Signposts

Rented the car the other day -definitely a new adventure. A little, manual Fiat, I already feel like an Italian "rally races driver". I'm so American; having the freedom of a car has sent me on a high. I had no idea that I was missing the drug. In Seattle and Cortona I have been a proud, public transportation supporter and user, not just for environmental reasons but because it is fun to ride with the locals and look out the window. But now with my foot to the pedals, I feel very Texan (something I have never felt before but I see Texans as the quintessentially indulgent, big, American stereotype-sorry Lyn).

And like an American in a foreign country, I am super critical (and more than a little bit TICKED!) by their way of posting signs for directions to cities. Here's what seems to be the problem, Italians like to put directional signs to towns, just AFTER where I am supposed to turn, where as we Americans, put it just BEFORE, its called a WARNING, and I miss the American way very much. It's perfectly okay if they want to keep cars out of their quaint city centers so the tourists can stop and window shop for the same trinkets that are in every hilltop town, but then they better lay out better directions for how to avoid getting trapped in their maze of streets and ending up on a "Pedestrian Only" road.

My friend Mary Kay and I have had many great adventures in Siena, Montpulciano, Assisi, and Orvieto (pictures and stories to come.) The vineyards are starting to turn colors and there is a chilly, fall breeze blowing in.

In addition to the transportation signposts, I am receiving directions from Mike for the book. Let me just layout one such experience and let you interpret it the way you like. I have a Scientific America magazine from Mike's collection, dated December 2002, with an article entitled "The Enigma of Huntington's Disease" and it is written by scientists from Milan, Italy. Inside the article, Mike has placed a torn out editorial from what I thought was the same magazine issue but upon closer inspection it was from 6 months later, August 2003. The editorial ends with this: "Roman statesman Cicero noted, 'Although physicians frequently know their patients will die of a given disease, they never tell them so. To warn of an evil is justified only if, along with the warning, there is a way of escape.'"

It's just by accident that I chose to write this book in Italy, but as I see more and more signposts, I feel confident I'm in the right place.

Pane v. Olie di Oliva

Unless you are eating foccacia, bread in Italy is generally blasé. No offense my new Italian friends. I'm afraid my expectations were set very high by the French and I had anticipated great flavor and variety. I've yet to find it.

What I have found resembles fresh cardboard: a thin, crunch of a crust, much like the outside of a meringue. The center is softer, sponge-like, very dense, with virtually no flavor-not sweet, not salty, not sour, nothing-completely devoid of flavor. Initially, I was perplexed and greatly disappointed, so I ordered different shapes and sizes, and still found, no flavor. Then, one evening, I ordered bruschetta at a restaurant, Pane e Vino, and I discovered why, no flavor.

The sole purpose of Italian bread is to deliver the good stuff-usually plain olive oil, which is so full of flavor that you think they must have doctored it with something but no it's plain Italian, off-the-tree, olive oil. And the bruschetta, a meal fit for a King, served as an appetiser. Two pieces cost 3 Euro, select your toppings: mushrooms or roasted tomato, eggplant or radichio slightly sauteed in balsamic vinegar, pick a cheese-any cheese, swim it all in olive oil, and season with a pinch of sea salt and pepper. No wonder the bread is dull-you wouldn't want it to interfere with the good stuff.

Now the Biscotti is a whole other story. There's a bakery across the street from my apartment and I stepped in one early morning for a bag of 8 biscotti. Not able to read the Italian flavors on the bags or knowing the price, I got to the register to discover 5 Euro-Yikes, basically a buck a cookie! Well they must be extraordinary to warrant Starbuck's pricing. Of course, they were: vanilla, with a hint of orange rind and extra sweet almonds. Good thing I make my own coffee to afford my cookie breakfast -sometimes I have two.

The package said the biscotti would be good from September 20 to December 10; they lasted till September 27.

Tourist vs.Traveller

While visiting Rome this weekend, a friend of mine said I was a traveller, not a tourist. I asked what the difference was and we made this list:

1. A traveller mixes with the locales, goes into the culture; a tourist is abroad but he doesn't mix with the people, remains apart.

2. A traveller is asked directions by tourists (has happened to me 3 times in Cortona! I love it when they ask, "do you speak English?" in their own accented English.)

3. A traveller can enter a city and within 24 hours know how to navigate the public transportation system.

4. Tourists follow the guidebook to a T; a Traveller has a guidebook for emergency situations but prefers to allow the kindness of strangers be her guide.

5. A tourist flashes the credit card at the merchant, who takes it begrudgingly; a traveller gives cash in hopes of making friends with the merchant because she knows 1. customers are not always right in foreign countries, 2. merchants prefer cash so they don't pay the percentage fee to VISA, and 3. if you want the ripe peach, you must make friends with the merchant.

6. Please add your own in the Comments, I am positive there are many more travellers reading this than tourists.

Morbid Curiosity

Outside S. Marie, I visited the graveyard which resembled an outdoor shopping mall.

There are many more widows than widowers, most of which lived 30 years longer than their husbands, and surprisingly both husband and wife were usually born around the same time. Tons of flowers (real and fake), potted plants, candles and 3"x5" photographs mounted on the headstones.

My favorite was a husband-wife grave: he had died at 39 and she at 69. There was a 5x7 photo of the two of them, they were young and in love, admiring something not in the photo. He is standing behind her, smiling over her shoulder and she is leaning her back into his chest with her perfect little white gloves folded in place at her waste. This photo is set in between the two headstones. Then each grave is marked with a 3x5 self-portrait: his when he was young and handsome, probably taken sometime just before he died, but her photo is also young and beautiful, clearly not taken at the age of 69! But to top it, his photo looks straight out at the camera, but in her self-portrait her eyes are glancing to the right as if she is looking at something (or someone) outside the photo, and they have placed the photo in such a way that it looks as if she is glancing, fondly at his photo!

I had to pause and laugh. What were their kids thinking? I think I know, or I imagine that I know: "Mom is finally with the one she loved, and there are no pictures after dad died where she was happy. This one is perfect!"

Okay, maybe I don't know what they were thinking, but it could be true.

Can you imagine, 30 more years of just persevering?