Bella Italia, It’s Really the End

Less than twenty four hours until my forced separation and I am racked with anxiety. Ok a little dramatic, but truly I am dreading tomorrow. How can I say goodbye to my little Italian city and ideal Italian life? The farewells have already begun with my friends and that alone is killing me. Dying on each side of the ocean - I can’t wait to go home and see my family and friends and at the same time I am dying to plant my feet in a meter of cement and never leave this country. As I look out my third story window onto our narrow cobble stone street, Via Orologio Vecchio, I can’t help but think I am doing this for one of the last times. In total I know I have spent hours leaning against this haggard window frame, gazing out onto Viterbo alive and beautiful. I was never struck by any profound thoughts or floored by earth shattering revelations at this window. It has always been simple, easy thoughts that pass in and out of my mind like the slow, methodical passing bye of the people below. Mostly I just reminisce like I am now, on the charmed days I have been privileged to spend here. Many of them have been shared in this forum, alive eternal and made so by the sustaining power of written thought. Also quite a few memories I will never jot down. For as long has I can remember them I want to hold on to them in case of those moments where I need a spontaneous laugh, or quiet smile. Perhaps I will make them alive in story and rendition to entertain myself and those around me. In truth there has been too much packed into these four months for me to ever tell in entirety.

Like last night for instance, our landlords Cesare and Giovana invited us to their restaurant for a farewell dinner. They are an older couple and nice as can be. I have grown especially fond of Cesare because whenever we go to their restaurant, which happens to be below our huge, ancient castle of an apartment building, he always sits down with us and jokes around with his wily, old man wit and tries to make us laugh first in Italian if we can comprehend and then in English when all else fails. He invited my roommates and to dinner and proceed to bring us a full four course Italian meal complete with his own house wine and he did it all for free. That is the kind of people that are in this city. They are so generous and are literally dying to give at any chance to people they care for not matter how well they know them. It’s things like this and the memories that are attached that I will miss most I think. Sure Italy is beautiful, the history is unrivaled, but it’s the people, Italian friends and strangers along with my dear American friends that have painted these fours months for me and whether they know it or not they created a masterpiece that can never be matched. So it is with these final words that I close my Italian experience and say goodbye to this country I love, it could not have been better. Arrivederci.

Venice at Carnivale [Extended]

The following is an expounded text from one of my former posts:


Shoving, pushing, tripping among a myriad of masked faces filling constricted streets and arched canal bridges. Antique buildings rise from cobblestones and hem in the traffic jam of vibrant clothes and merry voices. My body together with a million more stack and pile forming chokepoint damns in a city bursting at the seams, ready to implode from the inner pressure of so many people filling such little space. Such is Venice, Italy in March and such is Carnivale, the word’s most renowned masquerade party. I spent two days in this city turned circus drinking, eating, soaking up ‘La Dolce Vita’ in age old Italian fashion. For me it was impossible to separate the city from the festivity because they appeared to me as one. The costume adorning, street performing masses lived Carnivale aloud every moment I witnessed, and I lived with them.

Carnivale is the event and Venice the venue but the people are what bring the weekend to life. While I was there, I could feel their energy pulsated through the city. I felt the hum of the crowd from where I stood on the crest of the entry bridge to the city. I gazed down into the mobs of people rushing in and out of the center and thought of the body’s cardiovascular system. People united in their experience of Carnivale with their costumes, masks, and songs where the lifeblood of the party. Saint Mark’s Square was the heart through which all the people circulated, going in and out, to and fro. The intricate labyrinth of narrow streets and winding canals became the veins and arties through which the surging current flowed. Wherever the current went it brought vitality, even to the most quiet, numb regions. One moment I was watching safely from the bridge, the next I plunged head first into the swollen stream of people. Submerged in the rush, my body sparked, electric and alive. I laughed, cheered, and danced not because I felt like it but because I was infected. No one asked me nor did I inquire. With no choice in the matter, I simply let go and felt my blood grow hot and boil from the charge sprinting in my veins. Excitement shot through my limbs and exploded from my mouth in song and laughter because that was the only place it could escape.

I wore my mask black, white, and gold always pulled closely over my face. The disguise was not to be lifted. From behind it I could watch and take in Carnivale unfiltered. You see everyone wore a mask with the inner desire to live, if only for one weekend, uncensored. That is the secret of Carnivale. With inhibitions removed the world looks, tastes, and smells all the sweeter. My mask afforded me the richest experiences possible including the most genuine conversation with a stranger I have ever had. Stripped of pretence we simply reveled in our party relationship injected with mystery. Sure I was speaking in broken elementary Italian to a native speaker, but with my mask on I burst into a fountain of chatter unchecked and unruly. I did not think of my appearance so my experience was painted by the real energy and beauty around me rather than my diluted perception of it. When the focus is removed from your insecurities it is truly incredible how much brighter the world around becomes. My experience of Venice at Carnivale was so exciting and memorable solely because of the sheer mystery and energy that originates from thousands of people embracing this freedom reality all at one time. That is the source of the infection. Venice is unique and timeless in itself, but Venice at Carnivale transforms into something totally different. Contagiously, the very streets, buildings and canals brim with party delight and seem to wear the colorful people that cover them as their own festive costumes. I have never seen anything to compare it to. There is for me no urban occasion to match.

Cinque Terre

History testifies, ruins bear witness that civilization as we know it was cut from Italian stone. We marvel at the magnificence of the Roman Coliseum, the design of the ancient canals of Venice, Pisa’s precarious leaning tower, and the revolutionary authority of Florence. Minds of men, the like of which the world will never see again, Leonardo Di Vinci, Michael Angelo, Galileo Galilei. Indeed, the birthplace of the world’s greatest empire has long been shaped by the hands of men. Yet, for all the majestic cities and beautiful minds, there is a beauty still older and perhaps grander, the natural loveliness of the Italian landscape. Splendor beyond words from the majestic Alps in the north to the jagged coastal cliffs of the south. Yet all is not created equal and truly one place shines on as nature’s crown jewel in Italy, Cinque Terre. There is Italian beauty and then there is Cinque Terre. As an eye witness, I will ever be defendant of this coastal diamond as one of the most magical places on earth.

The taxi pulled to a stop in front of what looked like a simple snack stand on a seaside cliff. My heart sank and my ears flushed warm and red from embarrassment. Reluctantly, I groaned, “Well, I guess this is it you guys, please don’t hate me forever.” I was confused. I was sure I had booked a seaside hotel in Cinque Terre, but as we stood at the edge of the cliff all I saw was one simple building with a small sign reading Hotel Il Borgo di Campi. Yeah, this was the place alright. My thoughts tumbled heavy and slow in my head. All I wanted was a peaceful weekend with my friends Jack and James in Cinque Terre. Which by the way is notorious for its seaside charm. And on top of that Jack’s sister was visiting from Manchester and we wanted to show her the “real Italy.” At the time we were all thinking the same thing, but all I can say now is I am glad first impressions are oftentimes deceiving.

As it turned out, the building we saw at the top of the cliff was just the highest piece of an absolutely beautiful residence that stretched downward on the cliff. So here is my simple explanation of what Cinque Terre is: literally translated to mean “Five Lands” it is a combination of green mountains and cliffs that rise up and tumble right into the sea with five picturesque peasant villages scattered along the coast. Now these mountains that break into the sea have been cultivated for centuries and now have step-like terraces cut into their sides where farmers grow traditional wine and olive trees. It truly is a site to see. Vineyards that tumble like stairs down these mountains almost into the sea. As it turns out our hotel was one of these mountain side step gardens. I am not even joking we walked over that cliff and it was a straight 275 meter vertical drop into the crashing waves below. Our room, which was actually an apartment, was one of dozens scattered down the cliff face. To reach it we walked down stairs that connected each terrace and all the buildings. All around there were gardens, trees, flowers, vineyards, patios, and fountains. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I hate to beat a dead horse but we actually sat on our sea cliff terrace garden and had dinner while the sun set over the ocean right in front of us. An experience completely unique and all to itself. I am so happy to say that our first snack bar impression could not have been more wrong.

Cinque Terre like I said is not just one city, it is place in the broadest sense of the term. It is so natural and beautiful that the region is actually a natural park. The five seaside villages stretch for 30 kilometers up the coast, all connected by walking paths and a rail line. Our hotel was just outside of the southern most village of Riomaggiore. Our experience outside of our amazing hotel was a day long hike from village to village. As we walked these paths the ocean was always on our right and wild mountains on our left. It was so beautiful and unique. The hike itself is truly pretty long and grueling but that setting is so amazing that is practically cancels out all negatives and makes for one of the best Italian experiences. Our hotel was such a diamond in the ruff and so cool that I have to say it made the whole weekend. I will be surprised if I ever see anything so wonderful.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 5)

Everyone was up fairly early the next morning. The young morning was shockingly foggy. In fact the whole panorama out of my window was completely blanketed in a thick looming cloud. I had hope that the afternoon sun would burn it off however which it in fact did. By the time we were out and about there remained only sifting pockets here and there, mostly in the valleys. We once again drove up and over the rolling Tuscan hills yet this drive was even more breathtaking than its predecessors. Somehow despite our rising expectations as the bar continued to be raised, each drive exceeded every other. Astounding. One final cresting slope on this particular excursion brought us into full view of what has been called the “Manhattan of Medieval Cities” the hilltop fortress city of San Gimignano. From a distance I could easily see how it had received such a modern moniker. Rising tall and ancient all over the city were no less than a dozen stone towers. Match that against rolling vineyards and cutting mountains in the background and I was smitten. We spent the whole morning and early afternoon exploring this Tuscan gem. I can easily say it is one of my favorite Italian cities. It’s just so unique, so worth the trip. There is no doubt in my mind we would have lost ourselves within its tall aged stone walls for the rest of the day if we did not have an all important horseback riding date. Reluctantly we bid farewell to the our walled city wonder and let the Panda carry us back to the horse farm.

This ride was much like the first one. Beautiful day, amiable chargers, and astonishing scenery. Basically, dreams within dreams and fantasies beyond fantasies. I will never forget those afternoons. Not as long as I live.

Our evening was causal and relaxing. Rain clouds had traveled from the nearby sea across our local mountains to our doorstep just in time to graduate to full blown storm factories. We were not daunted. Armed with an American football, a camera and protected by Pedro we left on an adventure through the vineyard. Still ominous in memory, the stone clouds loomed overhead as we tossed the ball back and forth intermittently jumping to catch Pedro or chase him through the rows of grapevines. The rain did not come and so our pace was never quickened. We simply walked were we desired and aimlessly chattered about the day, the dawn, and the dance. I don’t think even one of us could tell you if what we were living was real life or the projections of a mad magician artist turned screen write. My heart swells just thinking of those days.

Spirits were definitely not as light the next morning. It was our time to go and not one of us wanted it. Saying goodbye to Giuseppe was tragic enough but petting Pedro for the last time was near unbearable. The poor chap knew what was going on and was barely capable of lifting his little head. Tremendous animal. The drive back to Pisa was quiet. Our spirits were certainly not down, I mean we were on our way to visit the Leaning Tower for goodness sake, I think the weekend was just so memorable that no one could let go just yet. Honestly, I still don’t think I have been able to let go.

Pisa played to a different tune. No so big a city as Rome or even Florence, but still very touristy. Certainly much the opposite of what we had just come from. I liked it though. We got a little lost trying to find the Tower but eventually stumbled up the square. It leans just as they say and there is a beautiful cathedral and baptistery right next to it, but other than that there is not a whole lot to see in Pisa. We spent no more than half an hour clicking cheesing pictures of us holding up the tower and stuff before we felt we had seen enough and it was time to return to real life. Or as real as life can be in Italy. We gassed up the car returned it to the rental company and hoped our first of seven trains we would take to arrive home that night. A stark contrast to the freedom our little Panda had afforded us. Yet, the Panda was never meant to be for always and neither is my time in Italy, so my attempts to capture every moment are never wasted even on seven hour train trips. Roll credits.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 4)

The following is a wine tasting writing exercise that I did on Fattoria Fibbiano for my Travel Writing class:

My feet sink through the worn limestone floor soothing my posture into a languid stupor. Back and forth I languidly sway to the melody of aged oak tables, tobacco smoke, and friendly mildew surrounding me. Aged electric light, exhausted by the years, illuminates a cellar of dusty wine racks, burnt orange stonewalls, and a low oak beam ceiling. Unfamiliar with wine cellar ambiance of I any kind, I at first feel out of place, then I see the antique cupboard in the corner and think it is not so different form the china cabinet in my grandmother’s kitchen.

The clear smooth base of my wine glass feels warm as I pinch it between fingertips. My forearm and bicep bow into a V to hold the glass at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Sinless, the washed white cloth draped across the oak table provides the model backdrop for my eyes to carefully inspect the golden white vintage in my glass. Dancing light is miraculously caught in its golden apple hue. Gently, I agitate the glass until the liquid leaps to life, striding in circles around the goblet track. My head dips close to the rim with my nose breaking the plain, intruding and curious. Abruptly, a rush of sweet golden apple erupts like a rocket, loud and dominate; then, trailing behind tings of spring blossoms and perhaps tangy citrus. I wet my lips, take up my breath, and close my eyes in anticipation of a sweet kiss. I am not disappointed. Apples tumble out of the glass and bounce across my tongue followed at a distance by tart lip pinching tangs and strong alcoholic fumes. The introduction lasts no more than a few seconds before I reluctantly allow the delicious stream to continue its flow down my throat, only to be pleasantly surprised by a departing gift of persistent lingering flavor and dry tongue. Now shamelessly fantasying I hastily reach for a second kiss in search of spring blossoms. Forcing myself past the attractive apples I am rewarded for my persistence by the budding presence of subtle spring flowers. This is more than I could have imagined, so I think it is best that I wash my glass and stow away my apple blossom first kiss in memory.

This first white wine was an infinitely enjoyable and memorable experience. Indeed gratifying but I am not satisfied. Waiting on the table in front of me is my next great adventure, a red. The still dark liquid pulls me from across the room. Curiosity pushes me forward till I am at the table’s edge, gazing down into the glass. I see my own arm reaching towards my desired prize, my fingers unwrap themselves, opening for one brief moment as they encircle the round, smooth bowl and then close tightly around it. With my glass safely in hand I hastily, I position it directly between the pure white cloth behind it and my peering eyes. So dark and heavy. The white cloth is invisible and all light is taken in, completely devoured by the rich earthen color. I am told Ox blood is the proper name given to such a dark vintage. I am pleased with this name. Continuing my inspection, I slowly begin agitating the glass until the tranquil red fluid springs to life, swimming in gradually faster circles around the glass. Flashes of twirling red Flamenco dancers spark from within its stride. My eyes have had their turn now my nose jumps at its chance. Exhaling, I allow all the air to leave my lungs; then lift the edge of the cup to my nose. I pull in a deep breath. Air rushes into my nostrils bringing with it all the tantalizing smells from my glass. Immediately, my mind begins to segregate and categorize the various aromas. A warm summer afternoon erupts from the glass with smells of sun warmed earth, black cherry, and light tobacco. I am mesmerized. How can a single drink contain such a diverse array of flavors? Full steam a head, my taste buds are going wild with the wait. I reward them for their patience and place the rim to my lips as I eagerly tilt the glass back. Finally, the rich drink fills my mouth. I close my eyes and allow the performance to begin. The Lead instantly captivates my attention, stealing the show with rich, earthen flavors of tobacco that linger like the smooth smoke of my grandfather’s pipe. The antagonist follows closely on it’s heels, taking the form of bold dark cherry. The two vie for power and control, much to my delight. Enthralled in the layered plot, I am find I am sad as the current falls with a swift rush of cedar forest. I am left licking each last droplet of flavor from my lips. Yet, I know this is no tragedy, for the show is not over. Indeed, a glass full of encores promise a complete performance I will not soon forget.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 3)

Tami and I woke up fairly early the next morning to drive to the local market to pick up food for breakfast lunch and dinner. We saved a considerable amount of money doing so and after the decadent dinner from the previous night we were more than fine with a budget diet. Our day was busy but I took a few minutes to gaze out of our window at the beautiful day surrounding our astounding panorama. My coffee cup touched my lips, my eyes locked up the view, rolling hills covered in vineyards and olive trees in the foreground, small arching mountains in the back, and a clear blue sky above. The sereneness of the scene tasted like harmony and smelled of stillness. The only thing that could have yanked me from that coffee cup and window perch was the knowledge that I was going into all of it. We packed up the Panda with the days equipment: water bottles, cameras, and maps. Here I must pause and devote at least one short paragraph to the Joy-spring of our weekend, Pedro.

Sir Pedro has the air of a duke and truly he is he is the master of all that is Fattoria Fibbiano. Long, handsome, young with long golden hair and a slightly rotund waste line. If there is a more jubilant fellow in all of Tuscany I want to see him. Every time we left our door there was Pedro ready to greet us and inquire of our day. Master of his domain, absolute ruler of his estate and still he make time for us everyday. That’s the funny think about golden retrievers, they want nothing more than love and attention it does not matter if you are a stranger or a friend they are more than ready to make you the latter. I loved walking out of our door and seeing Pedro trot up to us, tail wagging, teeth flashing in a face filled smile. Oh my goodness how we doted over him! He might as well of been a duke. Four sets of hands clamoring to rub his ears and scratch is belly, a quartet of voices all cooing little pet names and complements. “Oh, you’re a good boy aren’t you? Yes, you are.” “You are looking a little fatter today Pedro! Did they give you extra bones? I bet they did, yes sir. Gooood boy Pedro.” He must have been in paradise and truly I know he became accustomed to the dotting because he would wait outside our window whenever we were in the apartment just so he could pounce on us as soon as we opened the door. He was my joy-spring for the weekend.

That first full morning in Tuscany’s Chianti region was spent exploring the rural backroads in the Panda and stopping at an ancient like 2,500 year old hill city named Volterra. That alone satisfied me for the day and I could have said goodbye to the day feeling more than happy. However, I did not and instead our afternoon was filled with the highlight of the weekend: horseback riding through the Tuscan countryside.

Finding our way to the horse farm was an adventure in itself. Our directions appeared vague at best and the narrow twisting mountain roads are not easily navigated by unfamiliar travelers. However, I want to be clear if I am going to be lost anywhere in the world, I certainly don’t hate being lost among tiny Italian hilltops cities, vineyards, and green pastures. I think my merry band would agree with me as well. We had the radio bumping Italian tracts, the windows down, and cameras snapping the whole way. We did however eventually find the horse farm and when I say farm I really genuinely mean it. This was no commercial operation but instead the home of Elizabeth and Mariano, neither Italian but both incredibly amiable. They had been expecting us so our horses were already saddled up and eager to get out of the stable. My stead was a large thick girl name Nikki. I soon realized she had more interest in stopping to nibble on grass and less in walking the miles through pastures, forests, and roads. We certainly had conflict of interests but I am happy to say I won out and together we had one of the fondest March afternoons I think I will ever have. Really the movie allusion does not do this justice. It was surreal. The best part was it was going to happen again the next day. With knowledge we left the farm biding our brief farewells with enthusiastic exclamations of “A domani!!” or See you tomorrow!

Giuseppe found us almost as soon as we had returned to Fattoria Fibbiano and asked us if we were ready for your wine tour and tasting. Naturally, we were besides ourselves and jumped at the moment. With more knowledge of the delicate art of wine production than I could hope to acquire in a three lifetimes, Giuseppe lead us on a tour of his massive wine vats, endless rows of stacked wooden barrels, and modern pressing machines. He concluded with an hour long tasting in the old cellar. I have written a completely separate piece on this so more details are revealed of this cultured tutorial in those pages. For now it is enough to say that the wine I tasted there is far and away the best I have ever had in my life and there were five different kinds. I doubt he knew it but Giuseppe had effectively placed a triumphant exclamation point at the end of one of the best days of my life.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 2)

“Fattoria Fibbiano”, my headlights briefly flashed across the peeling white letters painted on an old white barrel as we crossed onto the dirt driveway from the main road. Even in the dim night light I could make out tall, spindly ever green trees, fancifully my memory played through stored images from Gladiator and old paintings of these quintessential Tuscan trees, they lined the entire path. Our Panda’s voice dipped from a peaceful hummmm to a low growl reminiscent of my dog Jasper threatening an passerby as he would stand over his raw-hid bone. We were climbing uphill, so I downshifted to second and squeezed tighter on the accelerator. Climbing, winding, finding that we were surrounded on both sides by rolling hills blanketed in vineyards and olive tree orchards. It’s these moments that you bite your tongue to make what you are seeing is real and not a movie. Little did I know my movie life was hardly beyond the opening credits.

The top of the driveway delivered us to the Vineyard villa estate of Giuseppe, our gracious host for the weekend. Five foot, five inches, gray haired, well dressed, and confident with the new addition of the character the plot begins to take shape. Giuseppe had his wife show us to our room. We followed as she led us to a beautiful, weathered stone building with dozens of green shutters and deep grooved wooden doors. Through one of these thresholds we passed and entered our weekend apartment. I remember thinking how absolutely ideal it was. Full kitchen and dining room, couch, a spiral cast iron stair case to an open bedroom loft, stone tilled bathroom, and ample space in the master bedroom complete with king sized bed and full wardrobe. I might as well had stepped out of it into Narnia, it was that dreamlike I think. No sooner had we dropped our bags off and drooled over our accommodations than we were given directions to the next hill town where we would find a restaurant expecting us for our welcome dinner. We were all too obliging and sped off in the Panda.

Terricciola, “la citta’ del vino” read the sign as we passed into the city limits. Translated it means the city of wine, not to difficult, but this had to be the place. We parked the Panda, pulled open the door to Susanne e Massimo’s and awkwardly told the first person we saw that we were sent by Giuseppe for a welcome dinner. We were returned with an understanding nod and asked to wait a moment. The restaurant was empty except for one other table occupied by an elder priest and his friend. We were seated and immediately shown the best service I have had yet in Italy. Susanne was our host and her husband Massimo was our chef. Together they furnished one of the best meals I have ever had. Susanne served us far too many baskets full of bread as we greedily gobbled each one up, soaking each bite in most delicious olive oil I have ever had. She brought us a bottle of wine and as she poured each glass she explained that it was from the vineyard just down the hill. Of course it was. I can remember looking around the table and seeing John then James then Tami all with the same look of disbelief mixed with ecstasy on their faces. No doubt I mirrored the same. Our first dish was a savory gnocchi dish wish creamy pecorino cheese sauce. One of the finest I have ever had and still it was only the start. Second plate took a little longer to prepare but we were in no hurry and Susanne brought us a second half liter of the delicious vintage. When it did arrive though, I actually began to think thoughts like I don’t deserve anything like this. I am a simple college student, abroad, and on a budget. The most amazing pork cutlet I have ever tasted and roasted potatoes filled our plates. Truly, the pork was so tender and flavorful I thought I was eating a Fillet minon. Susanne told us how desert was simple and that Massimo had just whipped it up that evening. It was all I could do not to accidently laugh in her face. Simple!? I had my doubts to say the least. Sure enough the delicious Dolci she produced were all in elegant Champaign flutes and tasted anything but simple. Sweet whipped cream on top of a chocolate mousse with traces of egg nog, all on top of a soft cake. In typical Italian fashion we had a strong espresso shot to settle our meal. Our friendly chatter was insatious. We oozed over our good fortune and the magic that was surrounding our trip thus far. We had not seen anything yet.