Happy New Year !

A few years ago we had had an exhausting Christmas season entertaining our family in London. After they all returned to America, we felt like doing nothing more than sitting numbly in front of the television set. But in our more energetic moments prior to the holiday, we had made plans to spend Capodanno (New Year's Eve) in Italy with close friends.

Usually a trip to Italy perks me up, but that year I didn't look forward to the airport hassle or anything else that required effort and thought. I remember sleep-walking through the taxi to Victoria Station, the Gatwick Express train to the airport, and the two hour flight that took us to Florence. Then we made our way through passport control, retrieved our luggage, picked up the car, and drove to our house in the Tuscan hills.

It was cold, cloudy and getting dark, so the landscape that I love so much seemed bleak. Our car wound its way through the bends and curves of the hills until at last we could see the lit tower welcoming us to our little village. I could feel my mood lifting. To enter the town, we drove through the tower's opening and came upon an enchanted scene. All holiday weariness melted away.

During il periodo natalizio (the Christmas period) our village, like many others in Italy, transforms itself into a Presepe Vivente (living Nativity) set. Life-sized huts made of wood and straw line the streets. When in full swing, villagers take the parts of a il fornaio (baker), il maniscalco (blacksmith), i falegnami (carpenters), i contadini (farmers), and of course Maria e Guiseppe (Mary and Joseph), i tre Re Magi (the three kings) and Gesú Bambino (Baby Jesus), who is usually the youngest baby in the village.

We arrived after Christmas so we missed all the action, but the huts, still festooned with pines and fruits, evoked the mood of a centuries old custom. We learned later that our village only does the living Nativity every other year. We vowed to be there for the next one.

That attempt will be the subject of another blog when I am in the mood to write about the best laid plans gone awry.

Newly infused with the energy and excitement of being back in Italy, we made the rounds of the village, stopping for a caffé here, picking up groceries there. We are always warmly greeted by our friends in town, which makes us feel truly at home.

Our house guests arrived later that evening and we spent a cozy night eating pasta, tending a roaring fire, talking. In the wintertime I like to place hot water bottles, wrapped in soft covers, at the foot of all our beds. When we get under the blankets the beds are already warm, and our feet stay toasty until morning.

In the mornings we went to one or another of the small towns in the area for our breakfast. It is always a simple affair in Italy: un cornetto (a crescent) filled with crema (custard), marmellata (jam) or vuoto (empty, plain).

There is a special aura about entering an Italian caffé bar on a winter's morning. The warmth is welcome. Then comes the intoxicating smell of fresh coffee, the whirring of steamed milk for the cappucini, the excited buzz of people greeting each other, the cups tinkling against saucers, the energy of a new day beginning.

We always like to sit and slowly enjoy our cappuccini and cornetti, but the Italians don't waste any time. They stand at the bar and quickly eat their cornetti, then drain their coffee cups in a few swallows.

Can we talk about the sheer, almost sensual, pleasure of that first cup of cappuccino on a winter's morning in Tuscany? Why does it always taste better in Italy? Is it the milk? The water? We have had long discussions about this with our friends. We have tried and compared the cappuccini in different caffé bars around the area. We have plotted our day based on where we will get our first cappuccino.

Before I go into further rapture about the joys of Italian coffee, let's go back to that New Year's Eve holiday...

We spent New Year's Eve morning at the big outdoor market in San Giovanni. We learned that it is a tradition in Italy to wear something red to welcome the new year. That explained the mountains of red underwear on display. My friend and I picked out two lacey items to ensure that we would have good luck the following year.

Then the four of us selected things for a New Year's Eve feast. We planned to graze through the evening, starting with caviar, moving on to lasagna, then pork roast, ending finally with a selection of gelati.

We ate around the fire, talking, listening to music, and watching television. It was a cold, damp night and the night clouds had settled below our terrace in the hills so we could see nothing of the valley. Our place was sitting on top of a cloud.

We watched the countdown to New Year's Day on TV. Italian television is full of busty women presenters, scantily clad and heavily made up. Amid the forced merriment on the screen, we heard a popping noise. We went out onto the terrace to investigate.

I wish I could recreate the scene for all of you. Imagine a cold, dark night. You are standing on a terrace above the clouds. You can't see anything else. Then, first here, then there, a dazzling burst of fireworks shoots through them. Soon there are hundreds of fireworks from miles around the valley penetrating the night clouds below you. The colors and effects are spectacular. Golden star bursts to our right, red flames to our left, blue and silver sprays right below us. It is silent except for distant church bells ringing in the New Year.

The four of us stood spellbound for at least fifteen minutes, until the last firework dissolved into the clouds and the bells stopped pealing.

If you have ever wondered how director Federico Fellini was inspired to film some of his other-worldly scenes, those minutes on our terrace would have given you one answer.

It was one of the most magical evenings I can remember. I want to share it with all of you. Auguri per un Buon Anno (Best wishes for a Happy New Year).