Voice Lessons

East isn't always in the Middle, and West is ...

2010-10-24T15:45:00.003-04:00

I was watching the film "Cairo Time" and encountered one of those stop and think moments. There's a line in the dialogue that's spoken by an American who refers to Egypt as being in the Middle East. An Egyptian companion, confused, responds, "What is this Middle East?" It got me thinking. He's right, for someone in Egypt, Egypt isn't east of anywhere, it's the center of everything. The Middle East is only the Middle East for someone who lives west of the region, and for whom Egypt looks to be in the middle of the world's geography. When an entire global organizations start referring to places as the "Far East" or the "Middle East," then you start to understand the influence of the governments in the western hemisphere, which is only the western hemisphere if you're...

You see what I'm saying? Food for thought.

Popular Travel

2010-10-24T15:38:00.004-04:00

Think of this as an invitation to travel, where the people in far-flung places are the first items on the itinerary, and their famous places are the second. I don't mean necessarily that we should go and knock on a stranger's door as soon as we arrive in Paris or Casablanca and introduce ourselves. What I do mean is that we travel to places and enter cultures with a people-centered perspective. If doing that means changing our attitude about travel, we'll be dazzled by the change.

Let's think about every place we've dreamed of going, near or far, of where we'd go and what we'd do. The sights, the sounds, the aromas. Now remove from that image all the residents of that place. Focus on what remains. When you do, I would venture to bet a lot of round trip air fares that the daydream goes muddy.

Unless your destination is a national park or a UNESCO World Heritage site, then you'll soon realize as I did, that your favorite destinations lose their color and life at the thought of absented people. Venice for example, the city beloved for its water-locked beauty, it mysterious serpentine streets, the Doge's Palace, the canals, and magical architecture. Delete the Venetians, who live and work in and around the city. Delete any contact with them, all appreciation for the Italian language and the lyrical Venetian dialect, their knowledge and memory of life there, their skills, their personal and regional histories, their way of preparing and eating food, their greetings as you walk their streets. And just like that, our magical city becomes an international theme park with some beautiful museums and gorgeous blown glass. A slow ride in a water taxi along the Grand Canal without a friendly, chatty pilot from Mestre suddenly isn't any grander than a ride in an ersatz gondola at a hotel in Vegas.

Recapturing the dream doesn't require drastic action. You're not obliged to learn the local language, although certainly a few phrases would be thoughtful. And as a linguist, I can't emphasize enough the joys of communication; but, what's most necessary is a dash of an explorer's sense of wonder, and an open heart that's given a few moments of recollection to let the words, the lessons, and the lives around it touch and sink into the openings. Then, and only then, will the miracle perform. Everyone from our Venice, Paris, Casablanca or Khartoum will be able to fit inside us, as soon as we set foot on their soil. The grand and unknown will shrink and recognize. Venice's name might change to "Giuseppe from the gallery" or "Marco the super friendly water taxi pilot" or "Gigina who lived across the calle from us."

Our places becomes people, and we carry them home. They live on with a kind of bilocation, there where they are, and here in us.

A Practical Prayer for Haiti

2010-08-18T15:43:00.007-04:00

Dear God,

As you help the people of Haiti survive and rebuild after the earthquake, please inspire someone to donate and install desalination equipment and a water delivery system as soon as possible, so that these desperate people can live a life with clean water. The island is surrounded by seawater, and desalination of that seawater is an easy way to get the people water. Countries around the world do it all the time. If Haiti is to survive, let alone recover, its people need a basic infrastructure that sustains life: clean water, food, safety. Clean water, food, safety.

Please inspire the latest presidential candidates and relief agents to act in this with courage and commitment. How in good conscience will any president of Haiti serve otherwise? To claim the honor of president while the people are forced to live lives worse than animals? Has corruption inured the Haitian government to the humanity it governs?

Please strengthen the people of Haiti, strengthen those who have gone to their aid. For yours will be the Grace that steps into the breach of this disaster and sews seeds of hope, of peace. ~ Amen.

Shadow Play

2010-07-20T13:05:00.010-04:00

Ombre
corrono lungo il bordo grande davanti al sole.
Attira il crepuscolo le risatine scherzose.

I sogni le scortano alla culla del canyon.
Il Colorado canticchia una ninnananna del deserto...

Shadows
run along the rim ahead of the sun. Twilight captures the playful laughter. Dreams escort them to the cradle of the canyon.
The Colorado hums a desert lullaby.

Sunset; Yavapai Point, Grand Canyon, AZ
June 2010
photo and verse by k.a.luz

Enchanted Forest

2010-05-27T12:16:00.049-04:00

Last night I escaped to a world where owls speak to humans, water lilies shoot arrows, dragons prowl and eyeballs float; a realm where tree branches don scarlet and indigo bunting, and sounds foreign and veery ethereal fill the forest air. Transported not in dreams but in canoe, I drifted into a world within a world; familiar yet impenetrable if not for my guide and interpreter. It was neither Narnia, nor Rivendell…but a sunset canoe trip in Audubon of Topsfield, Massachusetts.

The world of the deciduous forest canopy is a surprisingly exotic culture, where the local dialects are so foreign to the ear they sound more like music than language. Croaks, twitters, arpeggios, and a curious sound akin to a marble rolling around inside a hula hoop fill the air. But what do they mean? All these creatures, the canopy "locals" are chattering away to each other, what are they saying? What a gift, a privilege it would be to share in the conversation. To be able to ask a beaver for building advice; to be able to ask the birds how they build such strong, symmetrical, sheltered nests, or how they fly through the woods without hitting the branches. What does it feel like to fly on the wings of a hawk? How do swallows see the bugs they nab in flight? Are diurnal animals afraid of the dark? What's their take on global warming, border disputers, car traffic? Do they think of bird watchers as stalkers?

No way to get those answers tonight, but I am curious about an ethereal sound wafting in the background. As we hike the pond trail, Scott, a naturalist at the Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary tells me it's a veery. It is a visually unremarkable bird, and one seldom seen by people, but its voice joins the company of angels. The first note soars high from a double-chambered voice box, then spirals into a reedy, mystical song that swoops around the soul and launches it heavenward. I'm transfixed by the sound.

Scott's voice recalls me to earth, and I leave the veery to join a conversation about owls. Tonight with Scott's help we'll be learning our first phrase in owlese. Hiking along a sanctuary trail before the night goes pitch, he explains that barred owls become active in the dying light, and often vocalize among the treetops. At this time of the season, the chatter will be about property lines. Tonight, we're going to ring a few doorbells and say, "Who Goes There?" owl style. Scott does a spot-on impersonation of a barred owl. Fittingly enough, it sounds like the English phrase, "Who, who, who-who are YOU all?"

In the quickly fading light, at the hour the French refer to as "entre le chien et le loup," when you can't distinguish between a dog and a wolf, we gather in a little group at the junction of two paths. As we stand and swat noiselessly at ravenous mosquitoes, Scott hoots an impressive greeting. Silence. He calls again, and we wait, like a foreign delegation in a royal antechamber. Silence. Again he calls. And then, from the treetops above, maybe an eighth of a mile away, an owl replies, in a voice that echoes Scott's. The collective gasp that erupts among us banishes bugs and stops time. Man calls again, and Owl replies. Man calls again, and a winged shadow swoops into view very close overhead, calling as it flies. We've been received at court. I hope my goosebumps aren't showing.

Up in the forest canopy, the owl's courtiers call out to each other from their arboreal balconies, granting us a wary audience, and a display of their vivid plumage. A normally reclusive tanager flashes the hems of a gorgeous scarlet cloak on its ascent to a nest. An indigo bunting looking perfectly regal in all that delicious blue, and twitters a complex exchange. Is it a greeting for us, or a call to send the kids to bed? Words, music, or both? It's like listening to Italian. Even when you don't understand a word, the very sound of it is lyrical and beautiful.

Every royal court has a jester, and that title fits the turkey we spot perched high in the branches of a dead tree overhanging the pond. I have great respect for turkeys, but this comical specimen looks about as comfortable up there as a Sumo wrestler on a high wire. The scene reminds me of news stories of cows deposited on rooftops by capricious tornadoes.

Down below in the water, there's a more formidable scene. Armed water lilies, dragons and eyes everywhere. Actually, it's all show. Some water lilies send up leaves that break the water's surface like spiked arrow heads. When the coast is clear, they unfurl and float face up on the pond, their verdant anchor lines trailing to the mud below. The prowling dragons are quite real but equally harmless - unless of course you happen to be a mosquito. Dragon flies and their damsels skim the air for tasty morsels. Floating eyeballs bob like disembodied ghouls, but on closer inspection, they're firmly attached to the heads of submerged green frogs. They're on aquatic reconnaissance, periscoping nosy nature lovers (tolerated) and hungry herons (a threat to life and legs). And if a fly happens by during the watch, well, heck, a frog's gotta eat.

A bull frog belches, but Steve tells me it's not a bull frog. My mistake. It's a green frog. Who knew there were two kinds of portly croakers? The green frog is a grass green baritone whose call hits the air in a sudden quick burst, like a bark meeting a loud burp. The bull frog is your dark pine bass, digging deep to summon that familiar two-syllable reverberation that always makes me think it's gargling golf balls. I sometimes wonder if Tolkien had that in mind when he created the character Gollum... And there are no cow frogs, by the way, in case you're wondering. Bull frogs can be male and female.

The remaining cast of characters in this story of enchantment are numerous. They are the heralds and nobles in the owl's realm; tree frogs, Eastern pewees, beavers, river otters...Please come and make their acquaintance; no passport required. Just don't tell the lilies you know the arrows are all show. To walk or paddle where the wild things are:
http://www.massaudubon.org/Nature_Connection/Sanctuaries/Ipswich_River/index.php

A Different Kind of Foreign Tour

2010-05-17T11:42:00.013-04:00

Foreign travel evokes different emotions in all of us. The vacation of a lifetime...a monthly business trip...a trip home to see family and friends...a creative retreat...a college semester or year abroad...

...Slavery - Human trafficking.

I've wanted to write about this one for a while. Now I am. I realized that if I'm going to write about culture, confess my love for it, study the complexity of it, and share my small experience, then I can't be quiet about the lowest grade of international travel. One of the very worst examples of international and intercultural relations. It rings the top bell at the carnival midway, along with its hideous relatives, genocide.

Believe it...2010...a human being, child or adult, robbed of identity papers, misled, betrayed or kidnapped, threatened, probably beaten, raped, and/or drugged, and then purchased like so much livestock or other freight, transported like illegal contraband to a city or region of their own country, or maybe a foreign country...cut off from family, friends, language, safety, security, independence, compensation...rights...and forced to do whatever the "owners" order done. The job description? The limits of your imagination might have difficulty encompassing the depravity and injustice of it. The usual suspects first...prostitution...domestic servitude...sexual servitude...drug transportation...theft rings...adult entertainment...forced labor...pornography...sweat shops...It happens everywhere, in every country; yours and mine.

Imagine Italy through the prism of slavery. Ah, the streets of Rome, or Milan on a spring evening...as a prostitute slave. The waters of the Trevi Fountain are suddenly not so playful. There's a tarnish on the romantic glow.

Globally, millions of human beings, are forced into work, bereft of freedom and life and placed at the mercy of human traffickers. Human Trafficking, an odd coupling of words. Isn't it an oxymoron? The term should be Inhuman Trafficking. It's trafficking in us, people like you and me. It's happening in just about every nation in the world.

The United Nations Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking or UNGIFT at http://www.ungift.org/ is helping me learn more. Join me.

The Lady Venice and I

2010-03-24T10:51:00.014-04:00

I've been told that Venetians consider their city to be a most noble lady, worthy of her name, "La Serenissima." Some will go so far as to say that an outsider's impressions of Venice are directly proportional to her impression of the visitor. The Lady sizes you up, and if she likes what she sees, she will enchant. If she finds you lacking, she will rebuff. It's a romantic notion, as befits a city redolent with romance and the memory of stupendous political and social power. It's a notion that makes perfect sense to me.

My first trip to Venice came in 1985, during my junior year abroad at the University of Geneva in Switzerland. The Lady Venice cracked the door open to me then, considering me from a reserved distance and offering a glimpse at what I would enjoy most about her in future; her mystery, her silence, her indescribable power to overwhelm the senses. I explored the city as many foreign students do, multi-city tour on spring vacation, traveling light, putting up in an inexpensive pensione, dining prix-fixe at trattorias, a guide book and phrase book in each hand. I discovered her mystery and silence in early evening walks. I lost myself safely among the warren of small and still smaller streets unpeopled by tourists, angling off and randomly ending at lagoons, stony dead ends, or in a campo's blaze of sunlight, color, and sound. The streets took me unawares, herding me in disorienting directions. Navigating the random twists, cut-offs, and shadowed alcoves, I remember thinking that espionage must have taken a delicious evolutionary turn in the days of Venice's domination of the Adriatic. Still, somehow, either naively or presciently, I wasn't afraid. I liked the silent wandering. It allowed me to listen to Venice, even if for only a few minutes. Listen to the past, to the present, hoping to return and listen in its future.

Preparing to leave two days later, I paused at the steps of the train station. Looking over my shoulder, I caught the Lady's face reflected in the canal, a knowing gaze from a palazzo's half-shuttered window. I turned, hoping to someday meet her face to face.

Mission Venice

2010-03-01T20:32:00.012-05:00

I made my way to Venice last year to settle a score. With the city, with the past. My last visit there some seventeen years ago was a thoroughly disheartening experience.

I was a postulant in an order of religious at the time, herded one September day on a forced march through the city carrying an expedition back pack full to the zipper pulls with packages of boxed juices. Everywhere we went, we rushed. Touring Venice was a steeple chase training run. Only a person with a photographic memory could have captured the glory of St. Mark's facade and interior within the microsecond I had to see it. My optic synapses had barely the time to fire. Rods and cones missed it entirely. Ditto at the Doge's Palace. No time to sip from a juice box. Race-walking my way in Birkenstocks along the Riva degli Schiavoni and past the ornate Bridge of Sighs, I heard one of my fellow religious plebes mutter, and I translate from the Italian, "If we had time to actually stop and look at the bridge, we'd leave a few sighs of our own...just like the prisoners once did..." My experience of La Serenissima was Hobbesian - nasty, brutish, and short. Not surprisingly, my religious vocation took the same trajectory.

With that memory of 1992 in mind, I was heading back to Venice, but things were different. I was different, too. I was heading there in good company with friends, faith, breathing space, fluent Italian, no backpacks, no juice boxes, and no planned agenda. I was on a mission to savor Venice without an itinerary. I would wander aimfully at an unhurried pace. Listen. Observe. Interact. Connect with the faces before me, the voices, sounds, aromas around me, and with the stones beneath my feet.

Boston, Buenos Aires, Abrazos - Tango!

2010-01-07T13:25:00.011-05:00

I've just started Argentine Tango lessons in Boston, and am enthralled. Tango's music is intoxicating, its soul is old, its appeal is global. As proof, it was a recent conversation with friends from Venice, Italy that rekindled my desire to learn. Grazie, Giuseppe Ferlito.

As a linguist, I see this tango style as an intimate conversation to be danced rather than spoken. It begins with an invitation, progresses to an abrazo or embrace, and continues like a deep, strolling conversation for two. The steps are the fruit of engaged and unbroken communication. They are the whispers, giggles, hesitations, debates and parries the partners improvise and exchange. Each conversation varies according to the music heard, the movement of nearby dancers, and the private responses the two partners give each other. The press of a hand, a gentle pivot, a close embrace, an invisible weight shift, a spirited swirl; and nary a word is spoken.

By its nature, the Argentine tango expresses and encourages individual expression. There are no rules, only respectful conventions, all of which make it a highly democratic art. Perhaps that is one reason repressive governments in Argentina's past banned the dance.

Like every other form of dance, it's harder than it looks. At first glance you think, "I'm walking forward and backward, how hard can it be?" But it's a walk with purpose, grace, and feeling. It feels as if I'm learning to walk like a patient, stalking lioness, weight forward, slow, on light-footed tiptoe. Of course I lose by balance and often feel more like a woozy lioness recovering from dart gun injection, but, the little epiphanies encourage.

The dance takes my brain and muscles to a completely different place. I love that, and I'm becoming more comfortable with, well, being completely out of my comfort zone. Being awkward and off balance, and accepting that as a necessity to learning, is just so freeing. Who knew!! Even more freeing is allowing myself to feel that way while learning with another person who is, gasp, a stranger! This is after all, a partner dance, and I'm flying solo in a group class. Such a metaphor for life, for trust, for interactions between men and women.

Methinks I'll be learning as much about myself as I will the tango.

For more information, go to www.bluetango.org

An Old Friend in Assisi

2009-12-17T13:41:00.013-05:00

...We drive northeast into Umbria, past Perugia to Assisi. Seeing the town from the autostrada, rising from the plain ahead of us and perched on its throne of pale pink limestone, I am struck with a familiar and undeniable sense of homecoming. The town has that effect on people. A particular grace, peaceful and palpable resides within its fortified walls, like the safety and warmth you feel in the arms of one who accepts you unconditionally. It doesn't smother. Assisi's is a peace you can accept and pursue, or choose instead to let it waft around around you and away. And I believe it is the doing of one of the town's very own, Francesco Bernadone, St Francis of Assisi.

He lived in the late 12th and early 13th centuries, dedicating himself to a life of radical love and poverty in imitation of Jesus of Nazareth. His motto was "Pace e Bene", "Peace and All Good," and before his death he asked God to bless his town, all those in it, and all those who would come, with the gift of peace. I'm here to get my share.

It is said in Catholic circles that we do not choose the saints as patrons, but rather they who choose us. I’m a believer in that, though at a loss to explain the hows and whys of it all. I can only say that in the most spiritually trying times of my adult life, when body, mind, and soul have cried out to God for help, a Franciscan friar has appeared, unbidden, with words of counsel and God’s compassionate grace. When my spiritual life and faith dangled by a thread in 1994, decimated by a two-year psychological battle for survival, St. Francis stepped in as a herald from Heaven, his brown-hooded woolen habit a veritable banner of salvation. I’ve clung to it ever since, and planted it deep in the ground for others to find. Next to Bethlehem, Assisi is the capital of my holy homeland. So I am here, to visit my friend, a friend who chose me.

Francis' tomb is a warm and intimate setting for me. It’s so…him. Simple, holy, deep in the earth, ever accessible and welcoming. Standing in the center of a small grotto chapel under the Basilica, the tomb is sealed in rough stone, initially to curb medieval thieves seeking relics, and enclosed in open grating allowing pilgrims, petitioners, and the curious to extend a hand to the saint whose greatest joy was to serve God, the Love that is not loved. Francis’ closest friends lie here too, the first band of friars minor, encircling him like buddies around a campfire. I am here to join them in prayer, in a moment that bridges nine centuries and the distance between heaven and earth.

I kneel and slide my hand between the grate to lay my palm flat against the stone, joining my hand, my silent prayer, to all those that preceded it, and to those that will follow. I pray for several minutes in thanksgiving, in greeting, and private petition. Then I make the circle, stopping to pray at each of the other friars’ tombs. There really should be a campfire here, a buddy fire, songs of praise and deep, joyful prayer. Batty perhaps, to be thinking this while venerating a tomb, but that’s how close I feel to this group. They’re spiritual giants whose souls and lives surpass mine by colossal leaps and bounds, and yet they welcome me. Batty, paradoxical, but then again, that’s the quintessence of St. Francis, the troubadour who lived as a fool for God.

Cynthia, Trish, and Priscilla have also been praying here; Francis and his friends eagerly listening and sharing their intercession before God’s holy altar in Heaven. Coming around the other side of the chapel, I notice a basket of tall white pillar candles. When their turn comes, they will burn on the altar in front of the saint’s tomb. I make an offering and place two candles in the basket, one for my intentions, and one for my godson David, Cynthia’s youngest son. I return to the tomb for David, smiling at Priscilla’s whispered words, “You’re his godmother, get over there and pray!” I do, and feel a wave of warm air envelop me. Peace and All Good. Amen.

Pasta agli Ulivi

2009-11-05T12:46:00.035-05:00

Today I inform the Ladies that they will have to do without my translation services today. An intrepid band, they'll be more than fine. They're off once more to explore the town of Todi, eager to see as much as they can while they're here. I'm all for adventure, but after three days of day trips, I need to stop and regroup. Socially, I'm like a cheetah, at my best in measured spurts followed by contemplative refueling. And so I've elected to be here at the villa for the day. I'll savor more of what's close at hand; an intoxicating view that never disappoints, the olive groves I love so much, the natural rhythm, the silence, and a lesson in hand-made pasta and cookies that awaits in La Palazzina's kitchen.

Making my way up the dirt road or strada bianca to the villa, I take my time. The air is light and very warm, tempered by a small breeze. It will be hot today. I watch a gardener planting and grafting olive saplings in a small clearing in the grove set back a bit from the dirt track. Like me, those treelings begin a day of discovery in new ground, getting the feel for things around them with the guidance of a helping hand. I wonder, do trees remember the day they were planted?

I reach the villa's gravel drive, and stones crunching underfoot signal my arrival. Eliana meets me on the terrace with a wave, then leads me back into the kitchen, the villa's inner sanctum, where I will learn to fashion two types of pasta. The first will be pici, a typical Tuscan pasta that will be served to guests this evening. The second will be cavatelli, annoying to make they say, but satisfying to eat, especially because they hold sauce or ragu' so nicely. Eliana introduces me to chef Rocco, who has mounds of dough at the ready. He'll be my teacher, and I a willing disciple or perhaps sorcerer's apprentice, depending on how things go.

Rocco has set me up with the requisite rolling pin and large wooden board. He recommends wood or marble as the best surfaces for the board, and now I'm armed and ready to go. We sprinkle cornmeal on the surface of our boards to keep the dough from sticking, then we each take a round of dough. We roll it to a thickness of about a stick of Trident gum, and Rocco directs me to cut a few pieces the width of about one of his fingers, or two of mine.

Now the fun begins, and it's all about me following Rocco. His hands, wrists and arms are genetically engineered for making dough. They're strong, sturdy and deft. Watching him, I begin rolling a strip of dough with the heels of both hands, working from the center out. As I work the dough it rolls from a flat strip into the shape of a tube, lengthening and thinning out as I go. My technique is uneven, creating bulges and paper-thin spots along the roll, and Eliana murmurs "un po' brutto," so I fold it in on itself and start again. "Molto meglio", much better; she approves of my second attempt. I pick it up and toss it into a little pile of cornmeal that Rocco has scattered between our boards. Ta Da! My first piece of pasta! Mind you, in the same amount of time, Rocco has made about 10 pici to my one. Still he smiles his approval and tells me it's a process, a technique that takes a few years to perfect before you can reach of pace of say, two kilos' worth in an hour.

Making pasta is a tactile art, and I'm learning to let the dough touch me and direct my shaping it, instead of the other way around. As the minutes pass I become more comfortable with the task, more aware of the need to surrender some control. I relax my shoulders and let my hands feel more of the dough, its texture, its destiny. Rocco can sense the change and he nods. I watch him work for a few moments. I'm impressed. His hands are poetry in motion, spinning the dough as if on a distaff.

We fall into our own separate culinary rhythms, each with our own thoughts, and for a few minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen are of the rolling dough softly scuffing against grains of cornmeal, the bird songs through the kitchen window, and water coming to a boil on the stove. In these moments my grandmother comes to mind, my Nana, a warm and happy presence. I imagine her here in the kitchen, reaching for an apron and a mound of dough. I have inherited her hands; slim, with long fingers, and ideally suited for all the instruments she played effortlessly - piano, guitar, mandolin and ukulele. Unlike her, I play none of them, and now wish I did, because then I'd have more tensile strength for making pasta.

Especially for the cavatelli. If pici are about the heel of your hand, then it's all in the first three fingertips with this pasta. You need fingertips of steel and a quick, light touch to spin the little pieces of dough into shape. If you fail to apply the right pressure and don't flick your fingertips under quickly enough, the dough won't spin, and you finish with sore fingertips and divoty dough. After a few missed spins and stung fingertips, I'm soon flicking like an able apprentice, and my cavatelli look like little British bobby's whistles. Perfetto.

After Rocco and I finish the pici and the cavatelli, Eliana announces lunch, and I ask her when I should come back for the cookie session. She shakes her head vigorously, "No, no, stay. You're having lunch with us, the family, with Rocco, Silvano, and me!" I'm moved by the gesture, and so happy to be welcomed like this. We gather at a small table in a room off the kitchen and Rocco serves some of the pasta we've just made - drizzled with mild chili pepper oil...elysium. We chat amiably together, breaking bread, sipping wine, chatting about the cooking show we're watching on television, and over the latest match results of a favorite soccer team. I can't stop smiling, I'm so happy. I love these people and this moment. I truly do. Our embrace when work and the meal is done affirms that the feeling is mutual.

Walking home mid-afternoon, I pass the olive groves. The gardener is still at work, focused and dedicated, planting and grafting the young plants that will grow into gnarled, wise and bountiful trees. Their branches will flutter a silvery green like so many banners of welcome to future guests here. What have they learned since this morning? I make a silent promise to sit among their elders later and tell them about my day in the kitchen. I will listen for their quiet reply.

Later that evening, the Ladies and I gather around our own table at Il Colombaio. As they recount their joyful day in Todi, we dine on pici and a meat ragu'. My fresh-baked chocolate shortbread cookies go down nicely with a sip of wine and a cup of tea. All days should be flavored with moments and memories such as these.

Voice Lessons

2009-10-26T16:58:00.009-04:00

May 2009...This is my first trip back to Italy in 15 years. When I left Rome in 1994, I was nearly bereft of everything one would identify with me. Nearly bereft of peace, of physical health, of trust, of national identity, of almost my own psyche. Most dangerous of all, nearly bereft of my greatest strength, my inner voice. I had barely survived an experience that crushed my spirit, mind, and body and drowned out my voice. It had happened here, in Italy, in a country I love and have loved since the day I first arrived, and at the hands of one its own. I've come back to restore that voice, and wipe away the blemishes that person left on the face of my Italy.

One of my goals then for this trip is to sink in roots, dig deeply and experience Italy in a manner that's joyful, echoey, and personal. I'm finding it in the silent glory of the landscape, and I'm making similar connections with like-minded people - Silvano, Eliana, my magi in Sarteano.

A writer named Murray Bodo once likened St. Francis of Assisi's prayer life to a dive into an underwater cave and then a gradual, continuous descent during which Francis explored so deeply that he discovered an indescribable serenity and communion with God, and also came face to face with himself and all his fears, struggling to the point where he thought he'd never make it back to the surface. But he did, and knew he had to dive again, explore again, encounter God and himself again, and then share it with others.*

Francesco Bernadone, St. Francis, did all of that here, in this country, in caves in these hills, and in mountain caves of his native and nearby Umbria. I want to do that too. I want that troubador of a saint who once improvised a viol bow from a tree branch because he so wanted to celebrate his love of God and Creation, to dive with me into the mysterious abyss and recover the joyful and trusting voice that drowned here all those years ago. It's mine, and I'm going to salvage it.

* "Francis: The Journey and the Dream" by Murray Bodo, O.F.M.
For more information about the book, go to:
http://catalog.americancatholic.org/product.aspx?prodid=A16819&pcat=304

Arte al Pomodoro

2009-10-06T22:38:00.004-04:00

We’re all taking a rest day at Fattoria La Palazzina’s Il Colombaio. Time spent journaling, resting by the pool, reading, soaking up the landscape.

Priscilla paints a lovely watercolor of Il Colombaio. After a few hours, I wander over to take a peek. She tells me she’s taken some “tomato slices” with her rendering, and for a few seconds I’m lost. I see no sign of food. Must be the watercolors. I’m not a painter, so slicing tomatoes is lost on me as a technique. I lean in eagerly to decipher what she’s done. Apparently, the tomatoes are lost on Priscilla as well, because when I repeat the words, she looks up at me like the dog in the old RCA Victor ad, all cocked head and quizzical. In speaking them myself, I realize that ohhh, her actual words must have been “artistic license.” The afternoon sun has fuzzled my brain and ears. After a good laugh over my goof and gullibility, we vow that the phrase will become a joke for the rest of the trip.

Priscilla’s watercolor is beautiful, with or without tomato license.

We're in Some Very Hot Water

2009-10-04T19:54:00.007-04:00

We’re off to take the thermal waters of Fonte Verde Terme in the aptly named hill town of San Casciano dei Bagni, or San Casciano of the Baths. The Val d'Orcia has a number of ancient and active thermal mineral springs, including Fonte Verde. It is the third largest thermal bath in Europe, and its waters serve up a cocktail of stress-relieving minerals, including magnesium, calcium, sulphur, and fluoride in a bath warmed by Mother Nature to a toasty 100+ degrees Fahrenheit.

We’ve never done anything like this, so we don’t really know what to expect. We have bathing suits, but do people go naked in the main pool? The attendant hands us our spa robes, slippers, and towels, and we make our way to the ladies' changing room, where a small sign announces that swimsuits are de rigeur. No bathing in the buff. My body relaxes in relief.

Reassured thusly, we don our suits and pass through the mystic portal to the spa pool. We blink back the midday sun, and look out at what resembles a huge resort pool. Smaller pools are reserved for guests taking specific treatments. All ages are represented at Fonte Verde. There are families, young couples, ladies who lunch, and older bathers. Beautiful bodies all. The ladies who lunch are off to the right in the shade of a portico, gabbing al fresco, dressed in bikinis, stilettos and designer handbags. A family or two is setting up camp at the long end of the pool, arranging chaises longues in strategic formations to better sunbathe and kibitz together. A man bobs in the water with his young son.

We drop our things on chairs and investigate the pool. No need to ease into it, because we know we won't get goosebumps from cold. I step into this epsom elixir, and the feeling is luxuriant. Warming my bones and muscles sore with travel and some chronic pain, I’m perpetuating an ancient tradition. Seeking relief when the healing waters stir. The water is about waist deep on an adult. I sink down until the water laps at my ear lobes, and survey the aquascape at periscope depth. At one end of the pool, four tall spigots arch overhead and gush with water. To one side, a thermal cascade splashes down in moving sheet, some 15 -20 feet across. For a bather sitting directly under this mini waterfall, the water’s effect is a pounding hydro-massage whose force can strip off, um, a swimsuit top. Really; it happened. Sitting behind the aqua sheet, a bather transforms into an Impressionist dream-like form as I glance in from outside. I paddle to the spigots shower and sample the benefits upon my shoulders and neck, then bob around a bit.

I last only 10 minutes in the super-heated water before a slight wooziness sets in, so I step out and head to a lounge chair to cool off and sip water. Our group spends another hour at the pool’s edge, chatting, laughing, and I take a few photos. We have a bite to eat, and join the spa ladies in stilettos. Interestingly, we’re the only ones wearing hats, but we don’t mind. Then finally, drowsingly, we repair to the showers, pack up, and head back to Il Colombaio, our bodies warmed, rejuvenated and purified by the therapeutic waters nestled in these Tuscan hills.

For more information about Fonte Verde, go to: http://www.fonteverdespa.com/index.html

Traveling Inward

2009-10-03T21:35:00.007-04:00

May 2009...

I feel as if I belong here. After a gorgeous breakfast al fresco set on the grass outside Il Colombaio, the Ladies have gone to the Mille Miglia auto rally rolling through Radicofani. I stay behind to sink in some roots, and refresh my spirit in nature, human silence and retreat. I want more of this. I need more of this.

Since the day I knew I would be coming here, I have been craving sacred silence and prayer in the Lord’s created world, here in Italy, the birthplace of one of my spiritual heroes, St. Francis of Assisi. I am Christian, Catholic, and my spirituality is deeply Franciscan. I sit facing the valley and do what I have been longing to do. Here, outside in the hills washed in the rays of the morning sun, with only the sounds of Creation, I pray. Deep, silent, centering prayer, in a cathedral of cypresses and olive trees, ministered by avian angels. The swallows swoop and flutter, the cuckoos call in the distance. The valley spreads out before me, a wide altar prepared for holy communion.

My God, Glorious God, I love this view. I love this silence. No bustling, no planning. Just me, dissolving into this blessed landscape.

Mille Miglia - Italy's Road Rally

2009-10-03T21:15:00.008-04:00

May 2009...

At Silvana's enthusiastic recommendation, Cynthia, Priscilla and Trish head to town to await the arrival of the cars participating in the Mille Miglia (1000 Miles) an auto rally that wends its way from Brescia to Rome and back, touring some of the most glorious landscape in Italy. Once a grueling and dangerous race, it now pays homage to the auto rally tradition at a more relaxed pace, giving the public a chance to revel in the passing cavalcade of vintage vehicles. This year, it's rolling right through Radicofani.

According to information on the rally's official website, this year's rally travels "clockwise in a circle on the fabled Mille Miglia roads crossing seven regions: Lombardy, Veneto, Emilia Romagna, the Marche, Umbria and Lazio on the way down, adding Tuscany on the way back."

Would love to add our Ford diesel to the parade, but then there are all those hill stops and starts. Maybe next year...

Interested in the Mille Miglia? Go to the official website
www.1000miglia.eu/inglese/.../disposizioni_generali.html

Silvana da Radicòfani

2009-10-03T20:46:00.008-04:00

May, 2009

We step into the small store, a true corner grocer, small, and longer than it is wide. And it carries a little bit of everything a person could need, from fresh deli meats, cheeses, and pasta, to sponges, wine, and dish liquid. As we’re taking everything in, the shopkeeper cheerily bustles in from the back room, and asks if she can help. We tell her we’re there for a few things, not the least of which is pasta to serve with pesto. She immediately recommends, the trionfetti. "They go best with pesto; they’re the right shape for that sauce.” The Ladies look around for other items on the list, and I ask about wine. We want a bottle that would most likely appear on a table in Radicòfani. In a way, cautious as I am, I suppose I’m also testing our shopkeeper to see if she’s going to recommend the expensive wine. I needn’t have bothered. She’s the genuine article, and recommends a $3 bottle of Tuscan red. Her sommelier’s task complete, she introduces herself – Silvana – and then, the games begin in the best possible way. Silvana dives in to advise us on everything they way the locals do it. It’s a guided gastronomical tour.

The Highlights:
Pici, which are very thick spaghetti, are distinctly Tuscan pasta.

Bufala mozzarella has stronger flavor than mozzarella made from cow’s milk.

You don’t need a €12 wine, the €1,50 (our $3 bottle) is welcome at anyone’s table here in town.

There's an annual auto rally coming through town tomorrow. It's a must see.

Silvana takes frequent verbal side trips during our tour, but they’re worth the extra time. First, she can’t help but tell us that she’s impressed four woman friends would just set out on their own for a foreign country. “You must all have very strong astrological signs.” That launches an inquiry into our signs. “Italians are very attentive to the zodiac,” she says. We don’t know if that’s true across the board, but we’re curious as to where Silvana is headed, so we indulge her. At least, I do, since I’m translating the exchange. Cynthia is Cancro, Cancer, and according to Silvana, the sweetest of all of us. Priscilla, Capra, Capricorn, is the toughest, most stubborn of all of us. “Dove vuole arrivare…arriverà,” she says, pounding her fist into her palm. Translated, that means, Priscilla gets where she wants to go, and gets what she wants. Trish and I are both Arieti, Aries, passionate, strong and loyal. So in the first 20 minutes in the shop, we’ve got wine and pasta, and a side of astrology. This is giving “one stop shopping” a new meaning!

And we’re not done yet. We need meats and cheese, and turn our thoughts to coldcuts, salumi. Silvana is eager to ply us with taste samples of everything on offer to help us find exactly what we want: mortadella, prosciutto, formaggio, salsiccia, ulivi, pomodori secchi. First up, formaggio, cheese. Silvana woos our taste buds with five different cheeses, and we choose thick slabs of pecorino toscano and mild parmeggiano. A lovely salami seasoned with fennel nestles in next to them in our basket, keeping company with the trionfetti for tonight. Tortellini will headline on another night.

As we’re wiping crumbs of cheese from our lips, Silvana excuses herself to ring up customers who have quick purchases. When she comes back, Trish asks about the little silhouetted sign we saw earlier, the one of the monk with a backpack. “Ah, quello. That sign marks part of the Via Cassia, an ancient high road dating to the Roman Empire. It connects Rome and what is now Florence. Christian pilgrims traveled it too, with Rome as their destination. Radicòfani is along the ancient route. Pilgrims still come and retrace the way.” In fact, while we’re there, a woman from Germany comes in to buy a couple of bottles of mineral water. Silvana nods toward her as she wraps up a container of sun-dried tomatoes for us, saying as she does, “She's part of a group doing that very thing.” The woman smiles in our direction and we smile back.

After our 90-minute tour of Radicòfani past and present, we’re saying goodbye on a first name basis, with warms hugs, double kisses, photos, and promises to be back for another day’s provisions. We step out into the little piazza, make our way past Fedora’s blooming doorway, under Gina’s window, through the covered alley and back to the main street.

Turning left, we head down the hill to Boutique di Frutta, the green grocer. As is the common practice in Italy, the fruttivendolo – what a great word for the fruits and veggie seller - selects the fruits and vegetables for us, after we tell him the size and number we’re interested in. Joyfully laden with our purchases, we trundle up the hill to the car, adding our own pilgrim footfalls to the Via Cassia.

Val d'Orcia Video Montage

2009-09-22T14:45:00.003-04:00

Salve!

I've come across a lovely brief photo montage of the Val d'Orcia. You might enjoy it as well.

Here's the link to it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4MnKL-tF04&feature=fvw

A Garden in Radicòfani

2009-09-09T11:43:00.008-04:00

May 15, 2009

As we make our way into the maze of little streets we’re greeted by an elderly man with a kind face and a gap-toothed smile. He reassures us that the shops won’t close until 7 p.m., which gives us 2 ½ hours to explore and find what we need. He points us toward a small piazza at the end of the street, and wishes us well with a wave and a “buona serata, Signore.” We pop out by St. Peter’s church, the parish church whose stone entrance is topped with a lovely gilded mosaic “Principes apostolorum.” Opposite the church is a little corner bar pizzeria, and between the two, the little square is decorated with big gorgeous terra cotta pots shaped like bird baths, and spilling over with geraniums. I consult with the woman who runs the bar and she points us to the best places to get our meats, bread, and groceries.

Before we make our way to the shops, we can’t resist taking photographs of the square, the flowers, and surrounding streets. Although the town is quiet this time of day, it’s still so welcoming. The ancient architecture is neither cold nor distant; it’s inviting, warm and tactile. Stern-looking studded wooden doors are cheered by flowers mounted on either side here, a softly flourished house number there.

The streets are as immaculate as they are narrow. When a car does try to make its way by us on the way to the top of town, we have to flatten ourselves into doorways to let it past. That’s the way it’s done in the Tuscan hills. Stepping back into the street, Trish spots a small plaque on the wall opposite. It’s a silhouette of a monk with a walking stick, flanked by two arrows pointing in opposite directions. We wonder at it, but with no one around to ask, we continue meandering, past St. Agatha’s Church, in full restoration mode, with plenty of plaster dust to prove it.

We come to a sign for our destination, “Paneficio Alimentari”, nailed to the side of an arched alleyway. We turn left and follow it up and through to a small cobbled courtyard. Just inside, an elderly woman bustles around her doorway watering a profusion of potted flowers in bloom. Terra cotta of graduated heights and diameters spills over with foliage and blossoms in different colors and shades of green. What is it about terra cotta that makes me want to sink my hands into the earth and plant something? It’s terra cotta, baked earth, elemental and organic. The woman greets us silently with a nod. On behalf of the Ladies I introduce myself, and ask her name. Fedora. Would she mind if we took photos of her and her garden? Somewhat bashfully, she accepts. She’s proud of her container garden.

As we chat and snap away, our conversation attracts attention, and the second story window across from Fedora’s sways open. Her neighbor peeks out, so we invite her to join our photo opp. Gina, a crinkly, twinkly-eyed soul, giggles as we call up to her and click our cameras in her direction. We chat with them both a few minutes more; I translate for Americans and Italians, happy to enter the lives of two people who have lived and breathed Radicòfani the length of their lives. They wave us to the grocery across the courtyard and tell us we’ll find everything we need there.

We’re about to experience Silvana, Ground Zero and HQ for all the news in Radicòfani, current and historic. We are in for a treat!

Driver’s Ed

2009-08-29T19:35:00.018-04:00

May 15 ... I slip behind the wheel for our trip to Radicòfani for food and supplies. The fifteen-minute trip is a mini-adventure for me, by virtue of the fact that hill stops, or rather hill starts, present a real challenge to a rookie stick shift driver. In fact, I want to avoid them as much as possible, but we’re in Tuscany, La Toscana, which effectively translates from the Italian to mean beautiful, but oh so very hilly. But I want to help share the driving load. So off, and up, we go. Well almost. I stall three times at the lip where the dirt road from the farmhouse meets the paved road. Each time, the lip and Radicofani recede from view by a few feet. I’m touring Italy in retrograde. The fourth time isn’t exactly a charm, but it gets the job done. I’m Frankenstein behind the wheel. I rev the gas before taking my foot off the clutch, so at least this sounds like progress, and as I ease my foot off the clutch, the wheels spin, gravel flies, the car shoots forward like a dart, and suddenly, somehow, I’m over the lip and on the main road heading toward Radicòfani.

I celebrate while the ladies open their eyes and release their grips on the seat cushions. They must feel like all Tuscan mothers who drive with their children for the first time. There’s very little traffic, so my hope for perpetual motion is essentially granted. There are two stop signs along the way, one on an incline, but I take it as a suggestion on a roll.

There’s something to be said for springtime driving in the Val d’Orcia - words like enchanted, breathtaking, picturesque. Navigating the switchbacks as we climb, I glimpse the valley to my right, and it’s a sight to behold. A stunning green expanse of pastures and farmland rises and tumbles like the playful flocks of sheep that dot them.

Radicòfani is a small medieval hill town that sits atop a mount on the western side of the valley, crowned with the ruins of a fort so strategically placed, it must have shaken the resolve of any invader contemplating a siege. Thankfully, our demands are of a humbler sort. All we want of it is bread, cheese, fruit and dish soap. And we’re willing to pay for it.

Eliana has told us that there’s an alimentari grocer on the main road just outside the town walls. I see it as we approach, and am delighted that it’s on the flat. My glee fades. There’s nowhere to park. Eliana has also told us that there’s another alimentari within the walls, further up. Ah yes. 'within the walls' means very narrow cobblestoned streets, and up means, well, up, on those very narrow cobblestoned streets.

“Well Ladies, looks like we have to go in.”

"Are you sure we can drive through that tight squeeze of a gate, or is it for pedestrians?”

“Can the car even fit?”

“I hope there aren’t any pedestrians.”

"I hope there aren't any other cars."

“We need food. The food’s in and up there, so here we go!”

I guide the car through the opening in the great stone walls, feeling like a magician who’s just stuffed a blue whale into a top hat. We begin the ascent, with no intent of stopping, buzzing past “Boutique della Frutta” on the right, past “Fiori e Piante” on the left, a paneficio on the right, a macelleria on the left, making mental notes as they flash by that yes, what we need can indeed be found here. Up, ever up, the cobbles thrum beneath our wheels, past the curious residents who wouldn’t dare cross in front me, and then, the blessed summit appears in a blaze of sunlight.

I want to get out and plant a flag. I can’t, because immediately the street curves down the other side. The ladies, a bit wide-eyed, just want to get out.

'Meglio Bere Un Secchio Che Perdere Una Goccia'

2009-08-26T22:45:00.006-04:00

May 14, 2009 evening...We head back up to the villa for dinner. In a region where nature defines elegance, La Palazzina serves as the perfect counterpoint to the land upon which it sits. Its elegance is natural, warm, and inviting. Where sunshine plays its light outside, the dining room is washed in shades of sunflower and corn silk. Where poppies grow along the side of the road, draperies in deep red grace the walls. Where olive groves, cypresses and vineyards robe the hills, graceful linens, and bowls of fruit color the tables. Eclectic works of art catch the eye at intervals along the walls. And Silvano ushers us in.

We sit, and Silvano reviews the courses that Eliana is preparing for us:
Antipasti : Assorted Crostini , bruschetta slices topped with pomodori - tomatoes, diced and herbed; cipolle - sautéed onion, marinated in balsamic vinegar; melanazana – roasted eggplant

Primo Piatto: Tagliatelle al ragu' (Tagliatelle pasta with a meat ragu)

Secondo Piatto: Tacchino al forno alla salvia (baked turkey with sage)

Contorni: Cavolo nero; patate all’arrosto (kale, seasoned; roasted potatoes)

As we’re savoring the tacchino and cavolo nero, Silvano decants the last of the lovely house red into our glasses, saying as he pours, “In the words of my father, ‘Meglio bere un secchio che perdere una goccia.’” Better to drink a bucket than to waste a drop. How very true that is here.

And for our dolce: Chocolate soufflé; and panna cotta which is literally cooked cream, but closer to flan in taste).

It’s close to 10:30 pm when we finish our coffee, praise Eliana’s culinary prowess, bid goodnight to our hosts, and groggily but ever so happily make our way back down the road to the farmhouse. Even the stars are smiling. I am transported to a sleep deep as the night sky.

Intermezzo

2009-08-26T22:29:00.005-04:00

May 14, 2009, evening...We have just the time to unpack, freshen up, and stroll around the yard a bit. In the process we discover, among other treasures, a swallow’s nest daubed and woven over an outside light fixture, a wood pile stacked under an exterior staircase, bushes at the side of the house tumbling with roses, and skittish lucertole, little green lizards the size of salamanders wrested from their drowsy sunbathing along a stone path. Turning from these to face the glory of the valley landscape beyond, I can’t decide if what I’m feeling is more akin to Maria von Trapp twirling with joy in the hills of the Salzkammergut, or Dorothy Gale stepping into Oz. Whatever it is, it’s giddy and delicious.

Il Colombaio, The Dovecote

2009-08-22T22:20:00.011-04:00

May 14, 2009 late afternoon...We fold ourselves into our car once more and follow Silvano back down to the main road. We cross and continue on the dirt track for about 1/8 mile, then take a right through an iron gate. And there, across a small packed gravel drive overlooking a steep drop to the lush green valley below, is Podere Il Colombaio, or Dovecote Farm in English, our home for the next week.

Walking ahead, Silvano pulls out a set of keys, works the lock, and swings open the door to the podere, a beautiful renovated stone farmhouse, roofed in the baked red clay tiles so widely and lovingly recognizeable in Italy and Spain.

My breath is gone even before I see inside, stolen by the view from the lawn. Steep but rolling hills tumble out below me in a 270 degree vista, dotted silver-green all over with olive groves, and punctuated at their tops by vigilant cypresses. Swallows swoop, dart and chirp around us, investigating the newcomers, doves coo from a tree somewhere ahead of me, and the air is warm and fresh. I take off my shoes, and the grass is a lush carpet under my feet. A rush of gratitude fills me, followed by giddy joy. “Oh, my,” I say softly. “God, You must have had a such a ball when you made Italy. You have really, REALLY pulled out the stops here.”

Picking up my shoes I join my friends Cynthia, Priscilla, and Trish, as Silvano shows us around like a proud papa'. We step inside and enter a small foyer/sitting room. The interior is rustic, and immediately comfortable, an homage to its early life as farmhouse and barn. The floor is tiled in wide polished brick-hued stone, and the room is appointed with a low wooden table, and two small sofas.

Through the foyer we step into the kitchen lit by a sunny window on the right. On the left, there’s a stone sink with wooden dish drain above, counter space with a small microwave oven, and a four-burner gas stove. Directly across the room from us is a raised kitchen fireplace. Its mantle is adorned with carpentry implements and a wooden pizza paddle. Under the fireplace are two stone cubbies for kindling. To the right stands a white fridge/freezer combo, flanked by a large wooden credenza and hutch that hold dishes, glassware and other cookware. The kitchen table centers the scene, and on it sits glass bottles of olive oil (La Palazzina’s own), vinegar, and a welcome basket of homemade goodies courtesy of Eliana: a jar of homemade pear jam, and bags of chocolate and chocolate chip cookies. Festooning these are mini servings of Nutella and breakfast toasts. Red and white country patterned linens adorn the table, windows, mantle and brighten the spaces below the sink and stove.

“It’s a working fireplace,” Silvano says gesturing toward the hearth laid with kindling and newspaper. “The apartment is heated, but you’re welcome to use the fireplace. It will add nice atmosphere, and take the chill out of the kitchen as the night cools down.” Each of us knows instinctively that we’ll take him up on his recommendation.

Stepping up from the fireplace, Silvano shows us the farm apartment’s three bedrooms and two bathrooms, flicking on the interior and exterior lights as he goes from room to room. Bright lights have never been part and parcel of Tuscan farm life, and the fixtures at Il Colombaio bear that out, but they’re sufficient for our needs. After all, we’re here to be part of the landscape.

Trish and I will share the smaller room with two twin beds. Priscilla and Cynthia should each have their own rooms, out of respect for Priscilla’s status as the group’s 74-year-old matriarch, and recognizing Cynthia’s unspoken need for respite from her stressed and sleep-deprived life back home. Raising her youngest son David has taken a toll. He’s a handsome 18-year-old suffering from severe physical and developmental disabilities caused by autism and epilepsy. One of the few things that has not burned down to the quick is Cynthia’s boundless love for David, nor his for her, and he’s never far from her mind. Well, here really, how can he be? You see, at home, ever present is David’s love for pesto, second only to his love for his mother, and here we are in the birthplace of that culinary delight. Basil plants across the whole of Italy must surely now be invoking David Keefe’s name in worship.

The tour complete, Silvano departs with a two-handed wave and a renewed invitation to dinner. We leave the studded wooden door ajar, welcoming in the air, the late afternoon light, and bird song as we unpack, poke about the house, and freshen up before dinner. At one point, gathered in the kitchen, we look at each other and squeal out as one, “Aaaghhhhh! We’re here!!!!!”

Gracious Hosts

2009-08-21T21:49:00.006-04:00

May 14, 2009 late afternoon... The tension of our quest to find this place
begins to melt away, and we slowly refocus on the beauty of our surroundings. We’ve made it. To this little heaven called Tuscany. If I’m dreaming, per carità, don’t wake me.

A few minutes later, as we’re sipping and nibbling, we hear Eliana calling in the background, “Ugo!” “Ugo!” She’s calling the dog, who is in no rush to heed his master’s voice and make an appearance. A cat peeks around the corner, though, and Cynthia stands and follows it around the side of the villa. Eliana is there, leaving a bowl of water on the stoop near the door, and as she straightens up she wipes her hands on the front of her apron.

“That’s Mariola,” she tells us, pointing to the friendly feline wreathing around Cynthia’s ankles. “She’s very sweet. She and another cat just had kittens a week ago. Mariola had one, and Bella, the other cat, had four.” Eliana comes down the steps and reaches to open the roof of a small dog house, currently in use as the maternity ward. Peering up at us are Bella, a tortie like Mariola, and five kittens nursing with great enthusiasm. At least Bella is peering up at us. The kittens barely have their eyes open. Cynthia picks up one, and Bella meowls in protest. Having left the babysitting duties to Bella, Mariola begins to purr loudly.

“What is the Italian verb for that sound?” I ask Eliana.

“Fare la fusa. And in English?” she asks.

“Purr.”“Purr,” she imitates me, and with effort adds an impressively emphasized American rrr to the end. “Brava,” I congratulate her, and she beams.

Ugo, or Hugo, chooses this moment to come trotting up from the olive groves below. He looks like a miniature Rottweiler, and is about the size of an American football. “There you are, you vagabond,” chastises Eliana. “Where have you been this time?” Ugo’s not telling. He just sits and looks up at her with big brown moon pie eyes. Eliana clucks her tongue at him and shakes her head.

“Allora,” she says, looking up at us and smiling. “Are you feeling a bit recovered?”

“Yes, thanks so much.”“I’m glad. You’re probably eager to settle in and get your bearings. Let me call Silvano, so he can come and bring you to the apartment.” Silvano is her husband, Silvano Mamprin, manager of La Palazzina.

In just a few minutes, Silvano pulls in up in a Subaru wagon, gets out of the car and gives us a hearty welcome in English. He’s Venetian by birth, but a few years back he emigrated south to Tuscany. With pale blue eyes, fair skin, and stocky build, he’s expressive, extroverted, and enthusiastically sincere in his welcome. He speaks fluent English with an accent that is equal parts Italian and British. After exchanging pleasantries, and happy to see that Eliana has taken such good care of us already, he says, “So, now, I’ll take you to the apartment, Il Colombaio; it’s just down the road. Take your time settling in, and we’d like to invite you to dinner tonight back here at the house. How does 7:30 sound?” Like a healing elixir for weary souls.

Worth the Wait

2009-08-20T22:24:00.007-04:00

Looking out the car window, I see Google Earth in living color. Looking at the map, I see a bread crumb’s distance from Radicòfani. The accent over the “o” in the town’s name signals the pronunciation Radi-CO-fa-nee. We’ve circled nearly the entire Val d’Orcia into Southern Tuscany. And now, following a small sign off the serpentine main road, down a dirt and gravel track lined with cypress trees and spiky yellow broom, and then bending left into a circular crushed gravel drive bordered by terra cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums, we pull up to Fattoria La Palazzina, Locanda Agrituristica.

La Palazzina gracefully adorns this crenelated landscape. It’s a beautiful villa and farm estate transformed into an agritourism destination. Its light yellow stucco exterior, with wrought iron lattice work over the arched windows, make it noble, warm, and inviting. It boasts eleven guest rooms, delicious traditional Tuscan cuisine, including its own olive oil, and stunning 300 degree views of the valley. And what a valley. The Val d’Orcia is a UNESCO World Heritage site that delights the senses with undulating hills bubbling up portions of the wide green valley, swaths of olive groves, vineyards, magpies, darting swallows, alpine choughs soaring on thermals, and towns rising like sentinels on distant hillside promontories.

The villa’s driveway cozies up to a wide patio tiled in terra cotta and dotted with cafe tables with umbrellas. It’s about 5 pm, and still quite warm in the May sunshine. Unfolding our bodies from the car, long pressed and pinched like origami cranes after hours of travel, we cross the terrazza to the impressive wooden front door, a veritable portone.

Before we can knock the wide door swings open and we’re greeted by Eliana, chef at La Palazzina. She’s been expecting us. Slim, her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she’s sporting chef’s clogs and a long white apron. We’ve pulled her from the kitchen. It’s obvious from her face that she’s been working hard, but it doesn’t show in her welcome. Her voice and smile are warm and friendly. Eliana doesn’t speak English, so I slip once more into my role as interpreter. She guides us to the terrace and offers us “Tea? Juice? Water? Biscotti? Tea and cookies, we say eagerly. As Eliana excuses herself to prepare our refreshment, we sit, happy to have Tuscan earth firmly beneath our feet at a full stop, zero kilometers per hour.

http://www.fattorialapalazzina.net/villa-tuscany-la-palazzina.html http

The Magi Live in Sarteano

2009-08-19T22:49:00.011-04:00

May 14, 2009 mid-afternoon...I blink myself back to reality in time to hear one of the elderly women asking where we were from. “America,” I reply, smiling, and then thank them profusely as I turn back toward the car. She calls after me and asks if Italy is really as beautiful as foreigners say it is. I say yes, Italy is a paradise, and the people, the best. In fact, in many ways, Americans have much to learn from the Italian culture.

“But,” said the man, moving next to the women, “We’re poor.”

“Actually, no, you’re not. It’s the Americans who are poor. Italy knows secrets to life, and we need to come here often for lessons.”

“Lessons? Please do not patronize us,” he chides pleasantly.

“Believe me, I’m not. That’s the last thing I’m about. I’m completely sincere. I’m not saying that you should be happy to be poor. I’m not referring to economics, or politics, or stereotypes. I mean to say that in my own country, I see the values and trends that popular culture holds up as praiseworthy, good business, and entertaining. I see something skewed, storto. Work so hard you have no life outside of it. Hurry. Adopt stress as a virtue. Look for the quick answer, the low-hanging fruit. And then, to escape from it, worship athletes, actors and inane reality shows. It’s warped, like music played out of tune and rhythm, with no thought for composer or conductor. I know that here in Italy you’re surrounded by the same things; but, somehow, Italy as a whole, is still more in tune, connecting people to the world around them more authentically than what I experience in the States.”

“Give me an example,” he persists, placing a hand on my shoulder with friendly emphasis. One of the women nods eagerly, another puts down her bags. The third adjusts her sweater on her shoulders and smiles encouragingly.

“This conversation,” I want to say, and do, but only in my head. “You think nothing of entering into a philosophical discussion with a perfect stranger who just tumbled out of a car looking for directions along this quiet road. You don’t know my plans or my motives. What matters to you is that I’m here, and you are curious about me. I’m astonished, in the best sort of way. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the Little Prince, all grown up.“

Aloud, I say to him, “Well, having lived here once for a few years, my small experience of Italy is that the division of a day into tight time schedules and itineraries is not a valued practice. Strict agendas are frowned on, in favor of savoring the moment, respecting the rhythm of the day and the company you keep. Am I right?”

“You are,” he nods, and pauses, gathering his thoughts. Then he takes my hand. I feel my shoulders relax. “The experience is what matters most, whether it’s business or a gathering of friends,” he explains. “The schedule obeys the experience, not the other way around. That’s why there are no quick goodbyes in Italy,” he says, and chuckles. The women nod in agreement, e si' , adjusting their grip on their shopping bags. He goes on, “This is not just the result of some socialized government policies, but of the long connection that Italy has to the land, to its resources, its creative spirit, and to family. And probably due to resilience in the face of the privations of war. And this is what you love about Italy?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I say. “With deep respect for the sum total of everything that makes Italy, Tuscany, Sarteano, you, precisely what you are today. That, and the natural beauty of every region of the country. If I die here, or say, in Umbria, no one need be concerned about bringing me back to America. I say, let everyone come here to honor my memory; stay a while. The trip will do them a world of good.” They smile at this. Davvero.

"Umbria is nice," the gentle man says, grinning now, "but forgive us if we advise in favor of Tuscany." We all laugh. I’m moved by the conversation, honored to be part of it.

Sadly too though, I'm overcome with fatigue, and feeling faintly light headed. I'm exhibiting early signs of Foreign Speaker's Aphasia. And, I've almost forgotten about the Ladies. They've been waiting, and probably think we have to head to Sicily and back for all the time it’s taken me to get directions.

Reluctantly, I tell these three wise women and man that I must leave. I thank them for being the ones to set the correct tempo for an Italian concerto. We embrace heartily, and our group drives off, eager to experience the masterwork of Italy, following its regional melodies, from the composer’s original score.

Ring Around Radicòfani

2009-08-18T23:11:00.009-04:00

May 14, 2009 afternoon...It's springtime in Tuscany, and we’ve been winding up and down scenic mountain roads for the better part, no, the longer part, of three hours now. We are clearly lost. The views are breathtaking, but in all, it’s an experience better appreciated without the hangover effects of jetlag. With Cynthia heroically behind the wheel of the rental car – a diesel thank God, so we’ll go forever without worrying over the fuel gauge - we're traveling south of Siena to a magical region known as the Val d'Orcia, or in English, the Orcia Valley. I’m acting as interpreter for the Ladies, and so far, I’ve sought direction from three sources in the town of Sarteano; an elderly gentleman in Sarteano; a young woman at the bus station further along in Sarteano; and a group of three elderly women and a man outside of Sarteano. Like a living oracle, they declare as one that since we’d long missed the direct road to the town of Radicòfani, the only route left to follow is the long way around the valley, by way of San Casciano dei Bagni.

I hang my head in the silent desperation of every weary traveler. We’ve endured a trans-Atlantic flight, a long early morning layover in Paris at an outpost terminal decorated in garish lime green hues, and then the final flight to Florence. Now, south of Siena and well into an unanticipated circumnavigation of the valley, the breathtaking scenery is taking a decidedly psychotropic turn. I begin to imagine myself a traveler on the Silk Road lost in the Tien Shan mountains with winter at my heels. Dear God, the camels are dying, we have no water, show us the way!

My Herald Plays the Kazoo

2009-08-18T21:33:00.013-04:00

Arriving in Italy by air via Florence is a delight. It’s a Renaissance artist’s welcome wagon. The light bathes the landscape just so, conjuring red tiled roof mosaics above marble facades, or a corpulent dome hinting at Brunelleschi’s marvel waiting in the heart of the city. Flying in I imagine a kind of time travel that will have me touch down in Michelangelo’s courtyard. Or better yet, stepping off the jetway to da Vinci’s beaming approval at how well his flying machine designs turned out.

Instead, on terra firma, the airport is a provincial and rather bland locale. No swaths of rich fabrics grace the entrance, no priceless frescoes adorn the walls. Just a small terminal, two crowded baggage carousels and a long line at the rest room. Not even a passport stamp. No. Am I not in Italy, the country where the thumpathumpa of a stamp legitimizes even the most mundane civil transaction? Official crests and heraldic standards flourish here. How can Italia refrain from setting her seal upon any foreigner the moment her borders are traversed? I crave one designed by Zeffirelli, Ferragamo and Bernini. Someone stamps my foot instead, reaching for luggage. No matter, I'm greeted by helpful and efficient rental car agents, and to a jet-lagged traveler, that's a fashionable welcome in any culture.

We're a mother-daughter quartet on this trip; the matriarch Priscilla; her daughter Cynthia, whom I've known since nursery school; daughter-in-law Trish; and I, a daughter and sister by association of years. We are bound for southern Tuscany, and later, Venice. Treasures lie beyond the Florence air terminal, and our loyal steed awaits, a clean diesel-powered Ford crossover. That's Lamborghini in Italian.

First Thoughts

2009-08-17T21:40:00.008-04:00

In the month prior to my return to Italy this year, and every day there, my thoughts strayed and settled on Alberto, the friend whom circumstances once obliged me leave behind in Italy. Deep indeed is the memory of that precious friendship, intricate and strong the stitches in the bond I shared with him. A native of Italy's Veneto region, he was, and I am confident still is, a man possessing a heart as pure, as strong, as humble, as perceptive, and as kind as I have ever known. When I last saw my friend in 1994, I knew our parting would likely never see a reunion. I left him, and Italy sorrowful, but not in vain. I knew that my heart was made for Italy, that my life was meant for Italy, and that my voice would find its deepest range in Italy. I just didn't know how, didn't know when, and certainly didn't know why. I was packing my bags for home, filling them with Alberto and the Italy he held within him, storing up for the dry season ahead.

Fifteen years on, I am happy and privileged knowing that twelve days in 2009 Italy can be lived joyfully and thoughtfully enough to conjure memories of that blessed friendship. Happy and privileged to know that twelve days lived well can bridge 365 days x 15 in a snap, and reveal to suspecting souls a new wealth of cultural and personal epiphanies.

For reasons I hope you will discover in the reading, I dedicate this journal of Italy to Alberto, wherever he may be. His birthday is August 7, a day dedicated to San Casciano, a happy coincidence I realized only after the fact.

Avanti!