June 25, 2003
Spent the morning in the market. Sat under the umbrella and sipped cappuccino with Jan, chatted with Melchiorre, wandered a bit amongst the tables of jeans, embroidered linens and silicon strap bras. Ran into Kathy Garrison and David Wood, Paola with Diego, Ali, Fausto. The linen lady had a new shipment of dresses bright, short spaghetti-strapped numbers built to beat the heat. I bought a Marilyn Monroe-ish floral halter dress. I'll miss the market all the bargains, real and imagined. The clothing hanging from the tent poles -- bright and shiny, fringed and sequined, linen and polyblends. I'm attached to this weekly tradition of people watching over coffee and beer.
Sitting in the market, I started pondering a question my Italian teacher asked last week. "What will you take home?" She was not referring to pottery or shoes, but the indelible, unseen things that you bring back after a long trip. I know I'll return with a broader perspective... and an appreciation for differences. I understand much more about how Americans are perceived by the Europeans (and to a lesser extent the Arabs.) Other cultures have different ways of approaching life. It's not necessarily better. But it's not necessarily worse, either. It's just different. Once you become accustomed to the differences, you begin to see how new ways (or old, traditional ways) work for you. In Umbria, the pace is more measured than in the US. There are stronger connections to years gone by, to natural cycles, to the calendar... to the market on Wednesdays.
Once I got to thinking about what I'll take back with me, I wondered what I would miss... the things I cannot take home with me. The people I've met and gotten to know are a given. Even the people I've grown accustomed to seeing but do not really know... the onion man; the mother and daughter team at the gelateria; David at the Molina; Gigi the flasher... The passegiata on a warm evening. The many festas, sagras and art events staged all summer and fall. Evening movies in the piazza. My neighbor's cat, Micchio. Elizabeth's little garden. Dinners at Stefano's. The wisteria pergola at La Quercia.
Hopefully, I can hang onto some of the intangibles. By building a wisteria pergola of my own. Making time for the people instead of excuses why that deadline at work is more critical than dinner with friends. (I met a guy 7 years ago at KPMG who rescheduled his honeymoon so he could attend a training course. Did he have any idea who would be sitting up late with him, nursing him through a flu or something worse? Sure wasn't going to be me or any of his KPMG bosses.)
June 22
In 20 days, I will take a train to Rome, board a flight and leave Italy. In 20 days, I will leave my grotto in Umbertide, to god knows what in Philadelphia, to begin a job search, a house search and a huge transition.
Scary.
The transition will be strange. From countryside to city suburb. From slow food to fast food. From Italians to Americans. Its another adventure, like moving to Italy, except now I'm fluent in the language.
I've gotten used to hearing Italian every day... sometimes, I even forget its foreign to me. I've even become pretty good at eavesdropping, if they speak clearly.
June 19
Sunset dinner at Il Cielo with Katherine and Nell tonight. I went up to weed at Quercia and to help Katherine pack some of Lenny's clothing. We made pork steaks, roasted vegetables and a peach crumble. Yum. Dinner was served under the grape pergola as the sun set. We watched the colors change, enjoying the scads of fireflies that ringed the house. It looked like Katherine has strung sequencing Christmas lights in all the bushes. Or mini paparazzi. Just a mass of flashing bulbs.
I drove home very slowly. Normally, I fly down the valley at 90KPH. Tonight I poked along at 60, enjoying the valley and trying to remember every curve, every field, every blade of grass. I know the road so well, it feels like home every time I drive it. There is the curve by Luigina's house where you usually see her husband, Mario, sitting on the bench... the straightaway by Christina's shop with sunflowers on one side... Spedalicchio, with its many dumpsters and recycling bins (lousy claim to fame, but very practical knowledge)... the turn off to Stefano's by the grape vines... the three sharp curves that straighten out just as you cross the bridge at Elizabeth's house (where you must double check to see that her cats aren't in the road)... and the s-curve in Niccone that forces you to slow down, or crash into an old stone house. (I've decided that the S-curve is the Italian version of the speed bump.)
Deep green winter wheat that changes to gold, red poppies, yellow sunflowers, purple onions, tall green corn, villainous tobacco... from Tuscany at one end to Umbria at the other, the Niccone Valley is a beautiful valley.
The Pecora
I was working at Casa Cielo getting the house ready for guests. It was a hot, in the high 9s at bout 2 or 3ish maybe, and I really felt alone on the hill. Not a lonely alone, but more an exultant connection to the hill and the surrounding fields... a real affection for Casa Cielo. I standing was up at the pool, looking down to the valley and out at spectacular views, turning over in my head what I might do with that garden, if the house was mine... Suddenly, a lone sheep appeared, trotting down the road. She was agitated and a little wild eyed. The pecora hesitated by the gate and I called "Hey sheep, whatcha doing out here?" At the sound of a voice, however unfamiliar, she trotted into the yard.
If you have no first hand experience with sheep, you don't realize that they are nothing like petting zoo animals. Real sheep are docile. My experience with sheep is limited to petting zoos and landscapes. The pecora came towards me, like a big dog, but when I moved to her, she veered off and started trotting around the yard. What's the harm? I have a very large in the ground swimming pool and it does not need a sheep swimming in it. She, of course, beelined to the pool. I grabbed a walking stick and sprinted up, trying to stay between the sheep and the pool. In a lame attempt to herd the wooly monster somewhere more safe, I brandished my walking stick. Drawn to the water, she kept circling back and at one point beat me to the water and was teetering on the edge trying to drink. Not wanting to scare her into a sudden move, I talked to her reasonably about chlorine and the precarious spot she was in. Sheep really have the most delicate, fragile
looking legs. As I watched her balancing on the pool's edge, I imagined her snapping a leg and me being responsible for finding someone to either splint her or shoot her. I was fully prepared to leap into the pool and heave her out should she slip. I had visions of sharp little hooves shredding the pool liner... all in time for the guests to arrive. She careened away from me, down the slope toward the house, just as I remembered that the doors were open downstairs. She beelined for the house and yes, went right into the livingroom. I managed to get her out without to much trouble.
At about the moment she popped out of the livingroom, Paola was driving down the hill. She pulled in, laughing and we started herding the sheep again. Where? I don't think we were clear where... I wondered if we should call Melchiorre, Mr. Sheep. But Paola had a brainwave. We would call Stefano. Not only does he have sheep, he wants another one. Perfect. Paola closes the gate, calls Stefano and I keep the sheep away from the pool. We filled a wash bucket with water to try and get her to drink and calm down, but she kept circling the house trying for the pool. She saw her reflection in the glass of the door and was certain there were more sheep inside. The pecora kept butting her head on the door and baa-ing. Paola and I were baa-ing to make her feel better. Up to the pool, down behind the house, butt the doors, look in the car windows, butt the doors, try the pool. Around and around we went.
I asked Paola, how does one capture a sheep. They aren't small and they have a certain crazy look that keeps you guessing. Sheep are flock animals... not good alone. Our sheep had a piece of frayed rope dangling around her neck. Now and again, I would try and get close to her to grab it. She kept tossing her head and veering away, baa-ing piteously. Finally, she made her way down into the wild part of the yard below in search of her lost flock. All of Cielo is fenced, but this part of the yard is au naturel... all overgrown bushes, wild roses and waist high grass. (I think of it as snake country). There was no way I was following her to being her back.
At that point (heave a sigh of relief), Stefano arrives in his white hatchback wagon. Looking like an Italian Marlboro man, he gets out of the car and proceeds to try and wrangle the sheep. We are all baa-ing, trying to convince her there is a flock of sweaters back on the lawn. We can see the pecora circling and making her way back up circuitously. Finally, eccola, she is here. Stefano is crouching toward her, murmuring sweet sheep nothings... the sheep whisperer. She seems more relaxed and keeps coming toward him and just as he reaches for the rope, she veers away again. Stefano makes a lunge for her, misses his footing and falls. She runs towards the cars. Stefano has torn something in his knee and is grimacing in pain on the ground.
I notice that the sheep has become curious about the car. The hatch is open and she is chest deep examining... something. I position myself between her and the pool, with most of the car blocking my approach. She is so engrossed in whatever she has found, she is oblivious. When I get to the corner of the car, she spots me and tries to sprint by. Her mistake. I lunge and grab her by the wool, at the neck and the haunch. This is not a small animal, but then neither am I. Throwing myself on her, I hear Stefano yelling, "grab her legs, grab her legs." There is no way I can let go of the wool and still hang on to her. I had to wrestled her to the ground. (All the while worrying if she felt like I was pulling her hair.) Paola said, "Kathy, you asked how to capture a sheep?"
Stefano limped over, grinding his teeth in pain, grabbed a rope, flipped the sheep her back and tied her four legs together. Once her legs were tied, she calmed down a lot. With one grunt, he hoisted her up and laid her in the back on the hatchback. We wiped the sweat from our collective brow and sent the little pecora home.
I saw the sheep later that night, happy and tranquil with Stefano's other sheep. They have named her Katia. And Stefano assures me that she will not end up as a roast. Her children might, but she is safe. I stood by the fence and baa-ed at her a bit. Curiously, she came right out of the shed and walked a few steps toward me. Almost like she remembered our big adventure.
Lenny
Got the news that Lenny died. I never expected it would happen. We heard such conflicting reports... it was grave, he was improving... its cancer, its not cancer... He is stronger after chemo, he has had an emergency operation. I figured he would be back on the hill in the fall.
Elizabeth had everyone over for a wake at her house. We ate and sipped red wine, read Lenny's obituary from the NY Times, then cranked up the Latin music and danced. For awhile we even danced like Lenny... our little homage... arms up, feet shuffling in time, tight spins, and laser-focused on the rhythms.
2003
