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

Firenze Complete!

     About the middle of October we had secured a room for two nights in Roma after we get in from the airport.   I felt I really needed to contact Marianna and Maxillian and, oh so politely, asked if the Calzaiuoli apartment was available for the Saturday that we had no place to stay.  I figured it couldn’t hurt to at least inquire.  I could imagine Marianna on the other end of the email, opening my request with distain once she remembered that “rude Americano’.   This incredibly thin business woman in her latest “Milano fall fashion” power suit, with more gold jewelry than any one has a right to wear, shooting back her mid-morning espresso in one quick swallow, sighing with disgust that “these ‘Americani’ they just want more!?”

     When two weeks past, I thought she was doing the typical Italian thing-- tomorrow is better than today.  After three I realized that Marianna was probably not going return my email so I contacted Cristina Galardi—Signore Andrea’s representative.  In my email, I again literally through myself on the floor with apology for even asking or daring to think we could ask for and other night.  It took her one day:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jones 

for us it is not a problem to rent you the appartement on 19 giugno because it is 

available. 

I will give you the exact amount for your staying and i will send you the link to do 

payment with credit card. 

Looking forward to see you in Florence I send you my kindest regards 

Cristina Galardi

     I couldn’t believe how things were really starting to come together.  We had even been approached by two other couples we know and a widowed lady (unlike any widow you’ve ever met) that I use to teach with, all asking about joining us in Firenze.  Amici in Italia--la divertimento!

‘Tub Dreams’ – Hot Water Soaks and Vacation Plans

     One thing you really have to be cautious about when you have a spa tub, besides keeping the chemicals balanced, are the day dreams, or as I like to call them – Tub Dreams.  They can take over ones capacity to reason and deal with the real world more quickly and insidiously than any book or movie could ever do.  On those cold November evenings, when I never missed an opportunity to get in a soak, no matter how short, relaxing and kicking back in the spa can be a mind-altering experience.

     When the temperature is in the high 90s and the bubbles are really churning up the water, dangerous thoughts can seep into ones brain.  Dangerous thoughts like now that we have two weeks planned what about a third week in Tuscany.  Looking up at the stars in the late November sky, my mind wandered forward to night skies in June in the land of the Etruscans.  Getting out into the countryside is what everyone from Máté, Mayes to Steves recommends.  Knowing that  Marianne could not possible have one leg to stand on when it came to driving around the rural parts of Tuscany, why couldn’t we combine public transportation and a rental car and stretch this trip to three weeks.  I mean, if the tickets were going to cost an arm and a leg (and my right testicle) why not stay on Italian soil as long as we possibly could.  We could stay in convents and seminaries, eat bread and cheese, and explore all that is the “real” Italy. 

     As I would soak in the hot water, I could imagine us catching a train out of Santa Marie Novella station and traveling to Lucca.  We could spend three nights a ostel, use the town’s bus system to travel, catching the handy bus that you pick up just off Piazza Verdi and traveling to Pisa and the leaning Torre.  Those Italian’s have made it so easy.  For €3, $4.50 each, it drops you off right in front of the Campo dei Miracoli and the whole reason for checking out Pisa, according to Steves.  I cautioned myself, that it traveled back and forth between the two cities only once every hour and missing “the bus” could have its problems and ramifications—stuck it Pisa which is apparently not terribly scenic or be-loved as, let say Firenze, but is still special to the Pisans—whom apparently no other Tuscan city trusts. 

     Of course, getting in line to climb the Torre is a whole other story.  The basic cost for you doing the aerobic workout of 294 steps is €15 plus a €2 on-line booking fee, $25.50, must be well worth it.  Right?  Apparently you can make a reservation on-line, but no less than 15 days before your visit and no more than 45.  Also, you have to be there a half an hour earlier, plus 15 minutes earlier for some other reason.  It’s all very Pisan and I don’t begin to understand it.  Getting up the Torre is the ultimate goal.  And, if you want to get into the Duomo, baptistery or cemetery all of them will set you back €10 a person or $15.  It’s there “combo” ticket.  Sounds American doesn’t it?

     Lucca has similar deals with their attractions.  A $9 ticket gets you into the Duomo, its museum and San Giovanni.  Another combo ticket, the one I was most interested in, was the tower “package”—the clock tower and the Guinigi tower—the one with the trees growing on top of it.  This is the tower you see in most panoramas of Lucca.  I have always found it intriguing and promised myself, if I ever got to that city I would climb the tower, all 227 steps, just to take in the surrounding views while seating in a shaded garden.   There is so much to see and experience in Lucca.  This unique and often over-looked Tuscan city is apparently a Romanesque ‘Linzer torte wedding cake’ architecture with a surrounding wall that is used to bike and stroll around the old city.  “A perfect end” to our Tuscan holiday is what I thought.  We could take the train to Pisa airport and fly out on Tuesday, June 29^th and be home on July 1^st.

     But…  What if we were able to extend our time, win the Powerball, or pull everything out of the retirement account?  We could then venture on and really get to know the country and its people.  What about heading to Empoli, getting a economical rental car and heading into the hills to the southwest at Certaldo?  Less than an hour away is San Gimignano, and another 40 minutes away lies Volterra.  These two cities have been high on my list of places to experience since I first laid eyes on them years ago.  San Gimignano, with its 11^th century towers, is always described as the Medieval “Manhattan” with its ‘skyscrapers’.  And Volterra, its many attractions-- the Etruscan gates, Roman ruins, and medieval fortress with its idyllic Tuscan hilltop-town charm, it’s no wonder that the author of “Twilight” (that romantic-Vampire-schlock phenomenon) set part of the book there.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, the producers of “New Moon” actually chose Montepulciano for its locals rather than Volterra.  “Non importante.”  The beautiful Volterra has still been over-run by vampire lovers who congregate in weird conventions at various times of the year, hoping to make sleepy little Volterra a vampire “Mecca”.  Oh please…

      I imagined that Marianne and I could also spend three nights in Volterra, possibly at the Seminary Vescovile Sant’Andrea for €36 ($54) a night.  Then we could explore the city and ‘neighboring’ San Gimignano at our leisure.  I could get out and photograph and paint, while Marianne explored alabaster shops and lounged and an outdoor café, sipping an espresso.  In the evening we could descend upon an enoteca I really want to experience—La Vena di Vino.  This place, run by friends Bruno and Lucio, seems to be a hub of down right partying, with a very rustic décor and countless bras hanging from the ceiling.  I could just imagine how unique this place could be, how much vino could be consumed and how much we could have.

     From there, we would head east, southeast, taking in the hill towns of Casole d’Elsa, the Abby of San Galgano near Monticiano, then south, through the northern fringe of the Maremma region, pass through Civitella Paganico and Paganico, head up past Monte Antico, maybe visit Castello di Banfi in Campigliano, turn near Tavernelle and past La Villa to the Máté winery.  Ferenc is the writer specializing in Tuscan ‘adventure’s and sailing novels.  His is like me, the dreamer of the family.  After purchasing the old Friary outside of La Villa (near Montalcino), restoring it, and painstakingly returned the vines and winery to a productive state, his  painter wife, Candace, turned out to be the one with the nose—the sommelier.  Ferenc says he’s just the hired help while Candace, and their son Buster, now off at college, really made the winery happen. Now Ferenc Máté keeps claiming that their wines are great and the 10 year old winery charges as much.  The 2009 “Wine Spectator” rated four of the five of latest MÁTÉ releases in the 90s:    91 Máté Brunello di Montalcino 2004

Shows plum jam, with cooked fruits and flowers on the nose. Medium- to full-bodied,
with soft and sweet tannins and a pretty berry and vanilla aftertaste. Hard not to drink
now, but give it a little bit of bottle age. Best after 2010.  400 cases made. —JS

91 Máté Merlot Sant'Antimo Mantus 2006

Blackberry and hints of green olive on the nose. Full-bodied, with chewy tannins and a
fruity finish. Very fruity and juicy; excellent depth of fruit. Needs time to soften. Best after
2011. 325 cases made. —JS

90 Máté Syrah Sant'Antimo Banditone 2006

Blackberry, spice and hints of vanilla on the nose. Full-bodied, with polished, soft tannins
and a long, flavorful finish.  No problem with Syrah character here. Best after 2010. 100
cases made. —JS

90 Máté IGT Toscana Albatro 2006

Fascinating aromas of blackberry and dried flowers. Full-bodied, with silky and sweet
tannins and a long, delicious finish. Slightly jammy. Very pretty. Sangiovese and Merlot.

Best after 2011. 275 cases made. —JS

It’s not that I know a lot about wines, but I always get the K & L Wine Distributors’ monthly releases and anything in the 90s seem to be good.  I doubted whether I had ever had any wine that rated in the 90s before—and more importantly, would I ever.  I then thought, wouldn’t it be great to actually buy these wines from Ferenc and Candace in Montalcino.  No way!

     Maybe, we could get out to the Mate winery, without having shot our mortgage too badly, and blithely wind our way up to Montalcino and stay at a very inexpensive Bed and Breakfast, like Il sogno del Musicista--€60 ($90).  It wouldn’t be hard to find something to eat there or a place to get some good wine—Marianne and I are dying to taste a real Brunello when Fernando takes us to Montalcino on Monday June 15^th. 

     The next we could push on east, maybe taking in the Abbey Sant’Antimo, the incredible beauty of Castiglione d'Orcia, head on and drive up the famous switch-back hill outside of La Foce, check out the gardens and grounds there and head east to Chianciano, and finally Chiusi.  The Albergo La Sfinge --€65 ($97.50) could be in the budget.  Chiusi is another tiny hilltop town that has a major Etruscan past.  Not only does Chiusi boast an Archaeological museum, the Cathedral museum, and underground attractions like the Mueso Civico (Etruscan water works), but is a major hub of train travel—connecting to every part of the ‘big boot’.  He we could ditch the car a take the train back to Pisa and the airport or all the way back to Fiumicino in Rome, where we started.

     Or we could take the trains, via stops in Orte and Spoleto up to Campello sui Clitunna and stay in Fortanella at a B & B that Michael Tucker and Jill Eikenberry stayed at when they first came to Umbria (Living in a Foreign Language).  Albergo Rist.Fontanelle Di G.Spitella is € 78 ($115) a night, but if they is a shuttle transport of some sort to Spoleto, Marianne and I could part-take in the Festival of Two Worlds that runs for two weeks starting the last weekend of June and spilling into July.  This is the festival created by my favorite (use to be living) contemporary opera compose, Gian Carlo Menotti.   We could experience the things that Tucker writes about in his books and then catch the train to Fiumicino and get home by July 5^th or so.  Oh wait, that’s over four weeks…   

     My mind was racing with all the possibilities.  Maybe we could even drive the car down and across Umbria.  We should stay a night at Poggio Etrusco, outside of Sant’Albino first.  No, wait, they want a two night minimum.  My mind reeled with the possibilities.  It was then I realized that I had been in the hot tub far too long and that not only was my skin shriveling to the consistency of a prune, probably my brain was as well.  I ended the spa session of the evening and decided to ‘casually’ track details and costs of my flights of fancy at a leisurely pace.  After all, it was Thanksgiving week and there were other priorities, like the dinner and Black Friday sales to decide upon.

     Candace Máté seemed to very busy on Black Friday, here in the states, catching up with correspondence and putting out PR for the new wine a Mate Winery.  I got two ads for their new wine, and an opportunity to have Ferenc autograph a copy of his new book, but since I had already read it and reviewed it at his request, I’d hoped I could actually meet him in June.  Candace wrote:

Dear David and Marianne - 

Many thanks for your interest in our wines. I apologize for not writing back sooner, 

but this is a busy season.  We have a small winery so we can't give "tours" as large 

wineries often do, but we do set aside 

an hour at the end of each work day for tastings and sales. Could I please ask you 

to write back to us in April? June is quite far off for us to schedule a reservation. 

I'm sending you a mailing (from another e-mail) - in case you're interested. 

I look forward to meeting you in June. 

best regards, 

Candace Máté

I emailed her back and thanked her for her response.  Because she is a painter, even doing the artwork for the labels, as well as being the business end of the winery, I had to ask if she was still painting:

Hi David - 

Thanks for the kind words about the labels. Unfortunately I don't have to time 

to paint - this wine stuff is very demanding. Hopefully, one day, we'll break 

even and I can hire someone and return to my painting. 

See you in June, 

Candace 

She really said June!!!

     Parts and pieces of my ‘tub dreams’ seemed to keep falling into place—or a least in cyber space and the space between my ears.  So, on the first evening that I got Marianne into the hot tub (steps being delivered and securely in place, courtesy of our friend Leonard) I casually broached the subject of extending the ‘Grand Tour’ beyond the “two-week golden line of demarcation”.  It, course, came as no shock to her.  Every time we had talked about visiting other places when we talked to our friends, or my hinting that “maybe we shouldn’t rush the Firenze week and try to do a Pisa train trip or a San Gimignano-Volterra until after we are out of the apartment on that Saturday”, it was crystal clear to her that I wanted an extension—if we could afford it. 

     I explained the research I had done and cautioned her that this was just a “tub dream” and nothing more.  The idea of not having to lug luggage around with us in Pisa appealed to both of us, and the relaxed timbre of a stay in another small city, even “Lucca!” was not that alarming to her.  I started to suggest the ostello, and it nearly ended the conversation. 

     “We would have to stay in a B & B or a hotel! (“o-tell” as she now picked-up saying from Italian class) --an albergo. 

     “We’re not staying in a youth ostello.”  Marianne stated firmly.

     “No, no, no,” I interjected lightly, trying to save the moment, “these have private apartments with their own baths.”  I had also found Albergo Diana for €60 a night—with the Rick Steves discount.

     “Well, maybe.”  She sounded very skeptical.

     “I was just trying to save money.  I guess I’ll go back to the Rick Steves and try to find something we could both be happy with, if you want.”

     “This sounds like more than just a “pipe dream”, she stated with that quizzical look that told me I could cross the line here any second.

    “You, know we could take the train after that to Pisa or Empoli, rent a car and drive up to San Gimignano-Volterra.”  I offered as a peace offering.

     “I would be doing the driving,” she cut in, “and I want a Fiat.”

       “Okay.”  I said.  “What every it takes,” I thought.

     Now, long before I married or even meet Marianne, she and her second husband, Bob, owned a Fiat--a 124 Fiat (baby blue –black ragtop).  She always treasured it, and I am sure I would have loved it too, but she would have been doing the driving.  I just let her run with that idea, letting her rival in the ideal of speeding through the Tuscan country side, waving at all the policemen as she sped past them.  I knew full well that a Fiat would cost “billions” to rent, but, for now, I let her enjoy the fantasy.

     This was great.  She was warming up to the idea.  In a few weeks I could give her my “Grand Tour” package-deal and plans would start to ‘gel’ for the third week.  Right now we would have to strict with the second week plans and ‘nail them down’.  Details like what day we were going to which museum, when we could go to the opera, what day for Donetella and Chianti.  All of which had to be getting firmed up sooner and not later.  Now the primary task that needed to get done was getting the money out of the retirement account and into the bank accounts of Cristina, Fernando and Rosetta, or we wouldn’t be going anywhere.  Oh, and buying the blessed airline tickets.  I couldn’t wait for that adventure.

     So on the first Wednesday night in December, right after dinner and right before choir practice, Marianne began talking about calling the travel agent in the morning to have an agent help us get plane tickets.  I was so pleased that she was ready to move forward with plans.  I had set aside Thursday evening to call the broker and commit half of the retirement fund to Italian fun and depravity. 

     I began talking about my search for public transportation in the towns of San Gimignano and Volterra.  I had found that there was an electric bus that made a triangular trek around San Gimignano and would be great for Marianne to ride into the town without having to ascend the hill into town.  All she would have to do is take the bus from the southern gate, Porta San Giovanni, up to Piazza Della Cisterna.  I cold walk the hill and she could wait at the step of the well in the square, maybe getting a gelato and an espresso, she interjected.  I told her that Rick Steves suggests visiting San Gimignano after four o’clock—when the tourists leave.  So what are we?--she chimed in.

     Rick Steves is very quick to tell everyone how touristy the town is and how greedy to make a buck the town’s folk are.   However, he does think it’s a wonderful example of medieval splendor and not to be missed.  From reading his comments about San Gimignano, you have to wonder if he likes the actual town more or the inhabitants—including the tourist--less.

     “So why don’t we rent a car in Lucca while we are staying there, see Pisa, then drive to San Gimignano and stay in Volterra,” asked Marianne--like she had just thought that up.

     “That’s sounds great,” I said, playing along with her. 

     “Then we could drive the car back to Lucca and take the train to Pisa and fly out of the airport there.”

     “I think that works well.  You know, we could drive from Volterra to Montalcino, stop at the Máté winery, and other Brunello wineries, then spend a night in Montalcino, I found a B & B called “Il sogno del Musicista” that is only €60 a night--$90.”

     “But Fernando is taking us to Montalcino the first week!”

     “Yes, but he isn’t taking us to Máté winery, just the town.”  I reminded her about the invitation from Candace Máté.  She really seemed to like that idea.     

     “We could also visit the two Abbey’s San Galgano (Monticiano) on the way and Sant’Antimo is like ten miles outside of Montalcino.”

     “You are going to drive me crazy.”  She paused to regroup.  “So--what are the dates I can tell the agent to book for the flight?”  She asked, “If that is your third week plan.”

     “I think we should tell her at least July 1^st,” I said boldly with shaky confidence, trying to quickly count the possible days we could extend the trip.

     “July 1^st!?” 

     “Well, sure.  If we do three nights in Lucca, that’s Saturday, Sunday Monday.  A night in Volterra and one in Montalcino, that would be the 29^th and 30^th of June.  Then we would have to get the car back to Lucca and take the train to Pisa, or maybe we could drop the car off at the airport.  I would have to check all that out.”

     “Okay.  I will tell her tickets for June 10^th, out of Portland, landing in Rome, then, flying out of Pisa on July 1^st.  But look kid.  How do you really feel about spending this much money?  This is a ‘hell’ of a lot of money.  Heck, most people visit their own country before they visit other ones.”

     Luckily, my father and mother took us to as many places in the continental United States as they possibly could.  I had seen everywhere, but Alaska, Hawaii, Texas, and some southern states, but that it.  Marianne hadn’t been to all that many places, being from the east.  We still had plans to see Glacier together, Yosemite, and Canyon Lands.  Maybe she was right.  Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this big of a trip without first seeing our own native soil. 

     I pondered it for most of the next day and really started to hesitate because of the money and my citizenship.  Every time I tried to convince myself to stop the Italia madness, I kept visualizing us seeing Florence or Siena, or driving through Tuscany, the Val d’Orcia and up the hills to La Foca.  I just couldn’t stop wanting to experience that unique opportunity.  I came home after school and told Marianne, I didn’t care if I had to work at Costco or as a greeter at Wal-Mart when I retire, we needed to do this.  I talked with the broker and she talked with the travel agent.  I set aside the equivalent of 6 months worth of my salary and she got us tickets for $1,600 a piece.  I was appalled.  I had looked at tickets in July and they were at $800.  Now the G. D. airlines had doubled them, plus they would charge $50 for each bag we checked.  I vowed that we would pack everything we needed in two carry-on bags and one checked one—for souvenirs. Balls to the wall, pedal to the metal—Andiamo Mamma!

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.