Fig Off

Tucked away for the summer in a small Tuscan village, it is tempting to ignore the tragic or frustrating news that goes on in the rest of the world and focus on what is an important subject in Italy: food.

A visit to the local market, where everyone looks in your basket to see what you might be cooking that day, can bring about unexpected instruction on what you should do with your items. 

I bought some salami (Milano type, though this might cause a discussion at the deli counter), and was asked if I was going to eat it with figs. Side note: figs are in season now, though there is some concern that the green fig trees are producing more than the purple trees. Not so, others will argue. The purple trees are more abundantly fruited!

Back to my salami...no, I said, I liked figs with prosciutto. "NO!," I was admonished, "Salami e' piu buoni con fichi!!" (Salami is better with figs). This started a discussion in the deli line. There was a clear line drawn between those who preferred salami and those who liked prosciutto. Prosciutto (but only San Daniele!) edged out the salami people. 

"Il sapore di salami e' troppo forte con fichi!" (the salami flavor is too strong with figs) they declared.

I suppose I should have been thinking of more serious things, but I was intrigued by the vehemence with which the salami vs. prosciutto people held their respective grounds on which one was better with figs.

So I decided to have a fig off at home. All the family and friends are gone now, so the only judges would be John and me.

We approached the task seriously. We had purple figs and green ones. We had thinly sliced Milano salami and equally thin slices of prosciutto (San Daniele, of course).

Our preference: prosciutto, but the salami-fig combination was pretty good, too. 

We encourage you to have a fig off of your own and see what you think. Buon appetito!

The Story Tellers

Why do people lie about themselves? Why does anyone think they have to embellish an already accomplished life by making up stories? 

I'm thinking about Brian Williams, the formerly respected NBC News anchorman, who lied about having been in a helicopter under attack in a war zone when he had not. Many of his other reporting stories have now come into question. His senseless lies have negated his life's work. "All journalists lie," a friend who should know told me. 

As a presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton claimed to have landed in an area under enemy fire when videos definitively proved she had not. As in Williams' case, it was explained away as a faulty memory.

Then there is Vice President Joe Biden, who makes occasional forays into story land, most recently when he claimed to know Somali cabdrivers in his hometown of Wilmington, Delaware, when in fact there are none. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt on this embellishment and say he confused Ethiopians or Pakistanis for Somalis. 

I'm treading into controversial territory when I bring up Chris Kyle, the Navy Seal portrayed in American Sniper. Apparently he killed 160 of the enemy during four tours in Iraq, making him the deadliest sniper in US history. He was a warrior's warrior. He was called "The Legend" by his fellow Seals. When he returned to the USA, he continued to feed that reputation by telling unverifiable stories about taking out bad guys in Texas. However, his claim of beating up Jesse Ventura was verifiably a lie. Ventura sued and won a huge financial settlement. The question arises: did Kyle lie about what happened in Iraq as well?

When I was a freshman in high school, I knew a girl who lied constantly about things that were easily refutable.  She claimed her father was a psychiatrist. He wasn't. She told people she lived in a better neighborhood than she did. She lied about her grades. She presented her family as a perfect one, when I knew she had to deal with many problems, including a father who drank too much.   We were both army brats so we lost touch, but I have often wondered how life turned out for her. She clearly disliked herself and her life. She lied to create the person she wanted to be.

Maybe that is the answer to why people lie about themselves. They aren't satisfied with who they are or what they have legitimately achieved, or haven't, in life. Maybe lying makes them like themselves more. Perhaps they don't even realize they are doing it anymore. Their lies, or embellishments to the truth, have become their reality. 

To lighten up a bit:  I've often lied about my height and weight. I would like to be taller and slimmer, but no amount of lying about it has made it my reality. 

The Music We Choose

"Why on earth do you have that song in your playlist?"

Do you get asked that question, too?  

When iPods first came out, my husband, an original skeptic of the device, but later a rabid enthusiast, uploaded every song on every CD we had on it, without editing. I protested this promiscuity of music.

If anything ever happened to you, I asked, how would I know what songs really meant something to you?  He pondered this and edited his playlist down to 800-1000. He called it his "funeral mix." 

The girls and I understood the inclusions of Dion and the Belmonts (he loved them as a teenager), Bob Dylan, Rod Stewart, Rolling Thunder, the Beatles (he brought them to the attention of his West Point classmates, most of whom were still listening to the Lettermen), Barry White ("take off your brassiere my dear," from Love Serenade is hard to top for lyrics), and Van Morrison, just to name a few. We weren't prepared for Cher's "Dark Lady," though. He endured merciless teasing while claiming not to know it was on the mix. Maybe not, but that song will forever be associated with him. 

A slight digression:  Several years ago we were playing charades with the girls. He protested that it was unfair to use Prince's "When Doves Cry," in the song category  because he didn't know it. We attacked him for being a poor sport and not keeping up with current music. Whenever he hears it now, he lets us know that he recognizes the song. It's in his "funeral mix."

Back to playlist choices. How do we make them?  We know that music, like a scent, has the ability to transport us to another time or place. My own playlist, which has often been ridiculed by my daughters, husband, and son-in-law (and maybe you, after reading them) includes:

"Night Moves," Bob Seger (reminds me of certain high school nights).
"Gostosa," Jorge Ben Jor  (Brazil memories)
"An Evening in Roma" and "I Love You for Sentimental Reasons" Dean Martin (remind my of my late Aunt Doris and Uncle Ralph).
"Serenata Rap,"  Jovanotti (my daughter Nina and I set up her dorm room while listening to it).
"Sinnerman," Nina Simone (a rainy night in Cairns, Australia).
"Runaway,"  Jefferson  Starship (old boyfriend).
"Let's Be Friends," Bruce Springsteen (I like to swim to it in Italy).
"And I Love Her So," Perry Como (reminds me of my late Aunt Marian, who loved him).
"Bend Down Low," Bob Marley (my daughter Alyssa likes it).
"Beach House," Motherfeather  (Alyssa's friends recorded it).
"You Dropped a Bomb on Me,"  The Gap Band (weddings in Pittsburgh and dancing with my cousins)
"Pink Houses," John Mellencamp (inaugural concert on the Mall for Obama, when people were still excited about the election).
"Arrivederci a Questa Sera," Lucio Battisti (first discovered him with this song).
"Samba Pa Ti," Santana (thrilling guitar).

You get the idea.  It is eclectic for sure, ranging from old crooners to New York popcock rock (Motherfeather, and that's their description of what they do), but every song has a meaning for me. Perhaps it is limiting to do it this way because there are no new song discoveries. On the other hand, we have Pandora radio for that. So when one of my family members asks how on earth I could have such a song on my playlist, I usually have an answer. Except for the inclusion of "Why Not Me?" by the Judds.  I haven't come up with a good reason for that one. 

To Bidet or Not to Bidet

...that was the question in 1995, when we restored a two hundred year old farmhouse in Tuscany.

We are serial renovators with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, so the issue loomed large in our discussions for a time. The house had never had indoor plumbing.  British friends, who were pioneers in restoring old houses in the area, had installed them but advised us against it: "It's just one more potential plumbing problem you don't need, and it takes up valuable space."  That made sense to us.

We set off to find the perfect toilets, wall-mounted (easy to clean under), in just the right shape. We found a good selection available in local shops. We noticed that every toilet was sold with a matching bidet. When we told the shopkeeper we only wanted the toilets, she looked at us strangely. She conferred with a colleague. They both looked at us as if there was something rotten not only in Denmark (I had to keep the Hamlet thing going here), but right there in their negozio (store), and it was us.

We babbled that we showered every day, so we didn't think bidets were necessary for our home. They agreed to sell us the toilets without bidets, but I don't think they understood or approved.

My husband moved on to other concerns, like the right color of grout between the stones on the patio, but I was still pondering the bidet question. 

Some surmise that the bidet never became popular in the United States or Britain because they were considered unseemly, even gross. Allied soldiers during World Wars I and II encountered them with foreign prostitutes, who used them to freshen up between clients. Thus the nickname "whore's bath." 

I asked people who had them if they found them useful. One friend said she used hers for soaking her feet. Another said it was a good place to store magazines in the bathroom. One said her cat loved to curl up in the cool porcelain. 

Still others insisted they could not live without one, that "of course" they used it daily.  An Italian friend confided, "People will say they use it every day, but I think they do not!" Another friend found them "sexist and insulting to women," though they aren't restricted to one gender.  I was eventually persuaded they were a good thing to have around, just in case.

By the time we renovated an apartment in London in 2001, I was totally in the bidet camp. We had to have one. In our twelve years of living there, I found it came in handy for soaking delicate pieces of laundry and foot baths.

Fast forward to the present, and we are once again renovating a house, this time in Washington. Bidets do indeed take up space, but now they seem necessary to me (my husband would not agree with this).  Since I have discreetly indicated that I rarely used it for its intended purpose, you may ask why I insisted we have one in the new house. My answer: you never know.

Pressed by the space problem, and arguing over whether it was really necessary to have one, we discovered something that took no space at all: the Toto washlet.

Invented by the fastidious Japanese, it attaches to your toilet seat and is operated by remote control (you can choose whether to activate it or not). When activated, it lights up when you walk into the bathroom, as if to say, "Well, hello there!" It allows you to choose a warm or cool seat. You have a choice of water temperatures and directional sprays. Finally, there is a blow dryer, also heat regulated. They are standard in Japanese homes and hotels. Friends who traveled in Japan raved about them.

Compared to the traditional bidet, it is convenient and easy to use. You stay in one place rather than shuffling from one spot to another with your pants down around your ankles.  It is the bidet you actually use!  The downside:  you can't store your magazines in it.

Note:  This trend may be catching on. COSTCO was selling washlets recently, at a great price. There were only two left on the shelf.

A Horse's Head

While watching Richard Martinez, the grieving father of a young man gunned down senselessly by mentally ill Elliott Roger,  I was reminded of a clip I saw of a distraught widow in Sicily some years ago.  Rosaria Schifani's husband Vito, a policeman, was escorting anti-Mafia judge Giovanni Falcone when their vehicles were blown up in a Mafia hit.  Paolo Borsellino, Falcone's good friend and fellow judge, was killed fifty seven days later.

In an emotional speech at her husband's funeral, Rosaria tearfully said she could forgive the men of the Mafia for what they had done if only they had the courage to change.  "Please change, there has been too much suffering, too much blood," she pleaded, "but you don't want to change."

Fast forward to Richard Martinez saying he does not want any sympathy calls from members of Congress. He wants them to do something constructive.  He blames his son's death on "craven, unresponsive politicians and the NRA."

Ask yourself this:  is the NRA really different from the Mafia? Their methods may not include blowing up cars, but in their stubborn and intractable fight against any kind of gun control in this country, they might as well be gunning down victims Mafia-style.

They have a stranglehold on Congress.  They may not put a horse's head in anyone's bed, a tactic used in the film The Godfather Part I, but what they do is intimidate the politician who even considers voting for any kind of gun control.  They will find and fund other candidates to run against him or her, make media buys to denigrate him or her as un-American because they want to "take away your Constitutional rights!"  It makes no difference that the Second Amendment was written when weapons were muskets, not semi-automatic or assault weapons. Gun ownership is an American right!

This dogma reached a new low when Joe the Plumber, not someone I would normally quote, sent a letter to the grief-stricken parents of the latest tragedy saying "your dead kids don't trump my Constitutional rights." 

In polls taken before the latest Congressional vote on gun control,  an overwhelming number of Americans (91%), including many gun owners, favored at least background checks on gun sales.  Congress is supposed to vote the way their constituents tell them to. Why then did Congress vote down any form of gun control?  Is this a democracy or not?

The NRA is not unique in holding a sledgehammer over members of Congress, but this post is about them and their irresponsible behavior in the wake of constant mass shootings in our country. We hardly blink anymore.

"It's a mental health issue," say gun advocates.  Yes, there are sick people and sometimes they fall between the cracks. Sometimes they don't.  Elliott Roger was a disturbed kid, others had noticed, yet he was still able to legally purchase semi-automatic weapons.  Might background checks have made a difference?

From a recent New Yorker piece by Adam Gopnik: 

"Because every other modern country has suffered from the same kinds of killings, from the same kinds of sick kids, and every other country has changed its laws to stop them from happening again, and in every other country it hasn't happened again."

An Australian friend cuts to the chase:  "You can't regulate the behavior of nutters, but you can make guns hard to get."

To the NRA:  there has been too much suffering, too much blood. Please change. To Congress: Please listen to your constituents.

Note:  You can read more about the Falcone-Borsellino murders in my post  "An Offer They Refused," (8/24/09).  My statistics indicate it is one of my most read postings!

A Tuscan Easter

On this day before Easter, kitchens in parts of Italy, including Tuscany, are filled with the aroma of brodetto Pasquale, a special soup that traditionally begins the Easter meal. The grocer in our little town told us it is an ancient custom to take the broth to church to be blessed before serving it.

It is a simple recipe, using your favorite broth, and adding raw eggs, carefully, so they don't curdle, at the end, just before ladling it into bowls.

The Easter Bunny does not make an appearance here, nor have I heard of egg hunts or Easter parades, but like everywhere else, it is customary to eat eggs, signifying new life. Giant hollow chocolate eggs, colorfully wrapped, are displayed in every grocery and coffee bar in town. The tradition is to smash them open on Easter Sunday and find prizes inside. The Perugina eggs are especially delectable.

Rabbit is commonly found in the Tuscan kitchen, but not usually for Easter. Roasted lamb is the traditional dish, served with spinach. We are told that agnello (lamb) is not as popular as it used to be, particularly among the young, so one might also find roasted pollo (chicken) or maiale (pork). Because it is not possible to talk about food in Italy without someone nearby offering an opinion, another customer in the grocery told us that carciofi (artichokes) and asparagi are also often served. 

For dolci (dessert), one must eat a colomba, a confection that is more like bread than cake, and shaped like a dove, from whence comes its name. We also like it for breakfast with a frothy cappuccino, which is our own tradition.

Easter customs and foods vary in the different regions of Italy, but everywhere it is a celebration of spring and the foods of the new season.

“Natale con i tuoi, Pasqua con chi vuoi," is the Italian saying which translates as, "Christmas with your family, Easter with whomever you want."

We're spending ours with friends this year. Happy Easter, Buona Pasqua, Happy Spring to all.

Passionate Kisses

You settle in to watch a movie. There is undeniable chemistry between two people on the screen. You are wondering where the attraction will lead, and you usually don't have long to wait. 

It progresses as follows: smoldering glances, sometimes sarcastic, clever dialogue, and then BOOM, an apartment door crashes open as the couple who just met burst into the room, kissing, groping, and ripping each other's clothes off in an unbridled display of passion as they bang into furniture, walk backwards, swirl around corners, all while keeping their lips locked on each other. They fall onto the bed, sofa, floor, table, or wherever, as the camera lovingly works its way along their nude, always perfect, often tattooed, bodies. The camera lingers on thrusting buttocks and faces contorted in ecstasy.

Any one with living loins will find this scenario titillating the first twenty or thirty times, but then, well, it starts to get a little old.  When you can anticipate how every passionate scene is going to go, when you roll your eyes as the door slams open, when you think to yourself "here we go again," then maybe these scenes are in danger of becoming hackneyed, formulaic.

These images may also set up unrealistic expectations for real couples getting to know each other.  Is there something wrong with the guy if he prefers a subtler approach, if the girl would rather undress slowly instead of tearing her blouse off? What if the first encounter is a little shy, maybe awkward?  Is there something wrong with them if their passion doesn't knock doors off their hinges?

Sometimes what is not seen, but imagined, is more romantic, while still getting the point across.

In honor of Valentine's Day, here are some films, or scenes from them, that illustrate this:

Sophia Loren and Cary Grant dancing to "Almost in Your Arms," in  Houseboat.

Grace Kelly and Cary Grant saying goodnight in To Catch a Thief.

Apollonia and Michael in The Godfather, Part I.

Anne Archer and Tommy Lee Jones dancing to "Time Slips Away" in Man of the House.

The dance scenes between Patrick Swayze (Johnny) and Jennifer Grey (Baby) in Dirty Dancing.

The Franco Zefferelli version of Romeo and Juliet.

Armand Assante and the character of Maria in The Mambo Kings.

James Gandolfini and Julia Louis-Dreyfuss in Enough Said.


Spoiler alert: There are no broken door hinges, or even a tattoo.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Night Moves

You are tucked in bed with your book. You keep dozing off, but try to read a few more lines. The urge to sleep overwhelms you so you give up and turn off the light. You turn over and snuggle under the covers, ready for a good night's sleep. You have been reading about the importance of sleep and you are ready to comply.

Suddenly, your eyes pop open, your body is restless, and your mind is alert.

I know this sounds familiar to some of you.

Then begins what I call the night regrets. Somewhere between feeling sleepy and falling asleep, your brain decided to switch to the channel in which you remember every thing you have ever done wrong in your life. 

Years ago you were late arriving at your child's Brownie investiture. Why didn't you leave work a little earlier? Why did you take a particular path in life when another would have obviously been better? Shouldn't you have spent more time with that elderly relative? Why didn't you make that promised trip before she died? Why did you lose your temper over this or that? Should you have guided your child in this direction instead of that one? Should you have breastfed longer? Why were you so mean to that girl in the dorm? Why, why, why?

After going through a list of just some of your life's mistakes, you conclude you are a seriously flawed person, which doesn't help when you are trying to sleep.

Then you turn to night terrors, in which you imagine all the awful things that could happen in the future. You're beginning to see that aging isn't the glorious thing you read about in books with hopeful titles like, "The Joys of Growing Old." You worry about your parents, your kids, your friends. If you have one, you worry about your spouse, and you worry about yourself. What if you are alone, eating bread, and you choke?

By now you have thrown off the covers and gotten out of bed to turn off your brain.

When we were little, some of us saw monsters in the shadows of our bedrooms, or thought ghosts were hiding in the closet. A friend told me she was convinced the devil was under her bed and would grab her ankles if she got up.  Every creak in the heating system was something scary. Night lights, those little rays of light, helped calm our fears. 

Now the monsters are in our own brains, conjuring up ghosts from our past and future.  Maybe nights like this inspired Charles Dickens to write "A Christmas Carol."  

Short of waiting until daybreak, when the monsters disappear, what should one do to get some sleep? I've tried a night light but it keeps me awake worrying that I am disturbing my circadian rhythm, which might lead to all sorts of problems. 

When Sleepytime Tea and homeopathic sleep aids don't do the trick, there is always Ambien, which works, but you don't want to use it every night.

What else does the trick? The sound of weekend afternoon football on television never fails to make me sleepy. I've had some great naps then. Maybe I should have the games running on a permanent loop in our bedroom.  This might work, except my husband would be up watching them (again) and occasionally yelling out, "NO!" or shaking me awake to announce, "You're about to see the greatest play in football history."

I Don't Want to Know

Italian singer Adriano Celentano croons a tune called "I Want to Know" (Vorrei sapere), the lyrics of which state his desire over and over again: I want to know. I want to know.

There are some things I just don't want to know. Or see.

While driving in Washington, DC recently, I saw a man flossing his teeth as he crossed the street. I didn't need to see that.  It got me thinking, though, of all the things it would be better not to see or know.

Our favorite songs can be tainted by too much knowledge of the artist who sings or writes them.  It is hard to feel the love of Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight," "Layla," or "Forever Man," all written for Patti Boyd, when we know how badly he treated her once he won her from her husband, George Harrison.

I'm a big fan of the Rolling Stones, but the knowledge that Mick Jagger lobbied long and hard for a knighthood, is a notorious tightwad, social snob, and (as revealed by Keith Richard), has a "tiny todger," makes me hear his music differently than I did when ignorant of these things.  

It's tiresome to mention Miley Cyrus again, but the fact that she has a good voice will be forever overshadowed by the memory of her vulgar performance and that gray, over-sized tongue.  

The late writer Dominick Dunne once said he was aware Frank Sinatra had one of the best, most beautiful voices of a generation but "I can't stand the sound of it," because he knew the ugly side of Sinatra.

One can admire George C. Scott's brilliant film performances but admiration is lessened by the knowledge that he was a drunk who beat up Ava Gardner when they were together.

Did we really need to hear Michael Douglas say he contracted throat cancer from oral sex?  When you see him now, do you think of his fine acting performances or that over-sharing moment?  

Do we need to hear newly-in-love couples brag about their sex lives as if theirs is somehow unique and will not cool off a bit after they have seen each other floss their teeth a few times?  

Let me digress here to say I think even the most loving couples should keep a little mystery in their relationship, particularly when it comes to grooming habits.  There are some things we don't need to know or see.

I wish artists would see the wisdom in keeping a great deal of mystery about themselves. It  would make it so much easier to appreciate their art. We don't need to know what Matt Damon has to say about how Obama has let us down, do we? It interferes with his Bourne Identity. 

Unless we share their views, it is a risk for artists to share their political opinions. Clint Eastwood, a fine actor and film maker, is forever tainted in my mind by his ridiculous performance at the Republican National Convention, ranting at an empty chair.

In the small Italian village where we live a part of each year, I can imagine, but don't want to know, the politics of the people we encounter in the shops or caffes we frequent.  I'm sure some still admire Berlusconi or even Mussolini (the trains on time and all that), are racist, anti-immigrant, or generally have views that we don't share. 

I just don't want to know.  Non vorrei sapere.



  

Labyrinth

Spring is glorious in Tuscany, with blue iris and red poppies dotting the luscious green landscape,  thyme's pale lavender blossoms in the garden, and wisteria's purple pendulums swaying over the pergola.  I renewed my crush on the country this spring. 

Like most crushes, reality is different from the rosy way we see things at first. My crush came face-to-face with reality when I tried to pay our trash bill. That should have been easy enough, right?  

Instead, I experienced a combination of what could have inspired Fellini films, Dante's Inferno and Joseph Heller's Catch-22.  Come with me on this labyrinth journey:

1.  Before leaving for Italy I had received an email saying we had a trash bill at the local Comune (town hall).  It was agreed that I would take care of it when I arrived in early May.  

2.  I went to the Comune to pick up the bills from a vivacious blond I had not met before. She leapt from her desk, hugged me, and told me she had seen me on Facebook and wanted to be my friend. 

3.  She presented four years (!) of trash bills with explanations that were too complex for my Italian to understand. She assured me she could also speak French.  That didn't help me.  I explained I would bring an English-speaking Italian friend to translate so there would be no misunderstandings.  She reminded me that I had to pay by Thursday or there would be an interest charge. She also reminded me to friend her on Facebook.

4.  My English-speaking friend agreed to meet me at the Comune the next day to wade through the complexities. "Of course you don't understand, Christina. Italians don't understand, either,"  she said reassuringly.  We set an appointment for 9:30 am with the blond at the Comune.

5.  We arrived at the Comune at 9:30 am on the dot. The entrance was guarded by a young man who told us we could not go upstairs until 10 am. We told him we had an appointment  at 9:30 am. He told us he could not let us in until 10 am because that was the rule.  We gave up and went next door for a cappuccino.

6.  At 10 am, we were permitted upstairs at the Comune to meet the blond for our 9:30 appointment. She kissed me hardily on both cheeks and thanked me for friending her on Facebook. She asked if I had seen her comments. I told her I had. We agreed that she would write to me in English and I would write to her in Italian.

7.  The three of us proceeded to discuss IMU taxes, garbage charges, how far the trash cans are from our house, the commercialista to whom we pay various taxes, and other things that are basically incomprehensible to foreigners and, it turns out, Italians alike. I wanted to know why we had not received notice of these bills before. I was told they had been mailed out. To whom and where, I asked, not unreasonably. "No one knows," was the answer.

8.  Okay, just let me pay the bills, I said. After more discussion, in which we touched upon the fresh smell of my cologne, it was determined I could transfer payment from our bank to the Comune's.  My friend and I said farewell to the blond with more heartfelt embraces and reminders to write to her on Facebook. We made our way to the bank to resolve the matter once and for all.

9.  The bespectacled, round-faced bank cashier, who was unsmiling but accommodating, told us that since we are foreign residents, there would be a big transfer fee. It would be better, he said, to take the cash and pay it at the post office, where many Italian bills are paid. We agreed. Sounds easy, right?

10. The cashier discovered that our account was bloccato (blocked) because we had not yet signed the new anti-Mafia banking laws. Okay, let me sign it. No,  I could not sign it in our village because our account had been opened at another branch in a nearby town.  Note: they are branches of the same bank.

11. The cashier told me I should transfer our account to the local branch.  Note:  I asked to do this a year ago and was told it was not necessary because they are branches of the same bank.

12. My friend and I agreed to meet the next morning at the branch in the nearby town at 9:30 am to talk to the bank manager there. 

13. The branch bank manager was young, friendly, and rocking a  Buddy Holly look with a high pompadour and horn-rimmed glasses.  He was knowledgeable and accommodating.  He said we could easily transfer the funds from our account to that of the Comune for a tiny fee.  He said he would inform the cashier in our village that even though we are foreign residents, the transfer was within Italy so the fee was low. He told us the cashier didn't know these things because we are his only foreign clients.

14. When he found out to which bank we were making the transfer, he paused dramatically.  His pompadour stood more erect.  He would not recommend doing it.  Why?  Because it was not a "precise" bank. He worried that if we transferred the money we would not be fully credited with paying our bill.  He suggested we take the money from our account and pay at the post office, where we would receive receipts of payment.

15.  I signed the anti-Mafia document and our account was unblocked. Buddy Holly gave me the money and my friend and I walked to the local post office and paid the bill.

It took fifteen steps and three days, but our trash bill was finally current.

In retrospect, this incident is amusing.  It is the kind of story that charms foreigners who are there because they love the country but live most of their lives someplace else. Frances Mayes wrote often of such encounters in Under the Tuscan Sun.

Our Italian friends say this experience is the norm of life in Italy.  There are a few rules and regulations that can be creatively circumvented, but sometimes there is no way out of the labyrinth. You have to follow the rules, and hope the person enforcing them knows what s/he is doing.

Then let go of the frustration and go out and partake of all the things about the country you still cherish. Like the people you love, there are flaws but nothing you can't overlook because the pros outweigh the cons.

The Ambassador Scramble

It's the beginning of a new administration, which means there are a lot of people scrambling to secure an ambassadorial post. We were once one of them, so I can give you a firsthand account of how it plays out.

Ambassadors are chosen from three categories: 1) Foreign Service officers who are trained to represent the United States all over the world and hope to eventually be promoted to ambassadorial rank; 2) People who have raised big bucks for the president; and 3) Those who have worked on campaigns, in government, or other institutions relevant to the country or post they hope to be assigned to.

We fell into category three.

Many plum posts, like France, Italy, Great Britain, China, much to the rightful chagrin of highly trained Foreign Service officers, almost always go to the big bucks people. In all cases, though, the number two positions in the embassies are filled by Foreign Service officers. They guide the newly appointed ambassador and try to make sure he or she avoids a serious faux pas.  They usually, but not always, succeed.

If you are a contender for a post, the scramble to secure a position goes like this:

1. You will be asked for a list of what you want. This is not like applying for college where you have a "reach" and a "safety." They are all reaches. The competition is fierce. For example, I am told reliably that today in Los Angeles alone there are seventeen people who think they are entitled to an ambassadorial post.

2. You need to know someone in a position of power to send your name and choices to the State Department.

3. You will wait to hear something. And wait some more.  In the meantime, mysterious people will be vetting you. Make sure you paid your nanny's social security. Divest of anything that might be considered a conflict of interest. Hope that you have made no enemies in the State Department who are in a position to derail you.

4. If you are lucky, you will hear that your name and position have been cleared out of the State Department and sent to the White House.

5. You might wait for an interminable amount of time. Someone in White House personnel, whose name you will forget three months later, will become  the most important person in your world. Hope that you have no enemies in the WH who can derail you.

6. There will be moments when it looks like the whole thing is going down the drain. We were on track for a multilateral position in Vienna until we received a fateful call from our best friend in White House personnel. Things could go sideways for us. Why? Because "The Sound of Music" had just been shown on network TV, leading to "a new surge of interest in Austria."

I kid you not.

7. If you survive a serious threat like that, your name will clear the White House and be sent to the Senate for confirmation.

8. You will wait to be scheduled for a confirmation hearing before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. And wait some more.

9. Your hearing will take place. Hope that you have not made any enemies in the Senate who are in a position to derail you.

10. The Senate will vote to confirm you as ambassador. You breathe a sigh of relief.

What comes next is "ambassador school." More on that next time.

Arrivederci London

Tomorrow, after nineteen years abroad, twelve of them in London, we are going back home. We are excited about a new beginning and being physically close to our families and good friends, but endings are bittersweet. You look around at everything you took for granted and wonder if it is the last time you will ever see this or that, him or her.

Our years in London have been mostly enjoyable, but it has not been an easy relationship for me (see "A Foggy Decade," March 10, 2010). I know I will look back on our time here with fondness, though. We have been extraordinarily lucky to have lived in this vibrant city for so long.

Every day now people ask me, "What will you miss about London?" I should say I will miss the fabulous museums, venerable galleries, and access to wonderful theater. That's true, but they are not the first things that come to mind. These things do, one for every year, in no particular order:

1.  Black cabs and drivers who know where they are going.

2.  Being able to walk everywhere on streets full of imposing buildings in a city steeped in history. We haven't owned a car for 12 years.
     
3.  Marylebone High Street, which has everything you need on it.

4.   Frequent visits from our friend Simon via Eurostar from Brussels.
   
5.  Alyson, Jami, Justin and Marcy.
    
6.  British pageantry.

7.  Wonderful architecture and beautiful parks, especially Regent's Park. 

8.  Easy access to other European countries.
   
9.  Everyman Cinema on Baker Street. How many cinemas serve cappuccino, fresh cakes and wine as well as popcorn and Coca Cola in small glass bottles?

     
10. Waitrose grocery stores, the food hall at Marks and Spencer's on Oxford Street, and Boots pharmacy.

       

11. Hatchards and Daunt book stores.

12. Orange cake at the Orangerie on the grounds of Kensington Palace.

I have not had a great love affair with London or the UK, it's true. I have that with Italy, and I'm a one-country woman (though I've had a few flings with some cities). 

But London and I have had some good times together. My feelings about it are best summed up with the lyrics from a Emmylou Harris song: "No, it's not love, but it's not bad."

Down the Chimney

It is olive-harvesting time in Tuscany, so we arrived at our place yesterday to observe the pickers and the pressing of new oil.  We like to come here at this time of year. The foliage is red and gold, the days are crisp, and the are nights cold, perfect for building a fire in the camino (chimney).

Anticipating that cozy picture, we began to prepare the hearth. We have learned the hard way to make sure the canna fumaria (flue) is open before lighting the kindling. Haven't we all experienced the moment, as smoke begins to form layers in the room and are eyes start to sting, when we realize the flue is still closed?

This flue usually opens easily by releasing a chain attached to the wall. We pulled. Nothing happened. We tugged. No movement. We jiggled the chain. Nada. I said if we worked on it we could surely coax the thing to open. Then we noticed a small pile of dirt at the back of the hearth. Were our eyes playing tricks or was that pile of dirt moving?

I've posted before about the learning curve of city people like us having to deal with creatures encountered in the country (wild boars, snakes). We are used to the occasional sound of pine martens on the tile roof at night, when it seems like a roomful of furniture is being  moved above our heads. We recognize pheasants strolling along the road. I used to scream upon sight of a tiny bat outside in the twilight hours, but once assured they were not vampires, I now barely notice them.  We were not prepared, however, for what we discovered in the hearth.

NOTE:  If you are squeamish you should skip over the next part.

Our eyes were not playing tricks. The little collection of dirt was teeming with tiny white larvae.  You could call them larvae if want to shield yourself from the truth, but I think they were, dare I say it aloud? Maggots. The larvae of flies.  John was stoic. I screamed. Then gagged.

We shoveled them into a heavy plastic bag, sealed it and took it outside. Then we sprayed the hearth and sealed it off. I sent an emergency text to Ivo, our savior who looks after the property.

If anyone tells you that Italian workers are unreliable about showing up or repairing things, let us talk to them. Ivo arrived bright and early this morning with a team of workers who are coincidentally constructing a new fence for us. All of their energies were focused, however, on the stuck chimney flue and why there had been live larvae in our hearth.

Since we had not built a fire in the hearth for one year, they surmised that a dead bird may have been trapped in the chimney. Thus the larvae. They also thought there might be a nest on top of the flue.  They did not find any dead animals, but they did find a nest as big as a briefcase. Calabroni (hornets). Huge ones.

They sprayed it with insecticide and then used the flexible chimney equivalent of a roto-rooter that pushed the nest down the chimney. Fortunately, the hearth was well-sealed in plastic because in releasing the nest, they also released hundreds of gassed hornets, all trying to get out. We watched in horrified fascination. Eventually they all died.

The workers cleaned up the mess and went back to building the fence.

We built a fire and speculated that if we had persisted in our efforts to open the flue last night, we might   not have lived to tell the story. We learned that if one hornet is attacked, it emits a chemical that signals to all the others in the nest to attack. While we might have survived the bite of a few hornets, the swarms that would have descended on us might have been too much to survive.

We're looking it as just another chapter in our never-ending country education.