Italia: Santa Maria and Donna

Alex and I are roused from our nap by the arrival of Donna and Rick, who have driven the five or so kilometers from their "new" home in Santa Maria, a town whose population dwarfs that of Borseda by at least 150, to pick us up. Donna Polseno is Rick's wife, an incredible ceramicist, and a dear friend of Alex's from art school. In fact, the three of them were housemates back in the day. Though I've been with Alex for over six years, I suddenly feel awkward, like an outsider. However, Donna and Rick could not have been more gracious and kind in sharing their Italy with us, and for this I'm feeling incredibly blessed.

In a nutshell, Santa Maria is an incredibly charming town--much more so than Borseda--which can be attributed to the life-loving people who welcome Donna and Rick with open arms, despite great language barriers. Their neighbors leave them sweet treats and potted flowers along their walkway, perhaps as housewarming gifts.Then there's Bruno and Bruna, who own the inn/restaurant/grocery store/bar along the town's main stretch. We stop to have an espresso and to meet Bruno, who is an aging but not unattractive gentleman, perhaps in his 60s. He speaks not a word of English, and I not a word of Italian. Bruno fills us a few bottles of the house red while we drink our espressos. We make a dinner reservation for the following night, and we head back up the hill to prepare dinner. 

We eat on the terrace, which provides for the most splendid view in all of Santa Maria. Dinner is simple but delicious, as is the wine. In Italy, dining is an affair done with friends and family. It is not rushed. There is not much to say about the food itself this evening, but the company was wonderful. We stay outside enjoying the sky as it changes from golden to turquoise to indigo. I drink more freely here than I do at home. Perhaps this is because in Italy there is no stigma attached to the second or even third glass, so long as it is in some way connected to food. Italians aren't worried about looking like lushes in this way, and I can't help but wonder if their healthier relationship with wine--how and when they drink it--could teach us Puritanical Americans a thing or two. 

It's late and we're totally bushed, so we navigate the windy mountain roads back to Borseda. Tomorrow, Alex has promised to help Rick buy and install a water heater, and Donna and I have plans to visit Carlo just down the road.

Buona sera!

Alex, Donna, and Rick in La Spezia

Italia: Borseda and Rick

Upon navigating through customs in Pisa, Alex (my husband) and I spot his longtime friend Rick Hensley in an eager crowd of family and friends awaiting the arrival of their loved ones. Rick and Alex go way, way back--40 some years--to when they studied ceramics together at the Kansas City Art Institute before I was even born. The three of us hop in a rented Fiat and cruise north on the autostrada for a while, eventually turning off into the mountains maybe 20 km from the Mediterranean coastline. Italian mountain roads are incredibly treacherous, as they are no wider than a bus, they rarely have guard rails, and they have untold numbers of nausea-inducing switchbacks. I am so fearful that I can't look out the window, for fear that doing so will cause us to plummet down the mountainside. It doesn't really matter, though, because the switchbacks are so nausea-inducing that all I can do is crack the window for ventilation and pray that the house is just around the corner. 

We eventually arrive in Borseda, a tiny Ligurian town claiming no more than 40 residents. Rick takes us up to the charming old home he just relinquished ownership of a few days earlier. It now belongs to his American friend, who is gracious enough to allow us to stay there for as long as we are in Italy. The terrace, which is perhaps 20 by 20 square feet, captures wonderful views of the facing mountainside, and as we briefly kick up our feet and relax before a much-needed siesta, I spot some chickens pecking away near the largest rosemary shrub I've ever seen. Truly free-range! 

The jet-lag is too much, however, and Alex and I crawl into bed for a nap. A warm July breeze rustles the old lace curtains and tickles our faces as we doze off to the sweet chirping of birds...

One of the views from our terrace at the Borseda house.

Italia: Espresso

Anyone who's ever been to Italy discovers almost instantly that Italians are crazy about espresso. It's found everywhere--tiny country inns, bars, homes, train station vending machines, continental breakfast bars at hotels--seriously folks, it's EVERYWHERE. I've even enjoyed a shot or two when gassing up; Italians take their espresso drinking so seriously that even the stuff at gas stations is worth drinking.

But foreign travelers be warned--the first sidewalk cafe one encounters upon exiting the train station is going to rip you off big time. In Pisa, we needed to take a minute to orient ourselves to where we were at and how we would get to our hotel. With suitcases rolling behind us, we stopped at a somewhat hip-looking cafe, plopped ourselves down, and ordered two espressos. That's it. Our bill? About 7 euros (roughly $10). Of course in Italy, you aren't supposed to tip your server, so maybe that doesn't seem so outrageous. But walk one block over and duck inside a tiny local caffe (what the Italians call an espresso bar that sells pastries) and you're paying .9 euros for the same delicious shot of espresso that you paid 3.5 euros for at the tourist trap. This time, you may consider leaving your change, so that your espresso actually ends up costing you a whopping $1.50.

At this point, it's important to note the distinction between American and Italian espresso, as well as that between a caffe and a coffee shop. Order an espresso in Italy, and you will get a tiny little cup containing about an inch of chocolate-brown gold. You don't have the option of ordering a coffee, unless you ask specifically for an Americano. In fact, if you ask for a coffee, you will be served an espresso. These places are nothing like Starbucks, so don't even think about ordering any sort of fru-fru drink. Order a macchiatto, and you will find yourself drinking a shot of espresso topped with a dollop of milk foam served in the same tiny cup. You will absolutely not get a 16 oz. wet cappuccino drowning in caramel syrup. Espresso is always served with a packet of sugar and a spoon. You will very likely stand at the bar (there are no bar stools) while drinking your shot, and your barista will stand close by, as if he's waiting for you to order another. Then you leave. No lengthy stays, web-surfing, etc. You will repeat this several times throughout the day if you are like me and can't get enough of this experience.

Try ordering espresso in the U.S. The stuff found here is both more bitter and weaker. Upon returning to the States, I ordered an espresso from my favorite local coffee shop in hopes of recapturing my experience in Italy. I never realized how badly Americans butcher espresso (and prior to my trip, I loved this butchered espresso!) until the barista handed me about 6 oz. of intensely strong coffee with zero crema. For the record, a properly pulled shot is between 1 and 1.5 oz., and contains a beautifully rich "tiger striped" crema. Argh. Couldn't drink it. Order an espresso from Starbucks and the quality is better, but it still lacks the quality of an Italian espresso--too bitter, too big, not enough good crema. *Sigh*

The espresso found in Italian homes is quite different and maybe somewhat familiar to Americans. Italians all seem to have multiple aluminum moka pots--like cheap Bialettis--in various sizes. Drinking this espresso is like drinking mud. It's honest, and in some ways it's good, but it's so radically different from the stuff found in caffes that it's in its own category. I'd rather drink this stuff any day than a poorly pulled shot of espresso, because it at least tastes like Italy. And with home-brewed espresso, you can pour yourself a tiny shot or a huge mug--it all depends on the size of your moka pot and how many people you're serving.

A final note:  after salivating over Italian prosumer espresso machines ever since our return from Italy, my husband and I finally took the leap and bought a Rancilio Silvia, which differs from most espresso machines sold to Americans in that there are no bells and whistles to accommodate user error (such as the thingy in the portafilter that produces crema in a badly constructed pull). Finally! Italian espresso in the States...

Ciao!

Italia

Wanna know the best way to get half-way decent airplane food? Fly to Italy. Seriously. I guess Delta knows that they can’t fool Italians into thinking that cardboard crap tastes good, and while airplane food is, well, airplane food, it really is better quality when you’re headed to Italy—Pisa, actually. 

If this is not enough to persuade you to try hopping on a flight to the boot in the Mediterranean, I understand. But it sure does make it easier to tolerate ten hours spent in a cylindrical aluminum tube speeding 400 mph six miles above the ground.

First of all, I must tell you that Italians require that their entire existence harbors elements of beauty and grace. Just listen to a native speak his language—it’s pure poetry even if all he’s doing is buying a train ticket to Firenze. Another example is the Pisa airport. Tons of flowers adorn the sidewalk at the main entrance—it makes you want to actually hang out for a while. Of course, Italy is simply gorgeous. Beautiful light (even Obama thinks so, in case you care), beautiful vineyards and olive groves, beautiful mountains, beautiful sea. Everything rocks here!

Since blog posts aren’t supposed to be lengthy, I’ll just leave with a preview of what I intend to blog about for a while. 

Our gracious friends, Rick Hensley and Donna Polseno, who are ceramicists who teach every summer at a lovely internationally-acclaimed ceramics school outside of Certaldo, Tuscany, and who allowed us to experience Italy in a way that would have been impossible otherwise. I’m going to write about Carlo, who’s family land claim dates back some 500 years, and who tried teaching me a bit of Italian, who had me pick plums from his orchard to give to Bruna (I’ll tell you about her, too), and who made me the most delectable frittata imaginable. Then there’s the cinghiale, the bane of many farmers’ existence, including Carlo’s, and which tastes delicious if it’s been stewed in wine for a long-ass time. The Cinque Terre and the Mediterranean, as well as Tuscany—Pisa, Firenze, Lucca, Sienna—all have provided us with amazing experiences. But what I really want to write about it the meal I had at Bruno and Bruna’s inn, which is situated in Santa Maria—the one in the Ligurian countryside. Stay tuned!

Ciao!

I'm Back! Let's Talk Italy

To all of my (four!) readers out there, I must profusely apologize for neglecting my blogging responsibilities. Most deplorable is my failure to blog about my three-week jaunt in Italy last summer, two weeks of which were spent in the Ligurian countryside engaging in all sorts of activities that would make anyone jealous. Anyway, I'm back now, and I promise to be a more consistent blogger from now on. In fact, I've started a second blog entitled "Diary of a (Recovering) Protestor," which steals a peak at my life as a nomadic protestor around the turn of the century. There will be plenty of self-humiliation of my exploits, so if you are at all humored about what makes a stinky, hippie activist tick, or you're just curious about what it's like to hop trains with a dog or to crash a Presidential candidate's victory party, then tune in...

But back to my true love, which is food.