Week of August 26
The Great White Linen Hunter
There is another skill to add to my expanding resume. Mark Wholey called me to help destroy a hornets' nest. The calabrone (hornets) are huge with a powerful sting. Mark says that a mere scratch can swell up a man's arm to double size. Like all bee-creatures, you go after them at night, while they sleep snug in their hives/combs/nests. So we arranged to meet at 9pm to go up to Pancesi and take out the calabrone.
They have built a small nest in the masonry near the second floor windows. It is covered by a beautiful brown, striated membrane that keeps out rain and intruders. This membrane looks like a piece of agate. (I feel bad about destroying something so lovely.)
The strategy is to climb a ladder and get close enough to spray a potent poison into the nest. The poison only stuns them rather than killing them on the spot, because they are so damned tough. When the hornets are reeling, Mark plugs the entrance with cloth and slaps on quick dry cement. These suckers are tough, so he plans to spread the cement over the adjacent masonry to be sure they won't burrow out of the sepulcher to wreck havoc on us all. Mark is an expert having learned through trial and error over the years.
My place was to stand on the ground and hold the flashlight on the target, keeping an eye (and ear) peeled for stragglers -- guardian hornets out after dark. Easy peasy. We were working with a full moon -- a huge yellow moon hanging over the house. A beautiful night, more suited to sipping wine on the porch than killing things. As it was very warm evening (and I felt relatively safe with flashlight duty) I dressed for the event in a white linen skirt and top. If I had camouflage linen, I might have opted for that. But I don't. Mark was a bit annoyed. I was lectured on the dangers of the beast. His adrenaline was high due to anticipation of battle. Mark himself was fully outfitted for battle in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, a canvas jumpsuit duct-taped tight at the ankles and wrists, leather gloves, a scarf, a hat, goggles and a breathing mask. He looked like a homemade HazMat team. In the heat of the summer, pumped with adrenaline, he was sweating like a pig. (I suspect his real pique at my outfit was that I was cool and free to run like hell if the calabrone charged.)
I tweaked him further by mentioning that, with the huge yellow moon overhead and the unnaturally quiet nest above us, the scene felt like something from a 1970s environmental horror movie. At any moment a Buick-sized queen hornet would be coming around the side of the house, feelers reaching for us, making a funny clicking sound and calling for her drones. He laughed nervously.
Mission accomplished. The 4 or 5 guardian hornets were fully occupied battering themselves against the outdoor lights on either end of the house. The unsuspecting nest didn't really stir. Mark crushed the splendid agate membrane, stuffed in poison and cheesecloth. One poor creature did try to get a leg out past the cloth, but the wet cement ended that. Mark sprayed and stomped the guardians and we went home 40 minutes from door to door, 30 of it spent suiting up. Just call me The Great White Linen Hunter.
Week of August 19
There is no rhyme or reason to why things occur. Every day, every week, there are another set of choices, more experience. I am now embroidering. Not the story... I'm actually embroidering a pillow cover. Eventually this cover will be filled with lavender from the gardens and put into one of the armoires. I could have just filled the pillow cover and gotten on with it. But no, the whiter than white cotton expanse cried for embellishment... for color. I haven't done stitchery -- needlecraft -- since I was a kid. The one or two things I tried were abortive efforts that I struggled to stick with until the end. Odd that in 2002, this sudden desire to embroider overtook me. So, I sit in the evening with my blue and yellow threads and make little decorations on the corner of the case. Eventually, when all the lavender is harvested, we might have 4-6 large armoire slips and a number of smaller sachets for drawers. Am I becoming a homespun Martha Stewart?
August 16
Dinner in Perugia -- We, The Insensitive
Pino is the gardener at Pancesi. One of the gardeners. Elizabeth and I are the others. There are miles of difference between us. Elizabeth and I are the girlie gardeners. We focus on flowers and shaping the shrubs. Pino is the brawn. He weed whacks, cuts trees, digs holes, and handles the heavy labor. We keep very separate schedules. In fact, we do not coordinate at all.
The first thing that strikes you about Pino is that he talks at you, not with you. Certainly not to learn more about you or to share ideas. He is a non-stop assault of words. Ask a simple question, become confused with rapid-fire response. Not a direct response.
"Pino can you water the geraniums this week?"
"Water the geraniums this week? Why aren't you watering the geraniums? I am busy with digging holes for the transplants. We have so much lavender here and someone needs to move them. It's hot and I have to dig holes. Your job is to do lavender, yes? You who never speaks Italian. Why do you come here and not speak Italian? And not water your own geraniums? And when are you going to have pizza with me? I invite you and all you say is "when you speak more Italian." You don't need to speak to eat pizza. We go and we eat. There is no talking. I cannot help you."
(The interchange above is an amalgam of several I have had with Pino. It is a fiction of what could happen if I posed the geranium question. You read it in English, but I hear it in lightening-fast Italian. Pino speaks no English and patently refuses to try.)
I cannot face redirecting or rephrasing a question. Or explaining it further or asking for clarification, because any opening will subject me to the onslaught that is Pino.
Pino is a character. He is prickly and childish and difficult. With Pino, I am transported back to 3rd grade when Peter D'Angelo liked me and made my life a schoolyard hell. I tend toward a literal translation of human behavior. It seems reasonable that if someone likes you they treat you nicely. Therefore, if someone inexplicably hates you they would taunt you, pick at you, criticize and try to hurt you. I begin to see that I am wrong. It really is the other way around.
Pino had asked Katherine if he could take her to dinner. Not a date thing more of a respect thing. Katherine wanted reinforcements for a variety of reasons. Her niece Margaret was in town. I invited myself along (pending Pino's approval) as a way to see more of Katherine and Margaret, and to skirt past Pino's pizza invitations.
We were to meet him in Perugia, the ancient walled capital of Umbria. He chose a beautiful evening -- not that he can control the weather. Luck was with him. He chose a picture perfect trattoria on the piazza. It happened that there was an evening concert that night as well. We met all at the fountain and I almost did not recognize Pino in street clothes. He was spiffy and well pressed, with a sweater thrown over his shoulders. I wore a taupe linen dress. Margaret wore white linen. Katherine in mustard linen pants and an olive blouse. In Italy, the concept of looking good -- the bella figura -- is very strong. For a man to be seen with three attractive women. Wow. THAT is a bella figura.
We took a short passegiata through town, showed Margaret the shops. Actually, Margaret and I focused on window shopping. Pino attached himself to Katherine like a lamprey. She speaks Italian and she is the padrona. Molto importante. As Margaret and I are a bad shopping influence on one another, we enjoyed the unfettered freedom to drool over summer sale windows.
Our restaurant was tucked into a corner of the piazza, under white umbrellas and just next to the concert stage. A lovely location. Margaret and I sat facing the piazza. Katherine maneuvered Pino into the seat at the head of the table (between she and I) so our group would be integrated. She sat with her back to the piazza. Pino spent the next 15 minutes obsessing over seating. He wanted Katherine to take his seat so she could look into the piazza as well. Finally, he accepted his lot in life... head of the table.
In turns, I thought the evening was passable, a disaster, really okay, I think I'll throttle him, and quite successful. Pino borders on imperious. Sometimes he wallows straight into it. But he means well. (God, is that a damning statement?) He is a shy man who feels he has missed out. He thinks he should be acknowledged for more than he has been. Pino has had a varied life... if he would slow down and allow me to listen, I might even be able to say an interesting life. Ultimately, he is tragicomic. He wants to be loved, respected... taken seriously, but the hectoring tone he adopts to get your attention, drives you away.
He became embroiled in interesting interchange with a neighboring table. Recall that we are in a public piazza, surrounded by people having dinner. The outdoor concert just next to us, is a series of arias backed by a local orchestra. All very professional and well presented. We order our food, discuss the menu, ask questions and, not surprisingly, converse. A couple nearby keeps glaring, staring and shushing. Finally, Pino, who can't ignore it, goes over to discuss the problem. The problem is we are talking and enjoying dinner while they are trying to listen to the concert. We are obviously insensitive to music (their phrase). Pino handled it well. I have no doubt that he beat them into submission with the sheer amount of verbiage he hurled back. Nevertheless, the gist of it was right... It's a public piazza and this is a restaurant. People go to dinner together to talk. In a concert hall, you can expect silence. In a restaurant, expect chatter.
I saw him at work a few days later. He had sliced the tip of his finger off while cutting lavender. There was a huge white bandage wrapped over the digit, splotches of red bleeding outward. (It looked for all the world like a Looney Tunes cartoon wound.) Elizabeth and I asked if he was all right and tried to sympathize. He announced to Elizabeth that it was all my fault. I was sending bad thoughts to him and willed his injury. I am a strega (a witch). He pointedly asked her help in rebandaging it. And as he was leaving, told me he was going to the hospital to get his finger reattached... not the tip, the whole finger. I laughed and said he was crazy. (It is funny.) So he launched into a 5-minute monologue I could not follow, sounding angry, waving his arms. Who knows? It's Peter D'Angelo all over again.
August 13
Ciao Ciao with Marg and Melchiorre
Katherine's niece Margaret was in town for a week. We had a blast shopping, cooking, picking blackberries and figs. Midweek, we were set to go to the opening of a new restaurant in Umbertide. On a whim, we agreed to go dancing with Melchiorre at Ciao Caio, an outdoor dance club on Lake Trasimeno.
The new restaurant debut was inconclusive. The design is lovely... sage green and eggshell with molded eggshell chairs and a curving metal wine bar. Very retro moderne... very city sophisticated... not very Umbertide (in style). I had high hopes for the food, but they had the debut catered. Isn't that odd, a restaurant using a caterer instead of showcasing their own talents? Melchiorre thought it was normal -- go figure -- so they could enjoy their opening. The catered hors d'oeuvres were poor to average. Even the sangria was a disappointment. I only hope better for the actual restaurant. If they do their own cooking.
Ciao Ciao was quite an experience. Melchiorre and Jan go there often. It's a big dance band spot with a typical 3-piece band... keyboard, guitar and jaded, spandex-clad female singer. An older crowd packs in to foxtrot, mazurka, waltz and tango. Margaret and I are not of the formal dance generation... for us, it's more a matter of inspiration. Melchiorre was happier than a pig in s**t, squiring two attractive young women into the place. Very soon though, neither Margaret nor I felt comfortable being left alone at the table. It began quietly... an elderly gentleman asked me to dance. What's the harm? One dance led to two, two led to dancing very close... a little two close with a stranger, unless you are interested in furthering the acquaintance. I was fighting his grip like the undertow at Ocean Beach. Melchiorre cut in, but Gino tracked Margaret next. He was big on trying to wedge his knee between your thighs. Icky. We sat, so he sat with us. I was still thinking he was just an over-eager dancer. Unfortunately, over-eager dancer wasn't quite right. It came out in his questioning of Melchiorre that Gino thought our attentions were to be purchased. Why else would an Italian man be dancing with 2 foreign girls. (There is a large population of eastern European prostitutes in Italy. Not all are hookers in the hourly sense of the term... some are more like longer term rent-a-girlfriend, and their big pick up spots are nightclubs. Gino kept asking Melchiorre if we were spoken for, were we both with him, did we come with him, were we leaving with him, etc. Melchiorre told him we were his sisters. (I don't think that helped much.) Finally, he asked the man to have some courtesy and move along. A pointed big boot in the tail.
That wasn't the end. One after another, a file of men made it to our table and asked to dance. I know it sounds harmless, but in most cases, it wasn't. Pretty soon all dances felt slimy... unless we were cutting the rug with Melchiorre in our improvisational jitterbugging, twisting, salsa-ing. Our table was literally surrounded by a ring of men just 6 feet behind, poised on their chairs watching. We learned not to make eye contact or leave too much silence as an opening for chat. One man insisted on asking me questions about the NASDAQ and DOW once he discovered I was American. Another, a very traditional older gentleman who dances regularly at Ciao Caio, asked Melchiorre is he could dance with me. (Very sweet, but I felt like a mail order dance partner.) He wheeled me out on the floor for something like a mazurka (not that I would know). I follow rather well for someone who doesn't know the traditional steps, but he and I could not find the rhythm. After less than 10 feet he threw his hands up and returned me. That definitively ended my Ciao Ciao career. I will only ever go back with a large group where you can camouflage yourself.
After Ciao Ciao, we regrouped at a local festa on the lake, wandered a bit and had fabulous gelato. Melchiorre was drenched in sweat and drunk with excitement. We arrived at the festa in time for the last song. The band was set up for a monster light show, complete with smoke machine. (This seemed like overkill as they were about 3 feet from the ground and 2 feet from the dancers.) There were, tops, 8 people dancing... the smoke was billowing out over the dance floor and Melchiorre does what I can only describe as a victory lap... a sort of a solo jig around the dance floor as Margaret and I looked on, shaking our heads in wonderment.
August 10
Castel Rigone with Joe and Kristi: The Three Gelati Day
About 10 years ago (scary idea), I met Joe through my friend Rick. Joe, like Rick, is a "guy" guy -- a friend who brings out the adolescent in you. (Rick and I used to leave our KPMG offices looking like young corporettes, meet for lunch, down 4-5 pints of iced tea and shoot spit balls at each other over the table. The Ritalin Generation. I digress, but you get the picture.
Ten years and gallons of iced tea later, I live in Italy and Joe lives in London. He is still in the swing of a real job and although he talks about visiting, he never quite swings it. In June, I hear that Rick and his wife might be coming over in July, so I begin picking at Joe, telling him he is a real wuss if he cannot swing a trip south when Rick is here. On and on... Finally, Rick bails... can't do it, maybe September. I expect Joe to weasel out as well. (Please note that any pejorative-sounding words or phrases are meant in a joking "guy" way. After all, these are my friends.)
Rick and I have always considered Joe a girl's best friend. He has a ton of sisters and is more in touch with sensitive girl talk than most guys. He is the kind of guyfriend who listens and holds your hand through the breakup WITHOUT making a move of his own. (And he brings tissues.) His mom raised him right. So I have been looking forward to seeing him and showing him the quieter side of life and maybe goading him into some spitball silliness in the piazza.
By now, Joe has quit his international burnout job and is actually touring around a bit with his new girlfriend. I must interject that I have never been a big fan of Joe's girlfriends. The last one I met was a childish beast that pouted and whined too often for any adult to handle. When he told me he was coming with a new one in tow, I winced. It's his life, you say. Yeah, and my living room.
The three of us had a great time! I really liked Kristi... maybe better than Joe! It was a quick visit... Joe probably thinking that 2 days is just enough out in the countryside. How wrong he was! It is jumpin' in the green hills of Umbria all summer. Umbria Jazz, myriad medieval festivals and food festivals, communist dance carnivals, fishing competitions, live music, dancing and men in animals skins.
Joe and Kristi were only here for 2 days, one being a Sunday when the stores are closed. (Puts a crimp in shopping for local souvenirs.) We sat in the piazza with our breakfast coffee and pastries and watched the people. Joe admired the high-water yellow poly pants and two toned shoes on one passerby. I was struck by the oh-so tight, oh-so short red poly evening dress that sauntered by. We window shopped a bit, then drove up to Montone (a pristine old hilltown overlooking the Tiber Valley) for lunch and a gelato.
Both Kristi and Joe were taste testing to determine their personal "best of" gelato in Italy. Our little ristorante just outside the walls of town was closed, so after strolling the stone alleyways and sighing over panoramic views, we scurried down into Niccone for lunch at Nonna Gelsa (my own "best of" in this area). We attempted the traditional "big" meal antipasti, primi, secondi, contorni and dolci. But the sheer volume of food did us in. We attempted to share the appetizer, but the waitress misunderstood. Instead of one order for three people, she brought each of us a plate of grilled and marinated vegetables. We each had a pasta course. Then we backed away. No meat course, no vegetables sides. But we did spilt a gorgeous panna cotta with chocolate sauce. No wine, just water. So it wasn't a traditional "big" meal. We're health-conscious Californians. At least Joe and I are. Kristi is a nurse.
After lunch, we drove through the countryside, over the hills toward Lake Trasimeno. I was looking for the breathe-catching views, but it was so hot there was a haze over everything. Trasimeno's vivid blue morphed into a whitish grey that blended into the horizon. Serendipity blessed us though. We stopped in Castel Rigone, a lovely town with sweeping views of the lake (on a clear day). Wandering about, we saw 3 young women hanging oil torches on the buildings. That act screams "festa"... actually it screams medieval festa. Sure enough, Castel Rigone was readying for a Festa dei Barbi. Score! We were psyched to return in the evening for the festivities... including dinner and a stroll through torch-lit streets!
An aside: On one of the side streets, we paused to... admire is the wrong word... gaze wordlessly at a yard that for all appearances was a combination Zen garden and low-maintenance Jersey Shore gravel landscape. Smack in the middle of the white pea gravel, surrounded by islands of tiny shrubs, was a hillock topped with a Padre Pio garden gnome. For the uninitiated, Padre Pio (now, Saint Pio but forever Padre to me) is an extremely popular Italian holy man. Alive in this century (and related to my friends the Cavaluzzos), Padre Pio inspires a huge, if unseemly, industry dedicated to candles, wax effigies and other likenesses. Now a garden gnome? What would Saint Francis say? If I find one for sale, I'm bringin' it home.
We wound our way home, tired, hot and drained. Suddenly Joe erupts,."Sure we can."
Kristi and I glance at each other, "Whaaaat?
"Didn't someone just ask if we could have a gelato?"
"Aaah. Yes I think someone did."
So we honored that phantom request and drove straight into Umbertide to the best gelato around. A local mother and daughter run this spot, making all their own gelato and experimenting with flavors all the time. Cuba Libre, Crik Crak, something with multi-colored rice krispies... Being a purist, I stick to the known fruits and chocolate flavors. My favorites ... pompelmo rosa, pesca, lampone, fragola, limone (pink grapefruit, peach, raspberry, strawberry, lemon). Italian fruit gelato is all concentrated flavor -- pure refreshment.
Post gelato, we experience the sugar crash. To prepare for the Festa dei Barbi, we opt for some quiet time. Joe and Kristi napped. I read. It was a warm summer evening, and we returned to Castel Rigone as the sun was beginning to drop. The torchlight painted the stone buildings and alleyways in light and shadow. We worked out our menu choices and advanced to order. The man in the booth was wearing a helmet with 2 horns on either side. Rather Viking-like. We ordered and made our way into the piazza where rough picnic tables were set up for diners. The men serving the wine wore animal skins and had odd jet-pack contraptions strapped to their backs. A long tube wound from the canister and, lo and behold, from that they squirted wine into your cup. A tad anachronistic but a hoot to see. My Italian improves bit by bit, every day. At that moment I realized that barbi (as in festa dei barbi) means barbarians. We joined a celebration of a much different time.
It seemed that perhaps this festa was a new one for the Rigonese. Or maybe it was planned primarily for the residents of town. I'd been to the medieval festivals in Assisi and Bevagna, where scores of townsfolks dress for their parts and craftspeople set up areas to demonstrate the old ways to weave, make paper, forge metals, etc. The craftspeople are many, the visitors are legion and the atmosphere is close to authentic (minus the stench of garbage and sewage). In Castel Rigone, they had a metal forge but it was one man, an anvil and a white plastic paint bucket. There was a glass blower as well... and pony rides... and a smartass juggler who worked with a "fool". The fool was fab. He spoke only in rhyme and doggerel, in both Italian and English. There were a few shops open, but they were a standard church auxillary tag sale sort... decoupage boxes, artificial flower arrangements. Nothing much to remind you of the ancient barbarian hordes or the Italian peasants they harassed. If we had been in South Jersey, they would have been selling those crocheted doll TP covers. Strangely, it added a charm to the event. We really enjoyed ourselves... it felt like a real festival, not one put together for the tourist trade. We saw the real Castel Rigone... the town's dreams and aspirations. And all of mom's old costume jewelry for sale at the festa.
Ah, the coda. After we wandered and had our fill of Brunhilda and her rocket pack waiters, we drove home to Umbertide. In the quiet of the evening, under the trees, we had our third gelato of the day. Chocolate and Strawberry. So many flavors, so little time.
August 1
It has been a busy and wonderful week. Last weekend a new family came into one of the houses and adopted me for the week. They were having a family reunion of sorts. The son who organized it all lives in SF. His twin brother lives in England. Their is mom and her partner came down from Southern England along with their godmother and her partner, a couple of friends from school, a Brazilian woman who works for KPMG (scary coincidence) and another couple who are new friends of the family. A nicer and more welcoming group I cannot imagine.
The day they checked in, we got into conversation and the next thing I knew, I'd been charmed into their circle. Not that they had to twist my arm much... they were simply so much fun to be with. I came to deliver a pot and ended up sitting at the head of the big Jan and Melchiorre dinner on their second night. We went night time swimming. They came (en masse) to the housewarming, bringing a lovely card, a bottle of Cointreau and a breathe of fresh air. Thursday, I was on the hill working in the gardens and ended up having lunch with them, participating in crazed pool Olympics and (while waiting out a thunderstorm) staying for their final dinner.
Dinner was fabulous. We'd had a good thunderstorm so everything was fresh and wet. They dragged the table out from under the dripping pergola onto the lawn and we ate under the stars. I brought out candles and cut some flowers and bay leaves for the center. Nick barbecued sausages and pork. Lynn made ratatouille, potatoes and salad. And I enjoyed the bantering and the laughter. My glass was always full and they made me feel part of the family. Remarkable really, when you think of it they are having a family event and without blinking had room for a stranger. Not just to sit and listen, but to be poked at, joked with, and included in the camaraderie.
After the week, I felt like I'd known them for years. We played games. We all wrote a name on a post-it and stuck it on our neighbor's forehead, then had to guess whose name we had on our own head. (I had Frank Sinatra and guessed it quickly, almost as if the ink had permeated my brain.) We played card games and pool games...
Our pool Olympic event was a relay consisting of 4 legs: Drink a beer, swim the length of the pool, tag the side; the next person dives for a t-shirt on the bottom, puts it on and swims to the other side, tags the edge; the next person dives in, grabs a water balloon floating on the water, carries it on his/her person (no hands) to the other end, breaks it on the side; next leg swims to the middle and grabs a cork in the mouth (again, no hands) and swims to the end. First team wins. I had the water balloon leg and the cork leg. My team had a significant lead through most but lost it in some confusion as to what needed to be drunk, carried, worn on the second to last leg. Win or lose, it was a scream. The pool was warm and the people were very silly.
This was a good week and I hope to stay in touch with the Simon and Nick Baker party.
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2002
