The Big Question Mark

I saw the link to this questionaire over at Suitcase Contents. Beatriz was a comma, which, according to my answers means that we would get along well. I am a Question Mark. Yep, that is me, though I'm not sure my friends would agree that I am especially "interesting". Thought provoking...maybe. How about you? What punctuation mark are you?

You Are a Question Mark

You seek knowledge and insight in every form possible. You love learning. And while you know a lot, you don't act like a know it all. You're open to learning you're wrong. You ask a lot of questions, collect a lot of data, and always dig deep to find out more. You're naturally curious and inquisitive. You jump to ask a question when the opportunity arises. Your friends see you as interesting, insightful, and thought provoking. (But they're not always up for the intense inquisitions that you love!) You excel in: Higher education You get along best with: The Comma

What Punctuation Mark Are You?

Happy Easter!

Buona Pasqua a tutti! I can't believe tomorrow is Easter...it's so early this year, it feels a little weird. We'll be rising bright and early - not for a sunrise service, but to drive to Rome to celebrate the holiday with friends, Giorgio and Francesca. Chef Gio has been planning menus and cooking all week and we can't wait to see the results. My parents arrived back in town l'altro ieri (day before yesterday) and have finally been able to see some of Ascoli Piceno without rain hampering their view. Naturally, the weather cleared up and was glorious during their week-long absence, then turned chilly and drizzly on the day of their return. Yesterday was lovely, though, so we took advantage of it by walking all over the centro storico, showing them architectural beauties, cute alleyways, pretty houses, mountain vistas, and our favorite caffes. They are now converts to the spectacular beauty of Le Marche.

Last year I told you about the Easter eggs, the enormous and fanciful chocolate confections that are the traditional gift here. We purchased a pretty, unusual creation to take to Francesca. We'll also be toting some olive all'ascolana, big green olives that have been pitted, stuffed with a meat mixture, breaded and fried in oil. Sounds weird, but these buggers are addictive. We happened upon our landlady last year as she was preparing hers for the holiday dinner...she had just finished pitting three hundred olives. By hand. The Ascolani will gnerally not accept olives that have been pre-pitted, preferring instead to to it by hand with a knife a spirale, in a spiral around the pit to that instead of a mere hole in an olive, they "rebuild" the olive around the meat mixture. Dorina said that getting them pitted meant the hard part was behind her. She had only to grind the three types of meat, cook the mixture, roll it into three hundred little balls, stuff the balls into the olives, and then flour them, dip them in egg, then breadcrumbs, and then fry them all. By hand. Three hundred of them. Which is why I go to the neighborhood pasta all'uova to buy them ready for frying.

There are other traditional Easter foods, too. The Colomba cake, which is a reincarnation of the panettone but instead of being formed into a high dome is dove-shaped. Pass. Then there's the cheese bread...I can't remember the name but I'm told it's particular to this area. I wouldn't be surprised to find it in other regions, because often when I'm told something is very particular to one small zone, it's actually rather widespread. Boh. But this bread is golden and high, not unlike a panettone shape, but is made with pecorino cheese. It's especially good warm, but the traditional way to eat it is to lop off a thick slice and top it with salami or prosciutto. Which is very tasty.

I don't know what our menu will include at Giorgio's but know the party will be a good one. What about you? What are your Easter traditions? However you spend the day, I hope it will be lovely, chocolate-filled and peaceful.

Sempre in giro

"Siete sempre in giro," a friend recently told me, and he's probably right. We've been spending a lot of time running around. My parents have been visiting and as it is their first trip to the Ascoli Piceno area, we've been touring around for them to have a glimpse of the flavors and sights that make this place so wonderful for us. Unfortunately, their initial introduction was less than cordial; it rained nonstop for two days solid and they didn't let us hear the end of it. When it started snowing in northern Ohio and didn't let up until about 23 inches of snow had accumulated though, they finally relented. About the time they stopped whining the skies cleared and the air warmed. We even had a picnic lunch in Offida while gazing upon the gorgeous church, Santa Maria della Rocca, perched on a precarious rock.

The boys were left to fend for themselves when Mama Jo and I whooped it up for the Festa della Donna, having been invited by a friend of a friend to participate in her celebration at a local restaurant. We took along a couple of friends, too, and had a great time eating, drinking, and celebrating woman-hood while trying to convince the other ladies present that Americans are largely unfamiliar with this holiday. It was a little disappointing that here in Ascoli very few restaurants organized the usual grand women-only dinners that we'd seen advertised last year. The reason? It was Saturday night and, as several restauranteurs told me, "we're always busy on Saturday anyway, so we don't need to organize a special event for clients." Apparently even here it's becoming a less-important day; or at least it sounded like women would be celebrated only when it could affect their receipts. Hmph.

We then truly went in giro when we made the five-hour drive to Basilicata, the Motherland, so my mom could comune with la famiglia and see the dramatic landscapes laggiu` (down there). They were impressed by the marked contrast of the rugged, harsh mountains to the warmth and kindness of the people we know there. When my stepdad followed a wood-laden donkey and his owner along an insanely-steep and narrow street to take a photo, the lady who received the door-side delivery of firewood was so amused that she gave him some of her hand-made, home-cured sausages. How thrilled was he? He came back holding them up in the air, beaming.

They sampled the delicious home-made coffee liqueuer from a restaurant we like, where they make absolutely everything in-house. The locally-held recipe for this digestivo was purchased by Amaro Lucano, and is now commercially produced but not widely distributed (we can't find it here, and no one north of Basilicata seems to know it exists). They also saw what all the fuss about regarding the peperoni cruschi, about which we have raved and to which they have become addicted, too.

The town priest opened up the churches for us to see the antique artifacts and well-preserved frescoes. My parents may have also arranged a marriage for my sister, so all in all it was a rather productive trip to my ancestral village. (We'll wait to hear if my sister thinks so.)

Then it was off to Matera, a city that completely fascinates me and captivated them, as well. The sinewy pedestrian walkways that unfold among the homes and caves of the Sassi are leg-achingly steep but endlessly interesting. The utter silence as we walked lent an almost mystical quality to the experience.

My parents are now in London visiting friends and giving us a break for a week. They'll return just before Easter so we can celebrate Pasqua tutti insieme in Rome with Chef Giorgio and Francesca. Another trip to Rome in two weeks...I guess we really are sempre in giro.

Sunday Night Lights

Our new apartment overlooks a walled park. It is technically a garden, I guess, as it lies behind a government building and is city property. The inhabitants in this part of the centro storico take advantage of this small expanse of grass to walk their dogs. Birds dwell in the trees and lovers sit on the benches during lunchtime. We get to watch all the activity going on down there, without being seen as the sun reflects off our windows (I've gone down to the park to determine if one can see in).

But the coolest thing about our locale is that the building also happens to house a senior center. They sometimes hold special dinners and functions, such as a grand New Year's Eve party. Every Sunday, though, is dance night. The cars start arriving just before 9:00 p.m., dispelling people dressed up with their hair "done". They park in perfect lines, filling the parking lot in a very orderly manner, unlike the city employees who leave their cars all haphazard and angled. We've already witnessed two fender-benders in that lot during the daytime parking frenzy. The old folks have a dance hall set up for their weekly fete.

At 9:00 p.m. sharp the band starts up, cranking out old-time Italian dance tunes. Many of them sound like the soundtrack for Roman Holiday...you know, the songs being played on the barges while Audry Hepburn dances with the barber. Sometimes the strains of an accordian flow out. Occasionally there is a singer, but mostly it is instrumental and the music just sounds so typically 1940s and 50s that it makes me want to open a jug of red wine and invite all the country dwellers I could muster up, it's just all so...classic. Like right out of a movie. Except for the disco lights. Yep, these hip seniors get flashy.

It makes me smile to hear the music, to watch them coming and going. They're still going it at when we go to bed, which doesn't say a lot about our exciting lives, but does speak to the stamina and enjoyment these folks have. Last night was incredibly warm. I went out on the terrazzino and stood up on my tip-toes to listen and observe. I'm really enjoying those Sunday night disco lights.

New Digs

My life has become consumed with trying to get my new landlord to come and finish projects. His attention span lasts a cumulative duration of no more than ten minutes. When will the shower cube actually become a cube enclosed by walls? Will the teak landing at the top of the stairs ever gain a protective coating to match the steps? And, how long will it take for the promised television to arrive to replace the broken one he gave us? Our inquiring minds want to know! Bryan calls him frequently...and it's a good sign that he still answers the calls. He'll come by, take a look, mumble something that always ends in "domani" and goes away again. Domani doesn't seem to mean "tomorrow" like the dictionary translates it. He also seems to never do any of the actual work himself...strange, we think, for someone who calls himself a building contractor. We really miss our sweet, very attentive, work-horse minded previous landlord. Too bad he didn't own a brighter apartment for us to rent.

On the upside, though, the new guy did install high-speed internet, so we are very happy with him on that account. I love being able to connect without worrying what time of day it is and if the cell signal will be able to handle the traffic. Once I'm connected I no longer have to go brew a cup of coffee while waiting for pages to load. Most sites appear as if by magic on my screen, though a few blogs I'd like to read still present problems by locking up my computer completely. I don't know what they've put on there as I can never actually get to their sites, so I've scrapped them from my bookmarked lineup. Nothing frustrates me more than a locked-up computer.

We still have things in boxes and bags and haven't yet found a furniture arrangement that "feels" right. Moving to new digs is a major undertaking. We still need to buy a few things to supplement the furnishings provided. For some reason the owner didn't want undersink cabinetry or medicine-cabinet-type cupboards; just where am I supposed to put those items that have been tucked away in those crevices for more than a year? Boh. Still working on that thought.

On another note, my parents will be arriving in the beginning of March for a visit, which we're very much looking forward to. There is a cute B&B just around the corner so they don't have to unfurl the sofa-bed each night ("we're too old for that," my mom admits).

We enjoy having sunlight in the house all day long, something we lacked in our old place, and there are shops, restaurants and a great pastry shop conveniently located nearby (though Bryan still walks ten minutes to the old 'hood to hang out with his barista pal there). I wake up to bird songs in the park behind us, rather than the screeching signora, which makes for a much more pleasant morning. Now if I could just get an *actual* shower in the morning, I'd be a very happy camper.

Getting Personal

At the beginning of the year I took the bureaucratic leap into the Italian health care system. While it was not excruciatingly complicated, it was quite time-consuming. First, I had to go up the hill to the main health office to wait in line in order to declare my intent, show the proper residenza paperwork and obtain the enrollment form. Then I had to go to a specified bank in town in order to pay the required fee, as I am not a dependent worker who has an employer paying the subscription for me. Once I had the receipt, I took that back up the hill to once again wait in a long line, give my personal data and become enrolled. The clerk informed me that my tessera (enrollment card) would arrive in the mail in about two months.

When I returned from my trip to the US I found a letter from the health system and thought my card had arrived surprisingly quickly. Instead, it was a letter informing me that, as a new member, I was entitled to a free PAP test. It listed an office address, date and time. I called the number provided to confirm the appointment, figuring that as it had been more than 20 months since my last exam, I ought to have it done, though I admit I was little hesitant about introducing myself to nationalized healthcare in such an intimate way.

Male readers may want to stop here. The rest deals with what is delicately labeled as “female issues”.

As all you feminine readers well know, a pap test is not usually a major ordeal, but the whole set-up is a bit uncomfortable in general. Cold, sterile room; paper gowns; metal tables; and, of course, stirrups. Ah, it’s fun to be female, isn’t it? My gynecologist in New Mexico was very nice but always behind schedule. After checking in at the reception desk, I’d be freezing in the scanty, back-closure gown for nearly an hour awaiting her entrance to perform the deed. Outdated magazines can only go so far to keep you occupied in such a state, then sighing and clock-watching sets in. Just when I was about to get dressed and stalk out, she would enter, all smiles and apologies, and get down to business.

The exam was just a tad different here. I arrived at the appointed time slot at the address provided. The building contained many closed doors, presumably offices or exam rooms, but I had no way of knowing as they were all unmarked. No reception desk for checking in, no one around to ask. I stood about a minute trying to figure out where I needed to go, then latched on to a nurse as she came out of an office, before she could flee for lunch. I told her I was here for the pap screening but didn’t know which office I needed. She told me to simply take a seat and wait. “Uh, but how will they know I’m here? Don’t I need to check in somewhere?” I asked ignorantly. No, no. They’ll come for you, she responded. Va bene. Pretty soon, a few other women trickled in and just sat down, each clutching the same letter that I had received. We all smiled at each other weakly, but no one attempted to converse.

About five minutes later a woman yelled out of an office down the hall, “AVANTI!” Basically meaning, whoever is first, come on down. I entered the office and sat in front of her desk while she took my letter and started to input the information. No matter how hard she tried, the spelling of my last name, Schneider, completely defeated her. Not for the first time did I rue the day I changed my name upon marriage. Italians cannot grasp all those consonants in a row. Then she had a hard time finding my inscription in the computer system. Meanwhile, a nurse had entered who seemed very kind, and helped her find it. I thought she’d be the one conducting the actual exam, but she departed with a friendly “arrivederci”.

Once the clerk finished the paperwork and I had signed it all, she instructed me to strip down in the nether regions. “Uh…where?” I asked, looking around the office. “Over there,” she bobbed her head in the general direction of the filing cabinet. I was a little confused but got up and peeked around to find an exam table set up, within the office space, with only a shabby filing cabinet shielding it from view. I suddenly longed for the cold, sterile exam rooms I used to complain about, but obligingly did as I was instructed and hopped up on the table. No gown, no covering, just…uh, out there. Then, the not-so-friendly clerk abandoned her computer terminal, walked over and slapped on a pair of latex glove and set about performing the exam, the details of which I won’t go into but which you all know well enough (except to say that the usually-metal speculum was plastic). She mumbled something that I didn’t understand and asked her to repeat it, which she did but just as hastily and garbled as the first time, so I have no idea what she was communicating. I didn’t much care at that point, and quickly got dressed and left, the clerk/nurse instructing me to tell the next lady-in-waiting to come in.

All told, the process took only fifteen minutes, a far cry from the hour wait I had in my plant-festooned and brightly-lit gynecologist office at home. And I guess the procedure and outcome are the same, only free. My first welcome to the Italian health care system was a relatively painless, albeit very personal, one.

Becoming Jane

We returned yesterday from England. Did you miss me? I know, I didn’t even tell you I’d be gone. It was a last minute decision. We had been invited by friends Pauline and Steve from Santa Fe to join them in England for a few days. We had debated and waffled but Pauline pointed out a couple of flight options that would deliver us to Bristol, the closest airport to the Cotswolds, where their rented cottage was located. We booked the tickets one week before our departure and threw a few things in a suitcase, leaving behind the unfinished business of an apartment in complete disarray. I figure disorganization will still be waiting when we return, so why not take advantage of well-placed, welcoming friends?

Well-placed in the Cotswolds translates to a stone cottage on the edge of a postcard-like village with rolling hills dotted with other picturesque villages, horses, and grazing sheep. A short walk to the town of Nailsworth brought us to cute shops, nice cafes and a couple of good eateries. The primary activity in these parts is walking, and public footpaths ribbon their way across swaths of farmland, through woods, across wind-swept hilltops and between towns. Any hint of fair weather and everyone is out walking. We were guided by Pauline on a few short walks; she and Steve are very much into what the Italians call “il trekking”, and enjoy spending hours making circuitous hikes. I, unfortunately, can’t keep up with that kind of pace, so they slowed down and scaled down for us, in order to give us a taste of the activity and scenery. One such walk began with a pub lunch where a trail leads to the alleged source of the Thames. I say “alleged” because when we arrived there was a stone marker and other walkers with the same goal, but no water bubbled forth from the spring that is supposed to be the starting point for the famous river.

The path along an old canal was muddy, and my shoes quickly became caked and the hem of my jeans hopelessly dirtied. That’s when I started thinking of lines from Pride and Prejudice: “six inches deep in mud, I’m absolutely certain!” When we encountered our first stile, a sort of wooden ladder to allow you to cross over a stone wall, I knew I’d be immersing myself in the book and movie that I hold dear. Walking across the fields like Elizabeth Bennet did so often, like Jane Austen herself had done so frequently, was rather exciting. I mentioned this to Pauline who exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were a Jane Austen fan! We’ll have to go to Adlestrop!”

Adlestrop is a Cotswolds village where Jane’s cousin, a rector, resided and where she had visited on several occasions. We strolled the tidy, cottage-lined streets and visited the church he pastored. We glimpsed the parsonage across the street and walked a little bit of the footpath that ran between them to the fields beyond, where Jane Austen would walk to a neighboring town. I have to say that Pauline and I both felt a little giddy. Bryan and Steve humored us, biding their time until they could drag us off to the tea room for cream teas, where we discussed Jane Austen’s wit, which books we favored, and how her social commentary is so endearing. We’d unwittingly found a theme for the four-day visit.

The city of Bath had already been our list for a visit, but with the Jane Austen theme going, it was a must-see. To prepare, we watched the BBC video of Persuasion. Pauline formulated a tour to hit the highlights. We arrived to find a still-fashionable town with lots of activity centered in the historic core, much as it had been when Jane Austen lived there and used the city as the backdrop for two of her novels. We started at the gleaming Gothic Bath Abbey and worked our way around town. We saw a house where she lodged on a visit, as well as the home where she resided for four years, until her father’s death.

In the Pump Room we “took the waters” as millions have done before us, the mineral-rich sulfurous glass said to be very restorative. The Pump Room was an important gathering spot in Jane’s day. Pauline and I crossed the elegant room, gazed upon the stylish fountain spouting the famed water and ordered a couple of glasses. We toasted and sipped; we both cringed. It was warm and very metallic tasting. But the room was gorgeous and, except for a café occupying the middle, it was what we’d seen in the movie. Out the windows we could see the ancient Roman baths below.

The Assembly Rooms were next. In Jane’s time the Assembly Rooms were a major source of entertainment, offering concerts, dances, and lectures. Pauline told Steve, “This is what they did for fun before TV.” The exterior is rather plain, but the interior is gorgeous, containing three warmly-painted halls illuminated by crystal chandeliers. I could imagine being in a ball gown dancing to orchestral music…and I rarely put on a dress.

We walked the promenade in front of the Royal Crescent, a very fashionable address in the early 1800s, walked in the garden near Jane’s residence, and along a canal, knowing that Jane Austen herself had trod these same streets. It was really quite thrilling. Bryan and Steve even caught the contagious spirit of it all and enjoyed the atmosphere, too. Thanks to Pauline’s knowledge of the city, we located all the scenes used to film Persuasion. The Jane Austen Center contains a museum and a nice gift shop, as well as well-informed staff and we wrapped up our day buying pretty books and postcards.

It wasn’t until we hit rush-hour traffic to get home that we were forcibly reminded of the 21st century. Watching period-set movies, strolling three hundred year old streets, and quoting brilliant literature had allowed me to become Jane…at least for a day. And what a beautiful day it was.