HELP! I’VE FALLEN IN (love with) TUSCANY AND I CAN’T GET UP

Eating in a Foreign Country -- America

     Italian cuisine has always enticed me.  First it was pasta, then, not so much—pizza.  However, as our Italian cookbook collection has grown, we have been constantly delighted with all things Italian—not just the noodles.  Pasta, according to Alton Brown (Food Network), is originally Italian and not Chinese.  Sadly it’s what everyone thinks of when you say Italian food.  But there is so much more.  So much!  Remember, the traditional meal has several courses in Italy and can last for hours, each course accompanied by a complimentary wine.  I want to experience this.  Not only the slow, unhurried pace of the meal, but the camaraderie and talk with friends and tablemates--something starting at say nine and lasting until eleven. 

     Sure family meals in the Jones family are like that.  Many families are like that.  Every summer when my brothers and our families get together we have the obligatory burgers, potato salad, corn on the cob, and desert with ice cream.  It takes an hour or two, but that’s because the beer is flowing generously and the BBQ takes too long to start.  But by 8:30 P.M. we’re through and ready for a card game or something on TV. 

     Recently we had a couple, newer friends over for dinner.  It was a ‘reciprocal’ meal for the one we were invited to about a year ago.  Hey, we’re slow, but we do return the compliment.   We met Duke and Lori through the theater.  He popped up one day about a week before auditions for the show I was directing, “Art” by Yasmina Raza.  He was a brilliant cut above the caliber of middle aged actor we usually get.  Obviously he had had some training somewhere in his past.  He is a marketing annalist and has a real flare for promoting and later took a board position (even a year as President) with the theater.  He was, of course, cast and did an outstanding job, along with the two other actors in the show.  His wife, Lori, is a lawyer for the Public Defenders office in town.  She, we found out, loves riding horses, and is accomplished in both western and English riding.  They met in the Bay area half a dozen years ago and were married.  He loves wines and has the broadest and specific knowledge of the subject of anyone I know.  He has even worked for a local vineyard, Abacela, one of the best, in the tasting room on weekends.  He said it was just so he could stock his “cellar”.

     Marianne and I kept our attack about possibly joining us in Italy low key.  Not wanting to spring it on them and scare them off right away.  The subject of traveling in foreign countries casually came up and before long we were talking in depth about the trip they had made to Provence, Burgundy, and Paris last June. 

     “Provence is my second choice of places to visit,” I said.

      “What’s you’re first?” They asked. 

      “Italy.” 

     “Oh, we would love to go to Italy.” 

     “Well”, Marianne chimes in, why don’t you join us next June when we go?”

     “You are?  That’s wonderful.  Where are you going?”  We proceeded to tell them about our plans to visit Tuscany and Umbria, about Rosetta and Fernando, and the week in Firenze.  They loved the idea.

     “Of course, it’s supposed to be two weeks,” said Marianne, “but David wants to stretch it to three.”

     I kind of shrugged with a “you can’t blame a guy for trying” kind of look.  They wanted to know every place we were thinking about going and soon the conversation turned back towards France.  Duke talked about driving through Burgundy, with the small villages, and rolling hills of vineyards, and I could just imagine my self there, enjoying it all.  One particular highlight of their trip was when they were looking for a tasting room to sample some Beaujolais.   It was Sunday and nothing was open.  They couldn’t find anywhere. 

     As they were driving through a small hamlet, they came to a four-way stop—pausing to look at the map and figure out where they might find some wine.  A car pulled up on there right on the cross street and motioned for them to proceed.  They motioned back for him to go ahead.  He insisted.  They held up the map and pantomimed looking for something.  He did not speak English and their broken French made things difficult.  Lori’s take on the language is to use it correctly and get all the verbal just right.  Duke just cuts a straight line.  He pantomimed drinking something, focused “binoculars” for ‘looking’, and yelled out the word Beaujolais.   After a rough banter back and forth he motioned for them to turn around and drive into a small road on their left. 

     As it turned out it was the fellow’s house.  He drove in, got out of his car, and opened his garage door.  Inside was his winery!  He graciously became host and treated them to an impromptu wine tasting that, despite the language barrier, was wonderful.  And the wine was very good.  That’s what is so special about France and Italy, everyone is vintner and has a long heritage of producing subtle, multi-layered wines.  It’s sad, but so many of the big European winemakers are trying to copy the big single flavor of a California wine, and forsaking centuries of tradition and refinement.

Getting Away for the Annual Pilgrimage Home (Early August 2009)

     So I had a ‘back to back’ “two services to play for” whammy at church.  I had to play keyboard for the annual picnic and be choir director for our new priest’s ‘Celebration’ of new ministry.   The duties fell to me, being the Music Director for our church, because the regular organist didn’t want to play the ‘lighter’ music and the pianist is in her husband’s home town attending a high school reunion.  When they returned I heard all about the heat of central Oregon and a side-ways rain-thunder-lightning-hail storm that knocked out the lights and power, at the restaurant where the dinner was taking place.  She said that they couldn’t cook, but that the beer taps flowed on into the night, until people could actually venture outside and leave—over the legal limit, but it’s central Oregon, so you know “no problem’.

     The service Sunday morning before the picnic went fine, but not many folks attended.  The last picnic I attended (15 years ago) had been a completely different affair.  They were families and children everywhere.  Food was abundant and the young pastor couldn’t set-up and run kids events fast enough.  This year the quiet Eucharist and picnic had mostly the eldest members of the church in attendance—only one family with a teenage daughter. 

     The large service that next night was a bright and spirit filled event with many more parishioners and clergy from the community and from around the state.  The visiting Reverend from Richland, Washington, gave an eloquent homily on her long-time friendship with our priest and the ministry of Saint Francis.  

     I got home from the service after eight PM and realized that we were set to leave on our yearly ‘pilgrimage’ to northern Idaho where my family lives.  I hadn’t thought about packing and hadn’t fussed about details up to that point.  I actually was very surprised and pleased with myself for not getting over anxious about the trip—which I have been know to do from time to time. 

     We left early and missed traffic in Eugene and Portland, but not Spokane.  The yearly hurtles of road construction seemed surprisingly few.  Only in the Tri-Cities had things gotten ‘messy’ as the Washington Department of Transportation tried again to solve the interchange problem of this ‘wildly’ out of control sprawling group of cities.  I was amazed that even though the bad economy has hit the west so hard over the past year, this place continues to experience growth. 
    Spokane was messy too near 5 P.M., especially because they were once again ‘resurfacing’ the freeway after another hard winter.  There were lots of pothole in the freeway.

     My brother Matt, the Optometrist, and his wife, Jody, the lawyer, were hosting the annual block party for the national Crime Watch observance.  They have a great yard for hosting big events and they love to entertain.  They had, easily, 50 neighbors there--mostly young married families who brought all the kids along.  Luckily one of the closest neighbors had an inflatable ‘bouncing house’ to keep the kids entertained.  Unfortunately the older play structure tended to deflate when more than eight to ten kids played inside.  This was the source of entertainment for the adults. 

     As Jody always plans ahead, she had arranged to have her best friend, Christie (who she grew up with in Choteau, Montana and her husband, Paul.  They are both retired, and my age.  Marianne and I, and the Pierces, who we’ve known for about 20 years, were relegated to the patio bar area, where we proceeded to drink Kokanee beer and catch up on the past year. 

     Since everyone had to have name tags, and none of the neighbors knew us, we decided to write Bill, Hilary, Barrack and Michelle on our tags.  Yes, I was called Bill several times, and some of the party goers did give us the ‘eye’ when our laughter got out of hand, but we had a great time.   Towards the end of the evening one of Matt’s more vocal neighbors came over to talk with us.  She was worried that we were over at the bar drinking all the beer.  We quibbled that we were hoping no one was noticing our strategy.

     The hour and a half trip from Spokane to Sandpoint went smoothly until we got back on the only highway that goes north out of Coeur d’Alene, 95.  At Chilco, where we have always avoided the summer congestion of traffic, we meet with construction and bumper to bumper cars.  It’s great that they are putting in a five lane expansion, but sad that it’s only for Silverwood, the amusement park.  The state roads department of Idaho has had to be tortured in the past to even admit that highways exist north of the Rathdrum prairie.     

     The scenery is beautiful, but the traffic on the two lane road has been a frustrating deterrent for ten to fifteen years now.  Once the road gets to Lake Pend Oreille and the wide expanse of blue which reflects the Selkirk range where Schweitzer ski resort is nestled all my tight muscles release and sweet calm flows over my body.   

HELP! I’VE FALLEN IN (love with) TUSCANY AND I CAN’T GET UP

The Long Slow Summer (Late July 2009)

     So we were at Costco in Eugene, Oregon on a cool, cloudy weekday in late July, and we were waiting for our turn to get up to the pump.  The fancy Maxima in front of us had just pulled up to the pump; we waited while a rather short middle-aged man got out.  He apparently had no waist because his belted slacks were drawn up so far past his navel that the belt bucket was touching his chest.  It was obviously an attempt to disguise his pot belly.  Before I have a chance to say anything, Marianne speaks.

    “He’s Italian.”

    I take her at her word, having grown up back east with lost of them.  I thought he looked like a New Yorker, but what do I know, I grew up in rural Idaho.  The guy hands his cards off to the attendant, Bill.  I ask Marianne why some men actually try to hide their paunch with the high belt trick.  As quick as ever, she says, maybe he likes the feel of his underwear hiked up against his balls.  I think I blew the latte in my mouth through my nose just then.

    Bill, the attendant, seems to have has taken this new ‘bubba-do’ look to an uncomfortable extreme.  A ‘bubba-do’ is that sleek, trendy look so many ‘twent-thirty-plus-ers’ are sporting these days—the totally shaved heads with the moustache and goatee.  It would have been passable for Bill, a very personable, hard-working guy, except for one thing…he really didn’t have the right shaped head for the look.  Now I know that sounds harsh, but some heads are great bald, and some should wear hair (even balding hair) forever.  I should know--mine is like that.  So, Bill’s head was not all there.  What I mean is he seemed smart and a good soul, but the back of his head seemed to be missing.  A ‘well-rounded’ guy, maybe 250, with a full neck, Bill’s side profile was noticeable; the line of the neck continued straight up to the rather pointed crown at the top of his head. 

     “If it were me, I wouldn’t be caught dead doing that to my head,” I said.  The Jones boys, all four of them, have perfect ‘peanut’ heads and everyone knew this until we were about 11.  That’s when mom and dad decided to let us have some length to our hair instead of the burr cuts with front-bang cowlicks that she could always get to stand up by vigorous brushing or a little spit.  Spit was also good for cleaning a kids’ face.  Just a little on a hanky and a brisk rub could remove any extra dried-on food residue that might collect on a young boys face.  The red rash left by the rub however lasted a few hours.

     Looking at Bill, a distant but familiar tune popped into my head.  Now my younger brother Matthew, the doctor, who is one of the quickest wits I know, has a name for someone like this.  It’s ‘Bullet Man’.  Now B. Man was a stupid toy that was around for a very short time in the late 1970’s—kind of a weird headed super dude that could fly.  There was even a silly jingle that went with the ad that I can still sing, “Bullet Man the Human Bullet”.  Did you hear that?  I sang it perfectly—and so did Matt whenever he saw someone with a slightly torpedo-shaped head.  As it turned out, in college, he and I shared a room in a two bedroom apartment off campus for a semester.  The third roommate was a guy whose nose was unusually large—his profile was amazing, and he had little to no sense of humor.  My brother would go around singing that catchy jingle whenever Scott was not around, and he will still launch into it whenever the guy’s name is brought up to this day.  “…faster than a speeding bullet.”
     I decided not to follow suit, knowing the odd shape of my head.  Those who look really look like a Charles Schulz cartoon character should not throw stones.

      I woke on a late July morning, realizing that in a little over a week we will be traveling north to my home town in North Idaho—Sandpoint.  It is one of my favorite places in the world, but ‘progress’ and greed have started to take a toll on my once pristine childhood home.  Our cat, Maggie Mae, has already rousted me from a fairly deep slumber at 5:30 A.M. to try and get out of the screens to go after a stray Siamese-mix causally perusing our backyard.  I tried to fall back into dream-land for at least an hour, but by 6:30 that dog, a little Silky named Phoebe (a rescue but the sweetest animal we’ve ever had—even though she is a terrier) jumps on the bed and tries to give me a “French” kiss.  I pull the sheet high over my head to avoid the attack.  She snorts a few times and jumps off the bed—what fun is next she’s thinking.

     Immediately the same single-minded fanaticism begins to take hold of my mind, and soon I am wide awake worry about who will take care of the lawn, how the flowers and vegetables will be watered and tended, and a few dozen other items, while we’re gone for about two weeks.  I start thinking about why we have not heard from the apartment owner in Florence, Italy—dreading that there really isn’t an apartment or a Mr. Andrea, and that we have lost a $100 bucks to Marianna and Massimillian, the brokers.  This is after I had the gall to ask her if they had any references.  She ‘offense took’ but apologized in the next email and gave the address of the Florentine version of their Chamber of Commerce.  Yeah, that was a good ploy by the scam-artist to make the victim feel like a jerk so that they will send the deposit quicker.  The things you think when waking up.

  So I was up and getting dressed at 6:30, even earlier than I would be during the school year.  I water the lawn and plants, because today is the start of the next heat wave--mid-90s until we get to Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday in the 100s.  Ah, summer.  I do like the higher temperatures (mid-80s-90s) and it’s great to feel the sun or your back as you work in the yard, just like my dad did, but the 100’s are just cruel and adversarial if you ask me.  My plans for our vacation next week proceed during the day as I put the Italy trip onto the ‘back burner’ for a while.  The computer awaits.

Internet Espionage  (Late July 2009)

     I need to make a confession here.  I have been using the internet to ‘eavesdrop’ on some of these Italian writers to see where they live.  I know it must be a sin of some kind.  I plead no-contest to the charge.  I found Google Maps(Satelite-view) a few years back, but the spy camera technology from space is getting incredible these days.  Originally, I started innocently by looking at houses in places around Tuscany that I thought would be great to live in.  My tastes were simple, on a wooded hill away from population centers, but near a good road, and not to far from civilization.  Come on, let’s be reasonable…you have to be practical when you dream about living in a foreign country.

     First, I found some great areas around Lucca.  One did turn out to be near a friary, so it probably wasn’t for sale.  The ones down in Umbria, while breathtaking, were too spendy.  Then, when I found the podere in Chianti that I had been lusting after for months, I thought I died and gone to heaven.  It was not only a working podere (farm), but a casale used as an Agriturismo destination.  From the air it’s a huge property; there are so many hectares of land, a pool, vineyards, oil trees, etc.  Since I had a recommendation from Dario Castagno, who had stayed there once in high school, I have daydreamed about retiring to that very spot.  

    Then I got a little too ‘focused’ on finding things.  I have found all of the spots we plane to visit on our sojourn.  Found the B & B in Magione, the apartment in Firenze, an art studio in Chiusi, and countless other places.  They appear to be real now, and not just places I have read about.  Here’s where it kind of takes a ‘kinky’ turn.  I have been trying to find some of the homes of these authors that I have been reading.  Some are well-known enough to already have it marked by some considerate contributor to Google earth.  Even Ferenc Mates’ winery is listed, although I know that the indicated spot on the map is not a winery, it’s just a bend in a road.  Bramasole, Ed and Francis Mayes’ Cortona home, has a handful of possible locations, but if you know what you are looking for, you’ll find the right one. 

     Now, Jill Eikenberry and Michael Tucker’s (the Tuckerberry’s as I refer to them) remodeled ‘rustico’ was a little harder to find, but no challenge is too great for me.  I found a blurry, but old shot of it on Google Maps.  The Italian site, PagineGaille.ItVisual has the best close-up view and it’s an up-to-date satellite image because you can see the pool and the new addition on the Tuckerberry’s casa.  It is not as Michael Tucker wants you to imagine, near Spoleto.  It’s near the tiny village of Poreta.  I hoped I could one day see the estate.  I could imagine all the things that the Tuckerberry’s and the Jones’ would have in common—mainly theatre and food.  Maybe we could stop in for a visit next summer?

     I have also had the Weather Underground site permanently set on Magione--Ponte Felcino, Perugia, Umbria.  This is where the B & B Bella Magione (Fernando and Rosetta) is located.  It has surprised me how Roseburg’s and Umbria’s weather patterns are so similar.  Of course they didn’t get the record heat blast we lived through earlier that week, but there time is coming.

     Why, you ask, would I do this?  Why did I spend this much time looking for these places?  I guess it’s to try and take myself out of the place I have always been and imagine a life in a place far away.  You see, it was not real to me yet.  Yes, I’ve read about it, I’ve seen the pictures, communicated with it’s people, but until I set foot on it’s soil, breath it’s air, and deal with it’s reality for myself, Italy won’t be real, to me.   Recently I saw a video of Rick Steves sitting down to dinner with an Italian farm family and I wept a little because it was so wonderful.  I wanted to do that.  It was the act of stepping out of my existence and touching the life of someone’s half a world away that hit me square in the heart.  I wanted to live ‘larger’ than rural America and finally be a part of this world I lived in.  Not politically, not with an opinion, not with any pretexts or prejudices, but just as one being to another.

   And I wanted that for us.  I wanted it more than I could say.  Maybe it had been a long journey, through childhood hopes and dreams, through the vicarious pleasures of others, but we had to go.  We had to experience Italy.  Marianne and I are doing this for us.  Something most people rarely do.  Our lives get tangled up in doing for others.  Don’t get me wrong, I believe it’s the way to live.  I just think after 30 years of ‘their’ time we needed a big ‘our time’.  The Italian saying really applies: Chi si accontenta gode: “Contentment is happiness, or enough is as good as a feast.”