped it around my shoulders. An elder woman in a doorway, motioned to me that I should cover my head. I did, and she smiled.
The people of Alberobello, and the region of Puglia, were so warm and unguarded. They opened themselves to me and let me in through conversations and their generosity. They embody the heart of Italy.
A few months ago, I heard for the first time about the “trulli” of Alberobello, in the Puglia region at “the heel of the boot” of Italy. After my initial glance at images, I knew that the town had to be added to the itinerary of my South Italy Tour. The trulli are a photographer and artist’s dream with their distinctive conical stone rooftops, whitewashed walls and occasional, broad-painted symbols.
Alberobello became the star on my list of destinations, following Palermo, Taormina, Cefalú, Catanzaro Lido and Lecce. I had traveled by train across the south of Italy, and arrived at the station in Bari, on the Adriatic coast. I then transferred to a “pullman” regional bus, and took a zig-zag ride through the countryside toward Alberobello, stopping at intriguing little towns along the way. The closer we got, the more trulli I saw. There’d be an abandoned trullo, solitary amidst olive trees and half-fallen, and clusters of trulli, adopted, maintained and fully-functioning.
I arrived in town, dropped my bags and started walking, camera-in-hand. All I wanted was one, quintessential shot, though I shot over 500 in my two days there. On my first afternoon, the sky was gray and the light was flat. Rain was forecast. Oh no! The next morning, I had set the alarm for 7:00, awoke to sunshine and set off through the still-vacant streets. The sky was brilliant blue and the buildings stark white. Oh yes! The light changed all day and we did have a spot of rain. The stormy, remnant sky provided beautiful texture with the stone.
Alberobello, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, has integrated its trulli with more contemporary structures, and therefore, has its contrasts: rounded, organic stone walls set against baroque cathedral spires, power lines and apartment buildings. As with any of the world’s favorite places that are “loved too much”, there are the main routes through town, lined with vendors selling tailor-made souvenirs and making a euro off the tourists, small compensation for the inundation they suffer. But I didn’t encounter any disdain or indifference from the shop-owners and local folks. Instead, I met some very dear people of Alberobello, open-hearted, kind and generous.
– – –
From Wikipedia’s entry:
“A trullo (plural, trulli) is a traditional Apulian stone dwelling with a conical roof. The style of construction is specific to Itria Valley, in the Murge area of the Italian region of Apulia. Trulli were generally constructed as dwellings or storehouses. Traditionally they were built without any cement or mortar, thus avoiding taxation.
“The roofs are constructed in two layers: an inner layer of limestone boulders, capped by a keystone, and an outer layer of limestone slabs ensuring that the structure is watertight. Originally, the conical structure would have been built directly on the ground, but most of the surviving structures are based on perimeter walls. In Alberobello atop a trullo’s cone there is normally a pinnacle, that may be one of many designs, chosen for symbolism. Additionally, the cone itself may have a symbol painted on it.
“The walls are very thick, providing a cool environment in hot weather and insulating against the cold in the winter. The vast majority of trulli have one room under each conical roof: a multiroomed trullo house has many cones representing a room each.
“There are many theories behind the origin of the design. One of the more popular theories is that due to high taxation on property the people of Puglia created dry wall constructions so that they could be dismantled when inspectors were in the area.
“…Anyone wishing to restore a trullo needs to conform with many regulations as trulli are protected under the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) world heritage law.”
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Almost, but not quite at the tippy-tip of the “heel of the boot” of Italy, the city of Lecce (roughly pronounced “lay-chay“) has much more to marvel at than is possible in two short days. With its Roman amphitheater smack in the middle of the town square, its over-the-top Baroque architecture, castles, parks, a duomo… plenty of fabulous Pugliese food, and some very nice people, I easily recommend Lecce as a destination to explore.
I walked both the main paths and the narrow side streets of the centro storico – the historic center of the walled city. And I strolled along the neighborhood side streets far from the tourist buzz, to get a broader view.
The front of Lecce’s Duomo:
The porta at the Chiesa di SS. Niccoló e Cataldo:
Fotosport:
Castello di Carlo V:
Mimmino, the meat cutter. I wandered into a little market to buy a mixed bag of food to eat for a strolling lunch. He sold me meat, olives and water. Another vendor sold me nespole – loquats.
Piazza del Duomo in the late afternoon:
Also staying at the Torre del Parco were Ted, Greer, Deb and John, cyclists from Boston. I envied them their giro in bici – bike tour – of Puglia! They were following a self-guided tour arranged by a small company. (I’m turning green.)
Hotelmates on a sunny morning:
“Leave the passageway clear”:
What era does this signage spring from?
The amphitheater by day:
Such a combination of textures and details:
A tricolore balcony. Since Italy just celebrated its 150th anniversary this spring, the flag is displayed abundantly around the country.
A “bar” in Italy is not the same as a “bar” in the U.S. Go to a bar for coffee, water, sandwiches, snacks, pastries… or a drink.
What an abundance of antennas!
I was walking on a distant side street shooting photos of signs, and a man started talking to me about his friend, Vito:
Vito happened to be inside giving a haircut:
As I unintentionally made a short walk into a long walk on my way to the train station out of Lecce (it’s a long story), I saw the track-sides filled with poppies, which are also blooming all over Italy right now.
