Italy -Day 1 memories

3 planes brought us to Rome. We wandered to the train station, where it occurred to me my friend had been stabbed last year. This actually doesn't say as much about the sketchiness of the area as it does the mouthiness of my friend, but still, the thought crossed my mind... We had 3 hours to kill, so we left luggage and more exhausted travel companions in search of Italian Beer. We found it easily enough, and made our way giddily back through the tunnels of the train station to the platform where our friends waited. In classic American style, we proceeded to enjoy our tasty adult beverages with gusto and bravado, there in the open platform. The station workers wandered by, chattering to each other in Italian - I'm not sure whether they were rolling their eyes at our brazenness, or eyeing my multicolored hair (it's Easter! My pink-and-purple coiff isn't rebellious, it's festive...) but either way, they made several purposeful orbits around our haggard crew and went on their way without engaging us. We kept drinking. Once on the train, we disembarked again in Arezzo, charged with buying a couple of days worth of groceries for the rest of the group. With only 45 minutes to do so, we raced across the square to the supermercado! I adore going grocery shopping in foreign countries- the different arrangements, sizes, groupings and packaging of familiar goods fascinates me. Here, you can only buy tomatoes in shrink-wrapped packages of 6. The myriad varieties of prosciutto are overwhelming, and the pasta..... Oh, the pasta! However, there were only three varieties of cereal. There's a cartoonish, dreamlike quality about foreign supermarkets. Thankfully the money is a little cartoonish as well, so I have no idea what it all cost. After racing back across to the train station, we shuffled across 4 train platforms and hauled everyone's 50lb bags up the narrow stairs onto the train, we settled into a few seats and waited for the train to depart. And waited... And waited. And a lovely Italian woman leaned over to us and said in a nice accent: "You do know that this train doesn't go to Bucine, don't you?" We all did a double-take of eachother as our brains slowly but collectively registered the sign outside this train that said "7:20" and then the sign outside the next train that said "7:05" and then our watches that said "7:03"... and bolted for the door. We scrambled to unload all of our exhausted bodies, 50lb bags and copious amounts of expensive Italian cartoon groceries and re-load all of the above onto the next train over. We flopped into new seats just as the train doors closed. And so here I am: sitting in the foyer of an 18th century, 5-story 'villa' (mansion by any american standards). These three tall doors open into a cool Tuscan breeze heavy with old grapes, crumbling brick, fresh bread and laughter. I sit on this couch, thinking: it really, truly doesn't get any better than this.

Italy- The beginning

Italia. Cigarette-smoking trains huff in their station slots.  Drying clothes, trousers and dresses wave at us from their perches on lanai railings.  I don't know the Italian word for lanai. 
I don't know any other Italian words, for that matter, but I know that this crying child heaves her tears in the same language as every other child on earth. I know that this bathroom, with it's frosted-glass and one euro entrance... is out of toilet paper, too.
Just like the ones in Seattle and Chicago.
There are buildings hoary with TV antennae and the praying mantis legs of power lines above us. 
We drift through an insect world, all squeaks and rumbles, chewing at something, anything, everything.
I ate a cheese and bread breakfast this morning over tulip fields in the Netherlands.
And even now, gliding down a steel rail through Rome with six colors of spray paint that I can see on the tagged wall through a window on my left
and a centuries-old ruin of brick and moss on my right,
Even now,
my world grows smaller and brighter and closer to home.

Italy Day 2

"Seven people with me!" bellowed the villa owner, Fabio. Seriously, people are actually named 'Fabio'? This isn't something someone just made up? Some of our group were thoroughly enjoying their wine, and less interested in the impromptu tour, so they stayed behind while 5 of us grabbed our cameras and hopped into his van. Also: seriously? The local guy offers a TOUR OF TUSCANY and you aren't beside yourself with excitement? I don't understand these people. Chance. Of. A. Lifetime. Whatever. Camera in hand, my mom and I grinning and pinching each other in the back seat, Fabio drove us through the winding roads from Bucine to Cennina to Montevarchi. He played the perfect guide, telling the story of that bridge that was built by the Romans before Jesus (!), and this village that was rebuilt after World War 1 by foreign exchange students in a clever scheme by the great-grandfather of the potter who lives there still. He pointed out the castle over on the hill that was lost in a poker game. He told us about the two sisters who own adjacent vineyards but don't get along - on either side of the road lie two fields of grapes: one with perfectly manicured vines, and the other growing wild because the one who has the machine that processes the grapes won't lend it to the other one. He waved and called out to friends. Hours later, we arrived back at the villa armed with hundreds of pictures to share with those who had stayed behind. Tonight, Fabio is cooking Easter dinner for 20-some of his family. We aren't invited (we're cooking our own), but we feel a little like his family all the same. Molto bene! I'm off to drink more of this amazing wine that our host gave us- made in the vineyard across the street, eat some more tomatoes and vinegar, and watch the sun set over green hills. 'Till tomorrow!

Italy- Day 3

We make coffee here one cup of espresso at a time. We dilute it with hot water and sugar and milk from a box that says "Latte!" and we enjoy it for hours with cigarettes and good company on our small balcony that overlooks the valley. We laugh constantly. Yesterday was an adventure in getting more food. We had eaten up most of our expensive italian cartoon groceries and were left with one package of dry pasta, two pears, a diet coke, some Swiss chard and only 2 bottles of wine (!). There's a joke there about inviting a reality cooking show chef next time, but I'm not sure what it is... Also, the entire country has been closed for Easter. Only the bars are open. So, we made our way into Montevarchi, which is the next town along the train, as we had heard about a farmer's market there. 5 of us traipsed through the cobbled streets and alleys to find the food market closed, but we came across a few card-table vendors selling ragged antiques- costume jewelry, vinyl records, vintage clothing and the like. We loved sifting through old Italian baubles. The group quickly realized that I have learned enough Italian/ understand enough Spanish to be able to sort of catch every fifth word and get an idea of what is being said to be able to ask directions and haggle over prices. They love this. The Italians were generally as amused by us are we were by them, and we all had fun buying trinkets. Italians stare at my hair everywhere we go. We all stare back and giggle. We giggle at everything. We didn't find food, but we did find a little restaurant on the corner by the train station that had a bottle of wine for us. We told stories, laughed more, and raised our glasses to toast the small vial of my grandmother's ashes that my mom had brought with her (she always does). I love this. I am so so thankful that I get to continue along and have incredible experiences like this. That the universe sees that I am fit to live and love and laugh one more day. I am blessed. We ate a feast, last night, somehow concocted from our bare cupboards, and are off today to Venice! More laughing!

Venizia! Day 4

Day 4 was amazing. Venice! An island and a culture and a whole world! It's kind of a caricature. A Disneyland of Italy. The 4-hour train ride dropped us at the spectacular station that opened onto a grand staircase that overlooks the Grand Canal. Lovely! And then we waited in line. And waited in line. And waited in line some more for boat tickets, and the boat and this or that. I kind of wanted to wander, to get lost and find myself there in the the winding, angled streets, but I didn't and that's just fine. I saw square orange shutters, grapes over a trellis, and the gorgeous colors of silk scarves waving in the ocean breeze. I didn't actually get to any more of Venice than I could see from the train station or a boat, but wandering through shop after shop full of hunks of glass in every size, shape, and configuration you can imagine was enough. We took the boat through the grand canal and got off at the first stop in Murano- the glass factory island. After the first 3 shops, little was unique- like every other tourist trap in the world. But to see globes of red and orange evoke a frozen sunset or a Picasso masterpiece was wonderful. Please note that I am not complaining, but comparing, and given a chance to examine my jaded reflex thoughts: choosing wonder, amazement and whimsy instead. After cruising miles of canals around Murano, we found the boat again and started our long journey home. We were delighted to find that the stop we had chosen was only the first, and were treated to a lovely tour of Murano island for the next 5 stops. All the canals, the quaint shuttered apartments, the lovely little patio gardens (everyone grows food here!)... Seeing the different levels where the water rises and falls - the island is sinking! As our crowded boat ride came to an end, I waited for everyone to get out of the way so we could get back on dry land (on a side note, I still get a little unsettled at going on boats, hoping that I can get off when everyone else does- see my complaints about Mal de Debarquement Syndrome...), and when I realized that the people on this side of the boat weren't getting off, I turned and walked quickly around to follow the crowd off. When we got to the sidewalk, we all patted ourselves and counted heads and realized... My mother was gone. Gone? No, she didn't just get off ahead of us... She isn't reading her map around this corner... No, she isn't shopping across the street here... She still isn't reading here map there. No, she isn't on the other end of the dock here. Are you my mother? Ok, what are the possibilities here? A. She got off ahead or behind us and we just haven't seen her yet. B. She didn't see us get off for some reason and is still on the boat. C. Italian thugs grabbed her on her way off and are dragging her off to do something untoward with her. D. She found some Italian hottie, fell in love at first sight and took off with him. E. She slipped and fell off the other side of the boat. These being my possibilities, or all that any of us could come up with at the moment, what are our choices for outcomes? A. We just have to turn around and check around the corner 3 or 4 more times and she will magically appear. B. She will get off at the next stop or wait until the boat turns around to come back and find her way back to us. C. She will kick and bite and scratch and fight her way loose and find her way back with an incredible story. D. She will fail to do so, and we will never see her again... Lets pause. It is only at this point in my thought process that I begin to worry about my mom. She is an incredibly strong, resourceful, and intelligent woman (where do y'all think I get it from- I'm only half my father's daughter...) and I just kept thinking "She found me in Thailand, she can find her way back here."- if the woman can survive two husbands, a hellion teenager like me, nursing school, and southeast Asia, she can figure this one out. She *my* momma. E. We will never see her again, but we will get occasional postcards from Peru and Antarctica, but she will be terribly happy. F. She is on her way to a quick watery grave. I quickly decided that A or B were the most likely outcomes, and then just put energy into making us easy to find. I figured I'd think about the others if they became even remotely possible at any point. Ten minutes later, Shannon ran up "I found your mom!" and we were happily reunited. My poor cousin, who was convinced that my mom had been abducted, cried for a minute and then we all left in search of wine. Our adventure for the day over, we enjoyed a lovely dinner next to the canal, laughing over plates of amazing food and innuendo about the waitstaff. She had indeed accidentally stayed on the boat, but got off at the next stop and ran back to where she had last seen us, holding her funny black and white bag over her head the whole way so that we could find her, too. Are you my mother?

The Best Gelato in the World

Old friends in new places. Started the day with another train ride through the lovely countryside into Firenze to meet up with a friend who is living nearby. She and I spun fire together a while ago, before she moved to Vegas for the magic, but lost it there and then followed a cute boy here. (nevermind my run-on sentences, I'm telling a story here, not writing a paper...) We met outside the McDonalds in the train station - for those of you who know her, she looks incredible. Italy has been good to her. We wandered the lovely street market that was reminiscent of the Chiang Mai night market. It was full of ties, leather goods, handbags, colorful scarves, things to wear and have and drink out of for blocks and blocks. I bought a couple of things, she haggling a little for me with the vendors- they seem less poor here, less desperate and more truly friendly. They liked my hair. At a booth selling fabulous leather coats, we ended up in the back of the shop with the man whose name was embroidered on the tag of the coats- Claudio - who, it turns out, spent 3 years in school in Helena, Montana of all places, and spoke wonderful English. We swapped wreck stories- he had a big scar on his cheek from going over the handlebars of his motorcycle, and talked about politics, dreams, ignorant Americans and language. We drank and talked for an hour or two, and I left with his email address, an expensive coat and a priceless experience. Our next adventure took us through the streets of Firenze to the Piazza del Signorine and the Duomo. Oh, the marble. I love the moment that I realized that this spectacular building (The Duomo) is not *painted* white and green, it is ridiculously ornate marble macro-mosaic. Did I say it was huge? In the corner of the piazza was a sort of open-air museum, where you walk up the steps to see 14 marble statues- the Rape of the Sabine women, Hermes holding the head of Medusa, and others. I am fascinated by the combination of realistic detail and stylized proportion in these statues. It is as if someone hit the "pause" and "zoom" buttons on a scene 400 years ago. They're almost twice as big as a person, with curly-q hair and very focused eyes (intense statue is intense.) and carved from stone in lovely detail. How does one carve this stone so perfectly, down to the anatomically correct placement of veins bulging out of cream-colored forearms, to the fingers pressed into a woman's leg... So amazing! After picking my jaw up off the floor, we continued along down toward the river and Pontevecchio- the bridge full of jewelry shops, and wound through couple of narrow cobblestone alleyways to a tiny gelato shop. I had had gelato in Venice, but my friend said that there really is a difference between good and bad gelato and that *this* was the best gelato she had found in Florence. And it was. The Snozzberries taste like Snozzberries. I had cream flavor and grapefruit flavor and this gelato isn't artificially flavored, it's Ike the very best parts of eating a fruit or whatever else whipped into a cloud and frozen. Comparing this gelato to American ice cream is like comparing the finest microbrews to Coors. Like a Maserati and a Pinto. Like a ballerina and a lumberjack. The mint flavor my friend had did not taste like a washed-up Altoid, it tasted like actual mint leaves. When was the last time you had an actual mint leaf? It really was the best Gelato in the whole world. We finished our cones and kept going, headed back toward the train station to meet her lovely Italian boyfriend for dinner. A couple of Italian guys bought us beers and tried to climb in our pockets to come home with us, but we shook them off and caught up with him quickly. We laughed and talked over a fabulous dinner of steak and rabbit and pasta and wine and bread and cheese and prosciutto and all the wonderful things you eat in Italy. It was late when we finished, and the restaurant was closing, but we kept talking and Lovely Italian Boyfriend asked the waiter for a 'digestive'- an after-dinner (aperitif?) liqueur. It tasted like Jagermeister, only instead of licorice was a pleasant rosemary flavor. Rosemary liquor! Who knew? Then the restaurant owner cruised by with some glasses and a large bottle of some orange adult beverage. He dropped the glasses on the table, and filled them while making some small talk. He raised his glass, "To life!" in a wonderful Italian accent, downed it, and knocked the empty shot glass on the table. We followed suit, but failed to smack the glasses on the table, at which he corrected us: "you don't knock, you don't fuck!" which came out as "yau don' nauck, yau don' fauck!" (Pardon my french- but I'm going for realism here...) We knocked vigorously, and laughed with him and the waitstaff. We danced to the too-loud Abba that was playing on the radio, we drank more shots of orange liquor (Arancelo, dubbed "Fucking Arancelo" by the end of the night), some lemon flavored kind, (Limoncelo), and another kind of the herb stuff, toasting to "Life!" to "This night!", to "the people in your life who come and come again (which I took to mean loyal and loving friends- of which I have many. So, so many... And was apropos, being at dinner with a friend that I have happily not lost track of over the years.) and knocked shot glasses on the table, the chairs, the walls, eachother... until we stumbled our thank-yous out the door long after midnight. Sincere and heart-felt fun. I was thankful to not have to find a train this late, and this intoxicated- Lovely Italian Boyfriend (who had far fewer shots than my friend and I) drove us back to their apartment in the next town, where we laughed and talked more until the fabled Tuscan sun chased us into bed. Love, it flows like wine.