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

Bus and Train Travel Plans
      I want to offer some words of advice, not that I am wise or anything, but just a ‘heads-up’ if you will, when it comes to trying to plan side-trips while in Italy. Don’t. Yes, don’t. The way it works in our house is if David thought of it, it’s not feasible. If Marianne thinks of it, it’s right. That’s the Gods’ honest truth of it all.
I wanted to plan a day trip to Pisa, San Gimignano, and Volterra that would be inexpensive. We could use public transportation, train and bus, and have a day where we could sight see at our own pace. Italian public transportation, although prone to an occasional strike, is known for its dependability. Just read your Rick Steves. We wouldn’t have to pay anyone to do this; we could just pay for the rides. My reasoning was these three towns lie to the south and west of Firenze. The tower at Pisa, a tourist ‘Mecca’, is seen best early in the day and later in the afternoon, when the crowds are thinnest. San Gimignano is well attended all the time and sleepy Volterra is the unexpected treasure.
      We could get on the electrio Bus B at 7:00 AM, after grabbing a quick cappuccino outside the apartment in Piazza Cimatori. Then we catch a train at the SMN station and head to Pisa by, 7:30 AM. The train takes an hour--that’s 8:30 AM. The bus terminal in Pisa is right outside the train station and, after buying a ticket at the Tobacci Shop right there, the bus ride to the Field of Miracles is 20 minutes-- 9:00 AM. It might take an hour to see the leaning tower (making sure I had a pass and reserved time to climb it), look inside the Duomo and baptistery, back on the bus to the train station, another 20—10:30 AM tops. Waiting for the next train would take the most time.
      Marianne and I could also take the train to Poggiobonsi (an industrial town) to the south and west from Florence and be there by 11 AM; then transfer to a bus heading to San Gimignano (the medieval Manhattan) that takes only 30 minutes. We could be there by noon, sight see, eat, and get on the bus bound for Volterra by 3 PM. By 4 PM reposo will be ending and we can check out the town, Etruscan museums, and alabaster shops until ‘wine-time’ and have a something to eat a La Vena di Vino (a great looking enoteca). We would be back on the bus by 7 PM and at the bus station in Firenze by 8:30 PM. From there we find our electrio Bus B and ride it back to Piazza Cimatori and our apartment. It would be easy, except, that we would have to be at the train and bus stations on time, and catch the right buses and trains. But I think we could do that. Right?
“Oh no!” declared Marianne, “We could never do that. We would need a private driver-guide. There will be none of this ‘doing it on our own’ thing!
We get in someone’s car and they drive us as close to wherever as they can.
Then that guide will tell us everything we need to know. Then we’ll get back in the car and they will drive back to our apartment in Firenze.” And she, again, left no room for discussion. So after being told to plan the outings and don’t spend too much money, she changed the rules and starts adding on the expenses. Have you seen how much private tours cost?!
Negotiations were reaching ‘critical mass’ and deadlock and it was only the end of October. I guessed it was better just to work on the budget for the trip and figure out how much what we already had were committed to would cost. It took a couple of weekends, but it was Marianne who asked that we work Friday evening into the schedule to do ‘the deed’. Of course that passed by too, so I decided to start the process.

Best Laid Plans
      This was the designated weekend to ‘ratchet-down’ the plans for Italy and see how much this ‘puppy’ was going to set us back, financially. That should have sent up red flags and flares from the start. I spent most of Saturday and Sunday working on computer to get costs, finding a hotel in Rome, and trying to make some sense of our hopes for the Firenze week. Then we would align it with reality. Coupled with yard duties, pad duties, music duties and church it made for a full weekend. The high point was finding a room in Rome to crash in for two nights after we touch down, June 11; the low—not talking to Marianne for about 5 hours.
I had been looking into convents, but found that they cost just as much as a hotel, that there are less amenities and that many have curfews. Not that we will be having a problem with being in the building and sleeping by a certain time. A 9 hour plane trip can wipe anybody out. Jet-lag always hits me hard. I remember my first 13 hour fight to Columbia in college, I slept for 24 hours straight, except a meal, and when a Columbian business man, who was staying in the next door, brought two giggling women to his room sometime during the day—or night.
As I started to really price things out, leaving blanks where meals should be, tallying up the euros and then converting to US dollars, I saw how much this two-week trip was going to ‘cut-into’ my retirement account. Boh (enough)! I was fine with that until Sunday evening when Marianne started looking at airline tickets. She couldn’t find anything through Expedia, Orbits, etc. for under $1,600 a piece! In the proceeding months I was seeing $900 and $1,000, but suddenly, at the end of October, 8 months before the flight, it was going to cost us $3,200 to $4,000 to just get to Italy and back! That was the straw that broke the camels back; suddenly Marianne lost all hope of ever being able to go.
      “So, how much money did you think we are going to spend?!” Marianne whipped at me after net-surfing,  “How much did YOU think we were going to spend!?”
      “Maybe, $12,000?”
      “It’s going to be more like $20,000!!”
      I envisioned a cliff and falling off of it. There was no way out except to fall. Could I let this go so easily? So I blurted out, “Then we aren’t going. Let’s stop all this pretending and just say it. We aren’t going. Thanks to the greed of the airline companies, we won’t be getting our dream trip.”
      “Only rich people can travel! Yelled Marianne. “I am sorry I ever found Fernando and Rosetta’s website.” “It is totally my fault. I shouldn’t have ever gotten us into this.”
      Marianne went into a depression that lasted to the next morning. When she gets like that, I get angry at first, and then I also succumb to depression. Going to bed at 8:30 is not my idea of fun, but if you can’t talk to one another, and everything just gets worse and worse, it’s time to go ‘read’. Really, I worn the hell out of the TV remote trying to find something to watch.
      Anyway, Marianne came to bed around 11 and we made up. The next morning she was still letting things effect her and we started the day off on a sour note. I left confused and hurt and I am sure she was equally wounded. She called at work later on and said how sorry she was, and how it wasn’t fair that she does this to me before I go to work. I told her it was my fault, and that I was sorry. It went back and forth for a few turns of the ’blame game’ and we ended the call with sincere “I love you”s and her promise to make this trip work!

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

The Wrath of God

     I was able to take a soak ever night, which was sure a great and necessary thing.  After working in the yard, during a brief dry spell (two days) I re-irritated my heel.  I was hobbling around again like an old man.  When I submerged in the tub, it was bliss.  I could turn the jets on and float my foot near the rushing bubbles.  It was a rejuvenating heated massage that sure helped my foot. 

     On a Monday evening in mid-November I stepped out for my nightly ritual, I noticed that the wind was starting to build—a sure sign that a new rain front was heading in from the and coast and the gulf of Alaska.  I had a great soak, getting a warming foot rub, and paid little attention to the small gusts of wind that made the canopy over-head rattle.  I lost track of time and my surrounding.  Suddenly the pump stopped working on the spa.  There were absolutely no bubbles at all.  I fiddled with the controls and slowly began to realize what Dennis had meant by “you’ll be calling me.”  I had visions of the old mechanics finally giving up the ghost and dying.  It was twenty years old I thought to myself.  So with some sadness I closed up the tub and dried off. 

     Now, you need to realize that I was limping around in my aqua socks, a baggy pair of swim trunks and a beach towel—in the dark.  I noticed that the wind had picked up and I suddenly had the great for-thought to put the cinder blocks (that I had purchase to use as the foundations for the canopy legs so it cold stand a little taller and be anchored into the cement pad) on the base of each leg just in case the wind got a little rowdy later on in the night.  As I was dragging the last block on to the remaining leg base, a gust of wind wiped up the trees and bushes in the yard and also the canopy.  Actually the wind didn’t just rattle the structure, it picked it up and flipped it over my head in one outstanding maneuver and smashed and crashed it top first into the garden right behind me.  Of course the hot tub cover also went flying over my head and crashed into the canopy and rosebushes as well.  The towel around my shoulders was off and I was left crouching behind the tub in just my swim trunks in the dark—in the wind.

     “Holy mother of God”!  I thought.  I looked behind me and quickly surveyed the damage.  The nylon canopy with its cute little cupola had been smashed down into the rose canes, the legs with their drawn and tied back curtains were bent and tangled at awful angles.  I realized I could not pull it out of the mess—me with the gimpy foot.  This is when adrenaline always seems to kick in for me. 

     I remember back when I was on college summer-break and I got a quick job of moving a large upright grand piano across town.  Long story short, I took a corner too fast in downtown traffic and dumped it in the street.  Here was this half a ton piano, sitting smashed on its keyboard on the pavement.  With two hefty pushes I was able to push it back into the truck and drive off.  Needless to say I had to deliver a check to owner for the pieces-parts that I was able to get the piano restorer to give me for the mess.  Me a piano player—a musician—destroying a beautiful instrument like that.  I still close my eyes in shame after 35 years.

     Back to the dark and the storm and the swim trunks—I grabbed hold of the large and awkward tub cover and wrestled with it, heaving it over my head.  I struggled with it until I got it back on the tub.  Through sheer will, adrenaline, and the very motivating feeling of being really pissed off at the whole situation, I got that thing onto my broken, practically free hot tub.  I grabbed my towel and limbed back into the house thoroughly defeated.  I wrote the whole canopy off as a total loss.  I had no way of even going back on salvaging it that night. 

     I waited until the next afternoon after school.  Marianne and I went hobbling out together and pulled the mangled canopy off the rose canes—ripping shredding the nylon was we went.  The cheap metal from China never had a change of retaining its shape.  Knowing how poorly it was made, there was no hope of bend it back into shape without the mental fatiguing and falling apart.  Now for the tub—I called Dennis knowing that $85 wasn’t gong to cover replacing a pump for an old tub.  When it rains, it pours or when it blows, it really blows…

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

Our Tub Has a History

     In Roseburg there are about three places to get a hot tub and everything that goes with it—chemicals, mechanical, etc.  Some places are newer than others and may not always have the best interests of the ‘needy’ tub owner in mind when they set fees and price chemicals.  The place closest to us, about a mile away, has a great fancy show room with well stocked selves lining the space.  The tub displays are, let’s face it, incredible and very tempting.  These new set-ups are sleek and sexy, with multiple jets and functions as well as chromotheropy (wow colored lights, groovy).  They are all made for one purpose—to soak in or soak as much out of the consumers pocket as possible?

      Marianne had tried to get hold of anyone there that could help us fix the cracks in the shell of the tub.  It had taken about two weeks to actually talk to a real person, who wasn’t very hopeful he could fix the shell without extensive (and costly) renovation.  By accident I stopped into another outfit close to school that does both spas and stoves.  It didn’t sound like a good combination.  Usually selling tubs was an afterthought when stoves weren’t selling, but the place has been in business for at least 25 years.  It is a warehouse space, large and cold inside with nothing pretentious or fancy about it.  The only person there looked like a Roseburg local.  She gave me the name and number of the guy that they’ve used for years for installations and repairs.  A guy named Dennis, who I guessed was a really old guy with bleached hands from dealing with chlorine and chemicals all the time.

     As luck would have it I was off mid-week because of Veteran’s day.  I called the number and a personable guy answered.  He said he was right over the hill in Lookingglass (three miles) and, after installing a pump, could be at the house in a half and hour, since he would be passing by.  He showed up in a black, late eighties paneled van: a guy about 4 inches shorter than me and maybe in his late thirties.  We went out to the tub--me pardoning myself for my absolute ignorance with this kind of mechanicals, and he dismissing any guilt I had for taking a free tub.

    He had barely started looking at the thing and suddenly it was evident he knew his job well.  He looked at the innards, gave a chuckle and a peasant smile.  Oh Lord, I thought, he sees that it’s a pile of crap and that I got taken ‘big time’. 

     “I know this tub,” he said.  “Where did you get it?” 

     “From someone I know over in Hucrest,” I admitted.   “She didn’t want it, but couldn’t get rid of it.  The friend that talked me into this knew a crane operator, etc…”  I briefly gave him our history of the thing.

     “Yes.  I remember,   I live just over the hill from her.  She called up about wanting to get rid of it.  All I had to do was just walk over the hill; she lives right on the other side.  In fact, I probably helped put it in about twenty years ago.  I know these tubs well.  I use to work in their factory in the Portland area.”

     I could not believe it.  He and this tub had a history.  Small world isn’t it?  Dennis went on to tell me how he had come to Roseburg when he was a teenager, went from job to job, and eventually ended up with the spa place over on Garden Valley Boulevard.    The ‘coincidences’ kept piling up.  He was actually pretty amazed we got the tub out and he said it seemed to be fine.  He explained how the mechanical system worked and instantly had it up and running.  He went through everything with me.   All I had to do was give it a couple of days to see if things worked.  He gave me his card and told me to call and tell him how things were working.  We talked about chemicals, the pros and cons of each system--bromine, chlorine, and saline and how old and basic our ‘new’ tub was. 

     I bought him back through the house and had he relate the whole story of his ‘involvement’ with our tub.  Of course, Marianne chimed ‘kismet!’ when he finished.  Dennis and I shook hands and told each other that I was great to have met.  He didn’t charge for the first visit, but said he would be calling on him ‘a lot’.  It’s an old, free tub—with a history.

The First Soak

     That Thursday night after school, I came home and cranked up the heat on the tub.  I had my singing group, The Vintage Singers, until 7:30 so I thought that would be enough time to raise the temperature from an encouraging 70^o to something more appropriate for a first time soak on a 40^o night.  All during the rehearsal, through the Handel runs and the high F’s, I kept anticipating the first time in our own tub.  When I got home, the rubber ducky, the thermometer that came with the tub, read 90^o.  That was good enough for me.  I located my swim suit, my flip flops, and a big towel.  I headed out to the tub, without Marianne, because of her cold that we shared. 

     There still weren’t any steps so I had to hoist myself up onto the edge and swing my feet around.  I bravely put my feet into the hot water and as I lowered them deeper into the tub I thought it seemed warmer than 90^o; maybe it was more like 100^o.  That did not detour me.  In I went up to my shoulders, wincing at the water that nipped at my cold fresh.  Yes it was hotter, but I was in my hot tub, damn it.  The ancient jets worked fine and the blue light under the water gave a get ambiance to the whole experience.  There is something so real and revitalizing about boiling in water on a cold night.  I didn’t last more than ten minutes, but it was great. 

     I love how you aren’t even cold when you get out.  Your body is steaming, but the air you breathe in is crisp.  Once I got in the house and into the shower, I didn’t have any chemicals in the tub and who knows what had been in the pump all this time, did I realize how red my skin was.  I was a little concerned that I may have scalded myself, but I didn’t care, I had a working hot tub—that was practically free!

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

 Poggio Etrusco

     By accident I came across Poggio Etruscan run by Pamela Sheldon Johns while I was searching a hotel, B & B, Agriturismo, or anything that we could stay in for 2 or 3 nights after we were through in Firenze.  I know.  It was just a dream and not at all connected with reality.  I thought that if we had the extra money, we could hold up somewhere cheap and either take a bus or a train there, or if things really worked out—a car.  It could workout great.  Stay somewhere with a pool and a frattoria near by and I could spend the day sketching and painting and Marianne could have reposo any time she wanted.  It would have to be either near Firenze or near a train station.

     First, I looked in the Vagliagli area in Chianti, because, of course, Dario Castagno wrote about it so wonderfully in his “A Day in Tuscany” and also his first book, “Too Much Tuscan Sun”.  You can’t find cheap, close, and short term in Chianti—it doesn’t seem to exist.  I did find Amina, an Agriturismo, but the reviews from previous guests made it very questionable.  Also, the bus really didn’t stop close—a car was needed.  I found the search site Verene, and Italian company that lists all sorts of stays.  I found a handful, but wasn’t really impressed with the cheap ones.  I mean, come on, these extra days could be inexpensive, couldn’t they?

      By some quirk of fate, I found a little ‘Agri’ outside of Montepulciano—the first place Franc Mate and his wife Candace lived (“The Hills of Tuscany”).  Actually, that Montepulciano address was a come-on of sorts, the ‘Agri’ is east of the village of Sant Albino.  The quirky website caught my eye.  The owners, Pamela Sheldon Johns (writer of cookbooks and her artist husband, Johnny—were Americani!  It had a pool, 4 apartments and a Bed & Breakfast “matrimonial” room, the Margherita, rented by the day—two days minimum.  The Poggio Etrusco is a 15 acre organic farm where guests are encouraged to pick the seasonal fruit.  It is accessible from Chiusi, a major train station, and there’s a Hertz rental-a –car there as well.  I checked the Google map to see if the roads would be navigable for a ‘newbie’ Italian driver.  They could be driven—15 miles, not too many corners, two main roads, and two towns.  I could do that.  Hell, even Marianne could do that. 

     Two very desirable things Poggio Etrusco had going for it was how close it was to other places that I would love to explore, and Pamela, a cook, gives classes.  I could go for walks, do my artist thing and Marianne could take a cooking class.  What could be more perfect?  Oh did I mention the room cost € 85?  That’s $127.50 a night—by far better than the other places that were over €100 a night.  If I wanted to take the car to Montepulciano, La Foce, the Mate winery south of Montalcino, or even visit Julian at his art conclave east of Chiusi, it would be an hour’s drive or less.  I could take my sketchpad, or paints, and stop anytime I got the urge.  Three days in the bucolic bliss of the Italian countryside and I would be able to go back to Oregon a happy (rich in spirit and soul only) man.  If Marianne learned some authentic Tuscan recipes--all the better!

     The possibilities were just getting better and better.  I found reviews by former guests and they are raved about the place.  One couple had been there twice.  I checked the location several times on Google Earth and finally located Poggio Etrusco.  There it was, in the country, and I could actually walk farm lanes and explore, and maybe even see a deserted ‘podere’.  Isn’t the resolution on Google’s satellite maps an amazing thing? 

     Of course, an abandoned farmhouse can only mean one thing, a project—a fixer-upper.  I stopped and held myself back.  “Damn Francis Mayes, Franc Mate, Phil Doran and those others who have already ‘suckered’ us ‘dreamers’ into thinking if they did it, why can’t I?”  I quickly sent an email to the John’s, hoping they would have the Margherita room available that Saturday, Sunday and Monday. 

Hello:
Found Poggio Etrusco through web searching; it looks beautiful.  I was
pleased to read that there is a car rental in Chiusi (and train station).My wife and I are in Umbria/Tuscany for two weeks in June of 2010.  We have accommodations for the first two weeks but may want to rent a car and say two or three nights more (so I can sketch and paint).It looks like the Margherita (A matrimonial room for bed & breakfast stays. Private bathroom and private entrance, Euro 85/night) might work
for us.  Please let us know if the room is available June 26, 27, & 28.
Thank you so much for your help.

    Realistically, I didn’t think there was a chance on God’s green earth we could get it.  Still, if we had the money, it was worth a shot.  I looked on it as my ‘secret fantasy’:  Walking a dirt road, the din of cicadas, a variety of Tuscan birds singing, sun on my face, distant views of Lago Trasimeno, and avoiding snakes.  It would be private dream.  I probably couldn’t tell Marianne.  It would just be something to get me through the long fall days, while school, church, and the ‘hot tub’ saga worn on. 

     No sooner than I had gotten home from work and I had an answer:

Sounds like you are planning a great trip, and I am glad you have found us! I do have Margherita available. If you would like to reserve, please send a deposit of 50%, a check for $190 payable to ITALIAN FOOD ARTISANS (Euro 127.50 converts to $190), and mail it to 27 W Anapamu St #427, Santa Barbara, CA 93101. The balance of Euro 127.50 will be due on arrival and payable in euros (cash preferred) or with Visa or MasterCard.
Regarding the rental car, I suggest you check rates at Auto Europe. They will beat other rental companies' price and use the vendors at Chiusi.

Pamela included her website:

      www.FoodArtisans.com
      Pamela's cookbooks and workshops in Italy
      US office (805) 963-7289
Their business address:
       www.Poggio-Etrusco.com
       Organic extra-virgin olive oil
       Agriturismo  (Bed & Breakfast) in Tuscany
       Tel/Fax (39) 0578 798 370
And, of course, Johnny’s website:
       www.JohnnyJohns.com
       Johnny's Tuscan-inspired artwork

     Gulp!  The ‘what if’ happened and I didn’t think it would.  How was I going to talk Marianne into this?  There was that moment of ‘I’ve been caught in the cookie jar’ kind of realization.  She could go ‘ballistic’ if I just sprung it on her.  Would we be able to swing this, too?  I was afraid to even think about it. We would really have to hop a train in Firenze and rent a car in Chiusi and drive to Poggio Etrusco.  Could we even?  How do I get into these predicaments, I’ll never know.

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

Moving the Tub—Electric Too

     Actually getting the tub onto the concrete pad was the easiest part of the whole job.  I called six guys on the first Wednesday morning in November, before it had to get it in place because the ‘monsoons’ would start in earnest the next day (that’s what the weather guy said) and the electrician was showing up on Friday at 8 AM.  The moving brigade got there at 6:15 PM, in the dark because of the end daylight savings time, and we moved the hot tub into place, measuring to try and center in on the pad and over the pipe for the wiring.  By the dim glow of the 60 watt florescent porch light, and one flash light, it took five minutes, tops.  I even got them to put the cheap Big Lots (Big Lots of Crap) canopy in place over the tub so it wouldn’t be too wet when the guy started working on the wiring, in two days.  No one tripped in the dark and I didn’t hurt any other part of my body.  The best thing that happened was friends from church and the theater came together to accomplish what I certainly could not.  The worst things that happened were I was late for choir rehearsal and mud from seven assorted shoes and boots got tracked through the house.  Small price to pay, I’d say.

     The electricians came by on that Friday and in short order, installed the necessary components and the tub was ready to go.  Well, almost.  I still had to fill it.  Since the back facet was leaking, so much more generously then when it was ‘repaired’ by the plumber two summers ago, I stuck the hose into the tub and closed the dismal looking lid.  After one day, there seemed to be enough water outside the tub on the concrete slab to tell me we had a leakage issue.  However, on further inspection of the mechanics of the system, I found an outflow or drainage value that was open, and there was a cap that could be screwed on the end of the plastic pipe. 

     The next day there was water in the tub and not much, you have to remember “it rains” (piove— a new Italian word) in Oregon most of the fall and winter), so I was half way convinced the cracks in the plastic shell of the tub were merely cosmetic.  The pump and mechanics, however, did not work.  I tried with my limited skills to press buttons, turn knobs, and slide levers, but nothing would work.  Yup, this is why it was free.

   By November, Marianne had established a ritual for our Monday night Italian classes.  We would do a quick study at home, grab all our books and materials, pile into the car, then stop and have dinner at a Chinese place on the way.  We would converse in Italian, using an English-Italian dictionary, and go over lessons while eating Mar Far and Fried Rice—special #1.  As it turned out, the waitress that always waited on us was the mother of a former student.  Zi Ru, a Chinese National, who was about the best student I ever had.  She was amazing. 

     Zi Ru came to school, not speaking any English.  She was bright and quick, and she had a real heart and aptitude for music.  It was wonderful to watch her grow into a musician that devoured anything I gave her.  She picked up the recorder and played it better than anyone in her class.  After her fourth grade year, she spoke fine English and was both respectful and polite.  Everyone liked her and she fit in well--just a really neat kid.  Her mom gave us up dates ever time we came into the restaurant.  Marianne thinks she’ll be a doctor.  A musical doctor is what I hope.

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

Conversing In Italian, “Ciao, Bella Gina”

     Marianne and I did something quite uncommon for us—we signed up of a night class:  Beginning Italian.  It was uncommon because we are usually either doing theatre at night or singing or directing choir for me.  It has been taught for years at UCC (Umpqua Community College) our local JC by Jean Melo. 

     Now, Jean Melo and I go back a long ways.  She was my teaching partner at Winchester Elementary School in Roseburg, Oregon in the 1990’s.  I had her kids in school when they first settled here from a cross-country move from Connecticut.  Jean is a force of nature, an incredibly versatile pianist, outstanding musician (including accordion), and speaks Italian like she was born there.  She has also been very persuasive. Extremely so.  She was after me for years to take her beginners class.  In late September we succumbed to her constant invitations and signed up for the class.

    Jean and Wes, her husband lived near Pisa while he did his service.  “Close” to the Field of Miracles really turned out to be four miles, or so, but since I live in Oregon, USA; I thought four was close and convenient.  She relished her time in Tuscany, and made many friends.  Many she goes back to see every year.  The couple they usually end up staying with live on Elba—Napoleon’s exile isle.  “Sort of looks like a sardine, doesn’t it?”  She quibbled as we started to look at the map of Italia.  She is thorough.  Not only were we getting Italian to use, but we were getting a geography lesson, culture lesson, and history thrown it for good measure.   I relished it.

     Gina loves to give her insights into the Italian culture and La bella figura.  I hang on her every word.  I fall off the cliff when she “rapid-fires” Italian questions and answers like notes from a Mozart opera overture—too many!?!  One night in class she started talking about driving in Italy and how vastly different it is to drive with Italians since the carbonating have begin to ‘crack-down’ on native-born drivers—levying heavy traffic fines on them for driving infractions. 

     “Before,” she said, “You took your life in your hands, and certainly got out of their way if you ever saw one coming.  They were terrible.”

     “Like, yellow means go faster, and red just a suggestion?” offered Marianne.

      “Si!  Now, they are courteous and almost respectful because they understand the ‘consequences’ better.”

     Later that evening at home I asked Marianne if Jean’s comments encouraged her at all about trying to drive in Tuscany.  She took the crossword she was working on and raised it up over her face so I could not see a reaction.  Well I guess a got my answer on that topic.  I would try to keep building my case later.

Those Happy Feudal Days

    Gina was running through words and phrases in class and came across la conto, the bill. 

     “First,” she says, “you must always ask for the bill at a ristorante.  They will never bring it to you.  Never.  You have to ask for it.”

     “Or mime writing on the palm of your hand,” added Marianne. 

     “Did you know that the ‘Count’ comes from conto, to count, keep track of.  In the feudal times the Count was charged by the Duke to go out and count all the peasants things.  The grain sacks, livestock, wine barrels, everything, and then the Duke would get 95% of it all.  That’s why the rich were very rich and the poor, well, the poor got babies.  Even today, the aristocracy won huge amounts of land.  The nobles always got the best jobs, all that sort of thing.  Although it’s not so bad, my husband, Wes, got to go on a hunt with a rich count-type and ended up shooting a wild boar (cinghale).  He even got knighted, a cross of boars’ blood on the forehead.  But that’s another story…”

Thanksgiving, Italian-Style

    “Felice Ringraziegiorno!” One week before Thanksgiving, Gina related her experience with having some loving Italian ‘la nonna’ make Thanksgiving dinner for them. 

     “She wanted to do it so badly.  She was ‘molto dolce’.  First, for the turkey--it was stuffed with a basic hamburger--meatloaf mixture.  She refused to us a bread stuffing; it was revolting to her Italian senses.  Weird, yes, but it was so tasty, “coma gustoso”.” 

     Gina shows the hand ‘language’ that goes with it—a pointer finger (thumb out fingers curled over) against the cheek.  It looked just like our “I’m so cute and adorable” sign. 

     “The hamburger ‘infused’ into the poultry and made it so moist and flavorful.  Mmmm, delizioso!  The pumpkin pie, however, was a totally foreign idea.  Mamma sliced up the pumpkin, laid the pieces into a pie shell, and the result was, non delizioso.  No, no, no.  It was pretty much a disaster.”

Hot Tub Up-Date 

     The gravel came in two loads, and even though my left knee complained about it, I hauled it all to the back yard and tamped it down.   Over the next week I got the form in place and waited for the ‘flying hot tub”.  I had to tear out the free-stand trellises and rip the healthy vines (wisteria and clematis) off of them in order for the tub to get to the patio.  After two or three mis-starts, on a sunny Thursday in mid-October, Leonard got the hot tub into the back yard.  Marianne was at home and said she was too afraid to go out and look at the process.  If I had been off work that day, I would have loved to watch the whole production.  She said she saw a shadow cross the skylight on the south side of the house, and did see the tub gracefully descend and land on the small patio on back.  Wonderful!  So we now had a 7’ x 7’ tub on a 9’x 9’ patio.  We could almost get out the back door and get around it.  Fine.  Now all that was left was getting the 10” by 10” slab poured.

   The following week, I had a non-contract Friday (the first of four furlough days and the beginning of the decrease in my 23-year salary), so I was bound and determined to get the whole thing done, poured, etc. and the weather looked like it was going to cooperate.  I called a few young, strong guys, because I knew I couldn’t really do the physical labor.  Curiously, I woke that Friday morning, after a four week aggravation of gout (yes gout!) in my left big toe, with a ‘discomfort’ in my right heel.  It hoped it had been bed sheets too tightly tucked into the mattress. No such luck.  By the afternoon, I knew I had a ‘re-visitation’ of an old Achilles tendon/bone spurs on my heel problem.  I struggled through two visits to that hell-(p)-ful place, Lowes, to get things for the concrete form and the tub, and then had to return them because I ‘blithely’ believed what the clerk had told me, when it wasn’t what I needed.  Ahh, box-stores—don’t get me started. 

     Saturday, I had to go to “Wally-World” for more things, and had to walk the half mile to the front of the store to get a cart.  Then, because they ‘improved’ the store since I was there last, I had to walk around the whole mile and a half to find the few things I needed.  By then I couldn’t believe the pain my heel was in.  I was so out of it as I passed through the food section; I grabbed a bag of toll house cookie dough, something I never do, thinking ‘I have to get a treat for this torture’.  Needless to say, after cleaning the tub, and digging out the gravel to support the concrete form, I canceled the work party and opened a bottle of Gabbiano Classico and had my own party.

    I couldn’t believe the pain I had Sunday morning, having to go to church, direct choir and sing.  I had to use a cane and stand on the ball of my right foot.  God got my through that one.  It went home and actually rested.  Unfortunately, I knew that night I could not teach the next day, so I had to drive across town at 6 A.M. to school to call for a sub and make lesson plans.  Luckily, Cain, the Site Operator was there and had the gate to campus already open.  I still had to get out of the car, open it and drive around to the music room.  I never realized how big my small music room was until I had to hobble around it to get things ready.  I got the business done and out of the room before the other teachers started to show up and 7:30. 

     I went home and crashed for an hour.  With Marianne’s help, I then I spend the next four and a half hours (that is not an exaggeration) getting into to see a doctor at the ‘Urgent-Care’ center, because my doctor was—out of town, again.  I found out I have probably broken my heel (as well as the bone spurs) and was referred to a Podiatrist.  The P.A. prescribed prednisone and walking-cast bootie. 

     When you get one of these things, at first, you can’t walk in it.  Later when you get the ’rhythm’ of the thing going it does a curious thing.  It either blows-out your knee or hip because of the contorted, unnatural way it makes you walk.  It chose my right hip.  There was absolutely no position, standing, sitting, or reclining that offered pain relief.  So, one week to the day after I woke up with a heel problem I now had a hip problem--an excruciatingly painful hip problem that kept me from sleeping for at least five nights.  Ain’t modern medicine a miracle?  Needless to say, it put the concrete project back two weeks, and the electric was now backed up into November.

And While We’re There… (September/October 2009)

     By September, things were totally ‘on course’ for Italy and the only things we had yet to decide on were what tours to take while in Florence, and what airlines and flight number we would have.  Little things like getting train tickets to Florence or to the airport, finding places to stay when we got to Rome and to Florence didn’t seem like a problem anymore since we had Fernando and the Calzaiuoli apartment.  Heck, I thought, let’s ‘go for broke’ and try a third week, rent a car and stay in a little agriturismo somewhere in Tuscany so I could paint. 

     After reading the press advances on Michael Tucker’s new book, “Family Meals”, I felt bold enough to write him again and tell him we we’re going to be in the neighbor, figuratively, the following June.  To my surprise, he responded in only days this time.

     Hi David and Marianne,

     Actually, one of the themes of the new book is our attempt to give Jill's mom a good last chapter without sacrificing our lives in the process.  Not always easy but I think we show it can be done.  

     Have fun at Lake Trasimeno.  Stay in touch.

     Mike

     The theme of giving your parents a ‘good last chapter’ has rung so true with me and Marianne.  We have lost all our parents.  Both our dads passed in 2001.  My dad, CR, had a long bout with cancer.  My brothers and I took turns caring for him, although it took me a day to get there.  He never made it to 9-11.  Marianne’s father, John, did; it was his birthday.  He was so angry that “they did that” on his birthday, I think it lead to his death.  Her father lived with us for five years.  In his nineties, John required a lot of care, and eventually had to be moved into an assisted living facility.  He fell out of bed one day, breaking his pelvis, and never recovered.  We came and saw him in the hospital when he died.  He looked so surprised, eyes wide in wonder at what would happen next.  In 2007, my mother was dropped while assistants were getting her into bed at her care facility.  The fall shattered her right femur and sent blood clots through her body.  She died three days later.

     I could tell that Michael Tucker was dealing with the same life issues we were, but I don’t think that he knew what he was actually saying when he wrote ‘stay in touch’.  Me?  The OCD guy?  I didn’t think that was going to be appropriate for me to keep sending him emails and updates.  Marianne cautioned me to keep it ‘low-key’ and “don’t scare the guy”.  I dropped the idea of responding to his email and thought I might send him another after I read his book.  Good plan.

     Through what I consider a ‘fluke’, I got a copy of Tucker’s newest book, “Family Meals” from Amazon in mid-October, even though its release date was set for November.  I devoured the book in four days.  When you are sitting around waiting for your next pain med’s, you have some extra reading time.  I had another bout with my Achilles tendon and was put in a walking boot, which in-turn irritated and inflamed the bursa around my right hip.  I literally couldn’t sleep for a week.

     The book was great.  I started out hoping that there would be just a whole lot about Umbria, but it took on this totally different direction.  He got into the ‘nitty-gritty’ of what all of us ‘baby-boomers’ have been dreading:  the aging and, inevitable, death of our parents.  He tied it in with theatre, which is always a ‘draw’ for me and Marianne.  Marianne found it to be a bit ego-centered on Tucker’s part.  She said, “It seemed to all about him, how it affected him, and not the family and Jill’s mother.”

    Of course, I had to let him know, via email, Sunday afternoon, what I thought: 

Mr. Tucker, Mr. Tucker:

Thank you. "Family Meals" is a feast. Sharing ones personal life can be tough, but you handle it with such wisdom, passion, and wit. It is your best book yet. Your writing has reached another level. I got the book Wed. and finished it on Saturday -- a record for me. I must admit that all I wanted was more tastes and smells of Italy, but you gave us real life. Grazie.

Although both our parents are passed, I relate completely with your family dealings with Jill's mother, Lora. We love her very much, by the way (watch out for the left hook!). Ending your book with waiting in the wings to go on stage resonates deeply in both our lives, even though we are amateur theatre, we still know "where you both are". We have been involved with several productions of Gurney's "Love Letters" and it is in our hearts. What I got from the book was the change in your family dynamic. In “Living in a Foreign Language” you were a couple with cameo appearances by you kids.  Now you are now a ‘nuclear’ family.  So Italian.

David and Marianne Jones

His response followed the next morning.

Dear David and Marianne,

Thank you so much.  You are my first review!  I'm so pleased with your response to the book - you made our morning.

Mike

Prego.