Anniversario

Two years ago today we stepped off a plane in Fiumicino with jetlag and jitters. Two years! And to think we had initally planned for just a year of this adventure; no way would one year have been enough. Two years have passed and we've still barely skimmed the surface.

It has really taken us this long just to get comfortable with the language. As a sort of celebratory coincidence, I just happened to have finished reading my first actual, complete book in Italian, Io Non Ho Paura by Niccolo Ammaniti. Okay, I had previously read several of the short books in the Travels With Valentina series, in which a precocious kid named- you guessed it, Valentina- visits each and every region of the bel paese. She manages to hit every major sight, eat all the regional specialties, quote all the famous authors or poets and generally be so perfect as to be annoying. By the end of three such books I was muttering vafanculo Valentina under my breath.

Io Non Ho Paura was different. Not annoying; not a children's series. I'd watched the suspense movie based on this book about three years ago. The movie was so well done that the climax scene made me jump out of my seat. I enjoyed the book, and loved that I successfully read it all the way through without *too* many glances at the dictionary.

An even better occurrence gave me cause to celebrate, though. Last week we boarded a train bound for Bologna to find our assigned seats already occupied. The twenty-something girl with belongings scattered about had boarded at the previous stop and didn't want to budge, whining that the electrical outlet at her seat didn't work and she was watching a DVD. We shrugged and agreed that since other seats were currently available we'd let her be for now. We took seats across the aisle.

An hour later when the train stopped and filled up, others boarded who were assigned to the seats we'd be occupying. We rose and told the girl to return to her own seat now. She had finished the movie she had been watching and had popped in a cartoon. She started to whine again about the non-functioning outlet, she couldn't plug in her player, blah blah. I politely but firmly told her that since the seats were now all filled in our car we needed those to which we had been assigned. She didn't want to move and started to argue. I interrupted her and said, "Yeah, I understand, but it's not my problem. The car is full, and these people want to sit down. These are our seats; we've let you stay here to finish your movie but now you need to get up, gathering your belongings, and go back to your own seat." I said it all in Italian without hesitation and without getting flustered. When I finished my little speech, the lady sitting next to the girl nodded firmly in approval and immediately rose to let the girl out.

It felt good! I was finally able to express myself in response to a situation, immediately and in Italian without stumbling through or grunting out unconjugated verbs. Linguistic difficulties tend to submerge one's own personality to some degree; jovial jokings and firm demands can be hard to convey. Finally, I was able to say exactly what I wanted to, even tinged with a little edge of bitchy. Finally...a little more Valerie emerges through the fog of language learning! It felt damn good.

Two years; it has certainly taken me longer to reach this linguistic point than I had hoped but I'm getting there. Here's to Year Three!

At home in Ascoli Piceno. Piazza del Popolo at night.

Franco

When Giorgio and Francesca recently came to visit, their main goal (aside from seeing us) was to explore the wonders of fried food amid the booths of the Festa del Fritto Misto. Such an experience was one that should be shared they reasoned, and so they called their friends, Franco and Lilli, to come and join us in the piazza for the fat-fest.

Franco and Lilli live in Rome not far from Giorgio and Francesca. Their families have been friends for 35 years...ever since Francesca and Lilli were occupying neighboring hospital beds after delivering their first-born sons. The gals bonded; the boys, who were born on the same day at nearly the same hour, are best friends.

The fact that Franco and Lilli were in nearby Acquaviva Picena for a family event meant they should be called in; they wouldn't want to be left out. We have found that Italians don't like to do things in a solitary manner; the more you can involve in something -especially if it revolves around food - the better. They were thrilled to be included; Lilli was looking for just such an excuse to escape the "confines of family and village".

We first met Franco and Lilli about a week after our arrival in Italy. They have a beach home a few minutes' walk from the one we were occupying in Anzio. Being such dear friends of Giorgio and Francesca, we saw them often throughout that first summer. Language barriers kept us from interacting too deeply with them, as Lilli talks a blue-streak at lightening speed and refused to slow down for our dull ears.

When we announced our move to Ascoli Piceno they were critical. Lilli thinks provincial life in Ascoli Piceno is "too boring". Franco hails from nearby Acquaviva Picena; he told us that "Ascoli is a beautiful town but is piccolo piccolo. It is hot in the summer and cold in the winter." He said he went to school there and hated it. "School" was translated to us by Giorgio as "college". We thought nothing more of it, knowing there was a university and a music school in town.

So it came as a surprise when, during their recent evening visit as we strolled the streets, Franco started pointing out a few landmarks and talking about how they were used fifty years ago when he was here. Fifty years ago? He's not that old; surely he couldn't have been here in college fifty years ago. I asked about this. Having a deeper understanding of the Italian language now, I grasped the mix-up. He was in Ascoli for collegio. Sounds similar, very different meaning. The collegio was a boarding school, and Franco was sent there at the age of 9 after his father was killed in the war. No wonder he disliked Ascoli!

As we walked down Corso Mazzini and neared our door he pointed out the building that had formerly been his home for nearly ten years. It was the building next to our own, the very building that now houses offices and the senior center. The building with the garden behind that our windows overlook. He occupied a dormitory room with other war orphans and children whose recently-widowed mothers couldn't care for. It was run by church. Franco pointed out the music room, where he found his main solace (he played clarinet). The chapel of the convent section is where the seniors now kick it up on Sunday nights.

He opened the window in our apartment and gazed into the park. "The barns are gone," he said sadly. There were animals in his day...chickens for eggs, a couple of cows and a few sheep for milk, both to drink and make cheese from. The park was mainly an orto, a vegetable garden, to keep the kids properly fed. They each helped in tending the various plots and fruit trees. He was disappointed to see many of the orchard trees are no longer there. He told how he used to climb them to the top fearlessly to obtain the highest-dwelling fruits.

The building was unheated; the war was still going on and even afterwards, fuel was hard to come by. He recounts freezing in his bed with all his clothes on in the winter, while sweltering up there under the eaves in the summer. Poor Franco! I hadn't understood his derogatory comments about the city we find so beautiful. Ah, he told us, "it's changed a lot...there is comfort here now. But back then I hated it, and I still have bad memories of that time."

He looked out our south-facing window at the Eremo di San Marco, eerily lit up at night on the hillside rising beyond the city. "We used to walk up there," he said. These outings for the boys were to get them into the countryside, and they would walk up the mule tracks for five or six miles to picnic at the hermitage.

I wanted to ask him many questions about those days, but he didn't want to talk any further than these recounted memories. That's okay. Maybe next time he'll discuss it more. Even if he doesn't, we gained a deeper understanding of our neighborhood and of the soft-spoken man we met during our first week in Italy.

April Showers Bring May....Snows?

The skies have been brilliantly sunny and practically cloudless, not unlike those we experienced daily in New Mexico. May Day brought hoards of visitors to Ascoli for the Fritto Misto event, while the majority of locals we knew flocked to the beach for a day of sun, seafood, and a long passeggiata along the lungomare. While the water is still too cold for swimming, the sun-warmed air was sufficient for getting a jump on their tans and we have been seeing bronzed faces around the centro storico. So it seemed a bit incongruous, given these climatic conditions, that when May 1 showed up on the calendar, my morning walk around the centro brought the sight of snow flurries. Each day since then, the snowfall has steadily increased. It is even accumulating and drifting in certain parts of town.

The snowfall is not of the crystallized moisture variety, but is more odious...at least to me as an allergy sufferer. The flurries in question are descending constantly from the pioppi, the poplar trees lining the two rivers that enfold Ascoli by their protective watery ravines.

Like the cottonwoods in New Mexico, pioppi produce a fine, cotton-like fluff of pollens that, once airborne, floats and flutters into the house. When I'm out walking it blows into my face, even on occasion right into my mouth, and sets off an allergic reaction of misery. The air has been littered with it, truly with the appearance of snowfall. Cottonwood is, I have recently learned, a variety of poplar. In our village they called it the "Corrales Crud," because the location on the Rio Grande guaranteed the cottony stuff would fall all over our hamlet and choke up our cars' air filters.

I've never been a great fan of this season. While I enjoy the wildflowers currently in bloom - vast stands of poppies among them - I selfishly abhor the symptoms the new vegetation produces.

Last year's drought meant there wasn't such a noticeable problem. This year, the April showers have brought May snows. To me, it's worse than the winter variety. I'm told that the itchy eyes, sneezing and general foggy feeling that I've been experiencing won't last too much longer as the poplars are currently peaking and will be finished soon. Until then, I'll be be sweeping up cotton-snow daily and cursing the maledetta primavera.

Learning to Flex

One thing we have learned from living in Italy is the value of flexibility. Through our various and sundry experiences with la burocrazia, holiday schedules, seemingly-arbitrary store hours and various other interruptions, we’ve come to realize that any schedule that we may have tried to keep for the day can be wiped away in an instant. Therefore, it’s usually better to keep things as loosely-planned as possible to avoid not only disappointment but outright frustration. As Americans, this goes against the grain of everything we were taught and adhered to in our former lives, where appointments were to be diligently kept and days planned out accordingly. Here it’s just not feasible.

Such was the case this week. As I mentioned in the previous post, I have a lot to do: research, writing, correspondence, marketing, not to mention the stuff of normal daily life. We knew that our friends Giorgio and Francesca had been considering a visit, though had not fixed any set dates. When they heard about the gigantic Festa del Fritto Misto to be held for four fat-filled days in the centro storico of Ascoli Piceno, Giorgio immediately timed the visit to coincide with that. For Giorgio, all things must revolve around food. Va bene; I’ll work around that, sending them off to the festa and suchlike activities, thought I. As if.

They are wonderful people; we love them dearly. They are incredible friends who are, in fact, like family to us. And so we just accept that part of their collective character as a couple is to create a whirlwind wherever they go. Schedule? Beh. While saying, “just do what you need to, we’ll be fine” in one breath, they are saying, “we’d like visit Loreto,” and “our friends Lilli and Franco want to meet up with all of us at the festa” in the next breath.

Since they were here for just a couple of days we decided to be flexible and go with the flow, rather than offend or not spend time with them. They have a taken a liking to Ascoli but want to see it with us; they want us to show them the town and direct them to our favorite spots. They want to see it through our experiences, which is very sweet. So my piles grew aswork got shoved aside and we enjoyed the compagnia of our Italian “famiglia” instead. In doing so we also learned something about our own city…but that is a story for next time. In Italy, flexibility is an important virtue, but one that will present rewards in the process.

Raindrops

The old adage "when it rains, it pours" seems to hold true. The nest at the Pinon Tree has been a little empty as things have picked up steam around here, keeping me very busy. Besides my usual "to do" list, I've had more writing projects come in (hooray!). It seems that post-Easter week heralded the official start of tourist season in Italy, and we've seen more activity with the tour company (woohoo!). We've had some wonderful clients come in; we've enjoyed showing them our corner of Le Marche...or "their" corner, as the case may be, because some of them have roots in this area. Its doubly fun to help them find records and see where their ancestors originated.

We also thought we'd take advantage of spring weather to hit the hills in the central portion of the region. Bryan has longed to explore the caves of Frasassi, and after touring them I am not sure it took us this long to make it up there. The cavern system is extensive and extremely well-preserved. Having only been discovered in 1971 there haven't been too many hoardes mucking around with them. Carlsbad Caverns was impressive...I had thought at the time. But with over 100 years of activity - exploring, mining, and suchlike, there has been impact. Frasassi seemed quite pristine in contrast. Three sets of vault-like doors ensure precise climate control. The network is sinewy and only a portion of the (at least) 13-kilometers of caverns is open to the public. How such a gigantic cavern could remain undiscovered for so long is a mystery! Geology-degreed hubby was in raptures. In typical Italian fashion, formations are named after food items: you have the prosciutto strata, bucatini (a type of pasta) strands, pancetta, lard, and butter formations!

I took advantage of the caves' location to hit an exhibition of artwork by Luca Signorelli in the tiny but charming town of Arcevia. The artist painted five works for a church there, and the place was transformed into a lovely venue to house this important mostra. I enjoyed not just the exhibit but the friendly town. It made for a nice little weekend getaway, something we've not done in quite some time. Our quiet agriturismo in the hills with welcoming hosts added to the enjoyment.

Back in town I've been trying to catch up on research, projects and tour strategizing. After a slow winter, the spring rains are pouring down not just much-needed moisture but much-needed work as well. Ah blessed springtime!

Politickin'

When I was in high school my mom ran for city treasurer of our town. Granted, the town has all of 7,000 people and it was a part-time job with low wages, but it was an elected position and there was an opponent in the running. That meant she had to campaign, at least a little bit. Being new to the political arena, she didn't know how to approach the whole scheme of getting-the-word-out campaigning. I mean, in a small-town like that, you just drop the news in the beauty parlor and the breakfast joint over coffee and by noon everyone knows everyone else's business. But a friend of hers, Tom, told her she needed some real, solid, grass-roots, get 'em rooting and tooting, politickin' going on. Tom hailed from Kentucky and had a drawl, and that's exactly how he put it.

So, now that election season is upon us-not just the over-the-top primaries in America, but the national elections here in Italy-I hear Tom's voice in my head. Every time I walk past the temporary boards erected in the piazza for political campaign posters, I hear the lilt and drawl as he said the word "politickin". The posters are not glued too effectively, so debrise is blowing everywhere when they peel off (or are pulled off). Campaign offices for various parties have sprouted up like mushrooms after a rain. Everyone is clamoring furiously for votes, as it winds down to this weekend. Elections in Italy are - I think, sensibly - held on a weekend and for two days to give everyone a chance to get to the polls.

And people need all the time they can get to cast their ballot...because there are no less than fifteen parties on the ballot. That is right, 15! Which actually represents only a fraction of the insane number of registered, official political parties operating in Italy. How insane? According to Reuters there are 180 "political parties, movements, lists, sub-lists, sub-parties and a myriad of other groupings" that form the nation's political landscape. No wonder the government falls so often.

Despite the fact that everyone (e-ver-y-one) asks me "Obama o Clinton?" when I turn the question around to inquire who they'll be voting for, I am met with grumbled responses that are not actually responses at all. (Sort of like Italian politicians, come to think of it.) The answers I receive are -

"Stronzi. Tutti sono stronzi." Turds. They're all turds.
"Ladri. Tutti sono ladri." Thieves. They are all thieves.
"Tutti sono uguale." They are all the same.
"Niente cambia mai." Nothing ever changes.
"Tutti parlano senza dire niente." They're all talk without saying a word.
"Boh." Beats the hell out of me.

Which all boils down to..."I'm not voting because it doesn't change a thing". Voter apathy, pure and simple. With such a complicated system of coalitions, double-dealings, talking heads, and power plays, I can't say I entirely blame them. But get out and vote they will...I hope. Fortunately, it will all be over soon enough. Unfortunately, given Italy's recent politcal history, we may be repeating it all anew in six months.

In case you're wondering...while we are residenti in Italy, we're not citizens and therefore not eligible to vote. Which is a great relief.

If, like my mom's friend Tom, you can't get you enough of that politickin, hop over to read some of these articles:

• GB of Italian Notebook explains about the campaign billboards
• Wikipedia's listing of parties and coalitions
• Bleeding Espresso's take on the fall of government and Silvio Berlusconi
  Background on Italian elections at Election Resources

Makes our choices seem a lot simpler and clearer, no?

*postscript*

Since writing this post I had a strange experience. I was in the pasticceria that I've frequented since we moved here. The barista and I usually chat it up a bit, so I asked if he was voting. He answered, "yes, because if you don't vote you can't gripe about things afterwards." Then I inquired who he would be voting for. He stammered, told me it was a secret and cast his eyes downward. Strange, so I pointed out he asked me directly about my vote. You should know his attire for the day as it figures into the story. He was dressed in a black t-shirt underneath a red bottom-up shirt. He pointed to his chest and said, "I'm voting like this". Ah, from your heart? Good for you! No, he said...nero. Pointing to his outer red shirt he scowled, "I'm not voting red but black." Eh? Black shirts? As in...fascism? Stranissimo!

A Few of My Favorite Things

Walking Ancient Streets
I love the atmosphere, the feel of the heavy stones beneath my feet, the narrow pathways with timeless rock-hewn buildings rising on either side providing intrigue. The fact that I can place my feet where others have tread two thousand years before me is an exciting thing. I like the way the light ducks in and shimmers on the stones. Exploring these streets brings a new discovery each time, no matter how many times I’ve walked those paths before.