Nancy, Author at Itch.world

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A three-minute escape to Italy.

Tuscany, travel, medieval village, Italy, festivals, celebrations, customs, cooking, recipes, living in Italy, moving to Italy, visiting, visit, restaurants, language

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September 30, 2022 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Road trip, part II: where did the good times go?

When I left you last on our European road trip we’d headed out of the tunnel from France to England with hearts full of anticipated adventure, fun, and not the least of it, great meals to be had. Turns out that only the first was true, and not in the way we imagined.

Oxford

We headed directly to Oxford—Sebastian was an offer holder—and he wanted us to attend a university-wide open house. The British system is different from the American one. A British university gives a student an offer to attend, most of the time dependent on the grades obtained at the big tests at the end of the academic year. There is no senior year coasting. And the results don’t come out until late summer.

We checked into a hotel that I am still not sure how to rank in my order-obsessed brain. Location? Great. Charm? Pretty darn high, but in an eccentric way. Room size? Smallest I’ve ever stayed in. Historical interest? High. Bathroom? Pretty damn awful. Mildew? Just maybe. Bath Place Hotel is a collection of tiny cottages around a cobbled courtyard, built in the early 1600s by Flemish weavers who were given permission to settle right up against the Oxford city walls. Before the weavers came there was a communal bath house, explaining the odd name.

From the hotel’s courtyard there is a less than arms-width passage between two of the cottages that leads directly into the outside terrace of the Turf Tavern, where Bill Clinton famously did not inhale marijuana while a student. Its foundations date back to 1381 and it was built outside the town walls so that various kinds of illegal activity wouldn’t be under the jurisdiction of the colleges. In addition to Clinton, the Turf has hosted Ernest Hemingway, Steven Hawking, David Bowie, Oscar Wilde, Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, C.S. Lewis, Margaret Thatcher, to name a few, and us. Although now very touristy I was still glad we went as I was toweringly tall when ordering at the bar, barely fitting under the beams. Others, more truly towering (over 5’4″), have to duck.

Just steps further was the heart of Oxford University, where the first courses were taught in 1096. Three of the oldest colleges were built in starting in 1249, so the architecture, as it evolved through the centuries with the creation of more colleges, is varied and truly beautiful. Oxford is made up of 44 colleges, which are usually closed to the public and the best you can do is to catch glimpses of the splendor within through metal gates, manned 24-hours a day by watchful porters who have heard every excuse from people wanting a look around inside. This weekend was special as all the colleges were open and we wandered through a few.

My current favorite of the batch is All Souls, which is a graduate-only academic research institution. Applicants have to take what is informally known as the hardest exam in the world—twelve hours of grueling questions—and those who survive go on to oral examinations. Beyond subject specific exams there are three general essays from a long list, including questions like: Should we bring back woolly mammoths from the dead?; If Margaret Thatcher and Nelson Mandela had died on the same day, whose death should the BBC have reported as its top story?; ‘Taste is first and foremost distaste, disgust and visceral intolerance of the taste of others’ (PIERRE BOURDIEU). Is it?; and Is it ‘colonialist’ for the UK to pressure its former colonies to repeal anti-sodomy laws imposed during the period of British rule?

After all that two students are accepted on a good year, sometimes none. There are usually around a dozen students at All Souls in total. The college is one of the richest at Oxford, with an endowment of £420 million, which students, who are full fellows once accepted, can use for research. This is important because it breaks the usual academic cycle of graduate students having to limit what they research and study to appeal to funding opportunities and academic publishers who determine what might be publishable, to make a career and a living. All Souls provides the money needed to research, study, and write about anything a fellow wants, without restrictions—a pinnacle of academic freedom. T.E. Lawrence was a fellow, and I can imagine him fitting right in.

Graduation and The Plague

We leave Oxford for Sebastian’s graduation from Ardingly College. They have erected a big white tent where a ceremony happens in the morning and a black tie ball in the evening. Covid rates in England at this time were staggeringly high but we were the only ones wearing masks in the audience of 500 or so. As evening approached John and I were faced with a dilemma, all dressed in our finest, was there any way to approach the evening and still take some basic precautions? We debated and realized that the answer was no. Our tablemates had been carefully chosen by Sebastian and his friends so that we could meet their families. There was no way to wear a mask at dinner in this context, and we couldn’t be those people—”Sebastian, are those weirdos in masks your family?” So we went for it, quite the leap for us, who’d huddled under heat lamps all last winter to avoid eating indoors.

Cotswolds adventures

We then went back up to Oxfordshire to meet family from California in the Cotswolds, one of the most beautiful natural areas of England with a higher than usual share of gorgeous villages. The rental I’d chosen, largely by proximity to family, turned out to be located in a nice wooded, rural area, very quiet and secluded except for the six lane freeway separated from us by a thin line of trees. We were basically sleeping on the shoulder. (I will never ignore John’s trick again of looking up addresses of rentals and doing an overhead Google Maps look at where it is actually located.) We drive back into Oxford with family to show them Sebastian’s perhaps future college, punt on the river, and have a picnic. Tempting fate certainly, but probably the only chance they will have to see his college if it works out and he gets in. All adding up to more and more emotional investment in this outcome.

A few years ago I happened upon Hidcote Gardens by myself and when I realized we were staying right nearby I encouraged the family to go, a little nervous that it wouldn’t live up to my memories, or my hype. Fortunately it didn’t let us down. And yes, for you gardeners, it is the home of Hidcote lavender.

Another highlight for us was Chedworth Roman Villa, one of the largest Roman villas in England, dating from its heyday in the 4th century. As with other of the Roman villas I’ve visited I am reminded how elegant and beautiful the life of rich Romans was—putting much of our modern architecture and lifestyle to shame. The idea of having different dining rooms for each seasons to take advantage of the patterns of sun, shadow, and views is inspirational to me, and it was great fun to stand in the footprint of the summer dining room looking out at basically the same view that they had centuries before.

By evening John is not feeling well at all, the first of the three of us to succumb. He tests positive in the morning. Sebastian and I are still testing negative. We are supposed to head to London for a action-packed few days with even more family, but that is clearly off the table. We decide to head back to France to wait it out because if something goes really badly health-wise we want to be out of Britain’s painfully underfunded and understaffed NHS and into the French health system. We pack up the car and head toward the tunnel.

Getting real, fast

It also happens to be results day for Sebastian for the IB exam, which are supposed to be posted at noon. We are driving along on an unseasonably cold day, with all the car windows open, trying to avoid getting John’s germs, in the off chance it makes any difference at this point. John is in the backseat with his head resting on a metal fan while we bounce down the road, all wrapped up to try to stay warm through his fever. I kindly ask whether he’d like the dog blanket to cushion his head, which he refuses saying that the cold metal feels good. Sebastian is next to me hitting refresh on the results site, which isn’t responding due to the large number of students checking, and trying not to let me see what he is doing as he huddles next to the passenger door. As we approach Folkestone I see his face turn pale. His marks were over in every category for his offer except one. We have no idea what this means, but it’s not good news. He met his offer for St. Andrews, but at this point has his heart set on Oxford. The news feels gutting. I could so clearly imagine him there. And I am also surprised by the force of my feelings—what of this reaction is about me, and what is really about him? And feeling bad about feeling bad—having either of these options is an enormous privilege—why are we feeling so strongly that this isn’t the right outcome?

The ride back on the Eurotunnel train is silent as we sit in our car underwater in mood as well as body. We exit in Normandy and head to a little gîte, built in the 1700s, I’d found that was self-contained, allowed a dog, and we could have for a week—one of five available at the last minute in all of France. Our plan is to reunite with the family in the Loire valley at a small chateau we’d all rented after we’d weathered the Covid storm. John heads directly up the tiny ladder-like stairs to bed, Sebastian and I are madly calling his school to get advice. He and I are still negative but feeling worse every day. Finally, I test positive as well. I don’t remember much about this week except a couple of trips into Five Guys burgers because we could order and eat outdoors, away from everyone. And the beautiful color of the drying flax when I could muster the strength to walk to the end of the driveway and look over the fields. (Spoiler alert: It all did work out in the end for Sebastian after his problem exam was regraded, and we’ve just returned from dropping him off. This summer reinforced the idea of not giving up until all roads are followed to their end. And patience, as it wasn’t all resolved until the very end of August.)

John is finally negative, but I am not. Fortunately the chateau for our next leg had a maid’s room with a single bed off the kitchen with its own bathroom, perfect for me, so we all decide to go ahead with the next stage of the vacation, and we are off to the Loire. We make one stop enroute at Jumièges Abbey, a Benedictine monastery that dates back to 654. As with many ruined churches and monasteries in France it reached its end after the French revolution when the grand buildings were raided for their riches, stones, and lead roofs, leaving only impressive ruins behind that only hint at the extravagance that was once there.

The Land of Castles

The Loire valley is the rich heartland of France, filled with chateaus. As John observed, you can drive for hundreds of miles in Italy, which was a much poorer country, and not see a house the size of these—hundreds of rooms, surrounded by beautiful gardens—but here we seemed to see one every few miles.

Our rental chateau, called Chateau Alaire, was a mere speck compared to its neighbors, but charming. We cook a lot, picnic, and take a walk to visit a church dating from the millenium which the local tourist office gave us the key to for the day (hero shot at the top), but mostly I lounge about masked and rest. We are located next to a couple of well-known French villages, Montrésor and Loches, but I keep noticing a very odd thing about the villages we were seeing, that even my niece’s seven year old daughter brought up, is that they are creepy. Immaculate and perfectly restored, but they seem to lack any semblance of life—no cafes, no old people standing out on the street and talking, no lights on in houses at night, not a single small, tempting bakery or restaurant. Although it’s the height of summer it felt as though everyone had left but us. A sign of too many second home owners sucking the life out of little towns. And yet there we were, searching for lunch, sleeping in a rented out second home. I started to yearn for our thriving, quirky, and very alive village in Italy.

The adventure that didn’t happen

The next leg of our planned journey was the biggest part of the adventure—three nights on a barge on a canal in Burgundy. Something I’d been curious about doing for years. I’m still not testing negative and as we’d be in such tight quarters, 12 of us on the boat, we decide to head back to Italy and forgo this particular adventure. And it sounds like it was a stroke of luck, especially as one of the intense heat waves that hit France this summer was gearing up for another strike. Christine Sarkis, my niece and travel entrepreneur, writer, and editor, who was on the barge, wrote about it for Itch, which I will share in a separate post.

As we start the long trek home it’s apparent that this “vacation” profoundly reinforced that nothing can truly be counted on—not health, weather, conditional admissions, or good times that we assume will happen as we plan ahead. Although always true—and the more at peace I am with this the happier I become—it’s an aspirational state for me and it’s of maximum importance to strengthen those muscles now. Grab the moments that delight you and hug them tight and try to let the rest go. And don’t forget to breathe.

Resources:

— Our cottage in Normandy, at Gîtes Normands de charme les châtaigniers, known to us as the Plague House, was one of five cottages a rural and beautiful property, watched over by an old horse. Ten kilometers from the sea and a couple of lovely towns. Reviewers said that some of the cottages were pretty unbelievably tiny, but ours, the section on the right of this photo, was small but manageable and had some lovely architectural touches.

— Beaune, France might be a bit overrun with tourists, but it at the heart of Burgundy and has a delightful Saturday market. There’s also one of the most stunning kitchenware stores I’ve ever seen, The Cook’s Atelier, run by an American woman, her daughter, and her son-in-law. Sets of antique cleavers, copper pots, and the like. They also run a cooking school and have cookbook we really like which is orderable from overseas. We’ve stayed in both the Najeti Hôtel de la Poste and the Hotel Remparts, both were lovely and located in the middle of things.

— Somewhere outside of Turin… When driving from France to Italy the Turin area is a convenient place to stop. We found this aged beauty, the Sina Villa Mathilde, and enjoyed it. John pointed out that it reminded him a bit of business trips to India. A kind of faded colonial glory surrounded, right up to the property walls, by not the most pleasant urban sprawl, but once you are in the walls and the hotel’s large garden it’s a different world. Not bad food either.

August 7, 2022 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Tango, Italian style

“Would you like to come and watch my wife and me dance the tango?” asked Paolo, the dynamo of a contractor and stone mason who rebuilt our house and is now working on the restoration next door for our friends. He’s a whirling dervish of a man, curly grey hair, intense, sparkling eyes and always enthused about an arch he’s built or a particularly nice rock or bit of old beam he can reuse in a creative way. In addition to building walls that are art pieces and controlling a crane he and his wife are professional dancers on the Italian tango circuit. His invitation was several years ago and was our first exposure to Italian tango. We enthusiastically agreed that we’d love to come—it’s always fun to watch passionate, skilled dancers and hear vibrant, sensuous music. We closed our eyes, imagined Italians doing the tango, and couldn’t wait.

That evening they’d closed off one of the smaller streets in town and built a wooden stage. The DJ was readying the sound system to play the best of tango music and the dancers were assembling, all dressed in their finest.

Then the music and dancing started. It was about as different from our preconceptions of the tango as we could imagine. It was like taking the tango and instead of turning it to an eleven (you either get this reference, or you don’t), turning it to a two. Slow, stylized, formal, and to us, not in the ballpark of passion and rhythm of what we’d expected. Dancers barely touched, moving around the floor in predefined patterns. The music as well seemed like a pale interpretation. To say we were puzzled was an understatement but fortunately we ran into an Italian friend of ours who delights in knowing odd bits about his own culture, and he explained.

The years around 1890 to 1920 saw a large wave of Italians immigrants to Argentina (up to 60% of immigrants were Italian), mostly young men who came to make money, with many hoping to return to Italy. Buenos Aires became a melting pot with immigrants from all over the world living in close quarters. Into this stew pot the tango was born. Many credit the Italians as being a key influence in the creation of the Argentinian tango, along with mazurkas; milonga (the folk music of the Argentinean pampas which itself combined Indian rhythms with the music of early Spanish colonists); the habanera of Cuba and the candombe rhythms originating in Africa. A dash of traditional polkas and waltzes were thrown into the pot. Scholars say that Italian men were some of the first tango dancers and that they brought a particular note of wistful longing for the homeland that became a trademark of the tango.

The tango bounded around the world and became very popular around 1913-15 and at that time many Italians immigrants returned, eager to share this amazing music and dance with their villages. They tried to teach the music to local musicians and to show off this soulful, passionate dance at festas in the village square. But, apparently, they did not factor in Italian grandmothers, who were appalled and quickly put some decorum around this show of overt sensuality. No more touching than strictly necessary, lose the throbbing, passionate rhythm, make the music sound more familiar. And they would surround the dance floor to make sure all was to their liking. And the Italian tango was born.

Paolo and his wife were at a village event dancing last week and we filmed so that you can get an idea. He’s on vacation now for a couple of weeks and when I asked what they would be doing he quickly replied “Dancing”.

August 7, 2022 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Paolo’s advice for a good life

We’ve spent the last year improving the nest, getting around to things that we haven’t tackled after being in the house close to six years. One category was getting some large mirrors. When you live in a house that’s somewhere north of 600 or so years old the aesthetic choices about something like a mirror get a bit complex. Do you go in-your-face modern, real old (which is often gilded and simply too much for our simple house), or pseudo old, most of it screaming out every bit of its fakery. At the risk of sounding pathetic, we’d not found the solution since we’d moved in and wanted it solved and to never think about it again.

The next small town over from us has an intriguing store, although it rarely seemed to be open. One dusty window facing the street revealed a long, narrow space piled high on both sides with all sorts of old wood, some frames, and assorted furniture. We’d tried to go a few times, with little success. Sometimes a worker or two would be there but they seemed unable to give details on what was available because the owner, Paolo, wasn’t there.

One day, this lovely woman who seems to specialize in decorative and faux painting, offered to contact Paolo, who was in his office, and have him come to the shop. She called, and about a minute later he appeared. He sorted through the mess, sometimes needing to crawl on top of tottering furniture to get to what was behind, while the woman called out warnings, and finally we had several possible frames. He helped us pile them in the car to take home to try out and although we’d met five minutes earlier he wanted neither deposit, name, or phone number. And we drove off with hundreds of euros worth of frames.

Several of the frames worked, so we returned the following week to buy a couple, return some, and have more made. Once again Paolo had to be called from the office. We discussed what needed to be done and he invited us back to the office for a coffee. We had things to do so declined.

Several back and forths to check on progress all yielded a similar pattern and it was revealed that the office was in fact the cafe just around the corner. We finally took Paolo up on his offer of refreshment at the office, and he shared his philosophy of life to the tune of church bells.

You choose a work you enjoy and is fulfilling—he has worked with wood since he was a child at the side of his father—but you never, ever let it dominate the rest of the mix. Your life always needs to be bigger than your work or you are lost. He works (or more from what I saw his charming and talented employee works) but it is only to support life and to provide funds for enough time “in the office,” a cafe adjacent to the town square, in the shadow of one of the most famous paintings of the Renaissance, Piero della Francesca’s Resurrection, and filled with his friends and enough new people wandering through to keep life interesting.

With that he invited to come visit him at the office whenever we happened to be in the area for a coffee or glass of wine and more conversation. And we have our mirrors at last.

July 31, 2022 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Road trip in Europe

One graduating kid, one car, one dog, four countries, four languages, three seemingly endless tunnels, eleven different places to stay, three positive Covid tests, one quarantine—all in twenty-four days. What it is like to do a road trip in Europe. We were, as the Italians would say, in giro.

Or, the things my dog makes me do. We’ve done road trips in Europe before, instead of taking other modes of transportation, largely so that we could take Lola with us on vacation. Destinations have included Switzerland, Croatia, Corsica, Germany, and France, but this was our most ambitious road trip yet. Sebastian’s high school graduation outside of London in West Sussex, and a twice postponed Loire-valley chateau and canal boat rental in Burgundy with family from California, bookended the trip with plenty of time to explore in between.

The freedom to easily access different worlds is one of the things I like best about living in Italy. In California we’d go for long road trips but still end up, it felt like, not that far from where we started. To start adventuring as soon as possible I try to get further than northern Italy on the first leg, although it is a good five to six hour slog. On our first night out we pushed across the Swiss border to an area near Lake Maggiore called Ticino.

I’ve explored a lot of Switzerland but never this region. It has been strategically important for millenium as it’s the entry to the Gotthard pass, one of the routes over the Alps and into the main Swiss plain. The pass is grueling so Ticino is distinct from the rest of Switzerland. The language and food are Italian and it feels almost tropical, lush, and verdant. But the prices are unmistakably Swiss. Swiss prices have the same effect on the respiratory system as a plunge into the Baltic in winter. I reflexively check the exchange rate—surely 50 CHF for a pasta with tomato sauce and a 12 CHF bottle of water is more reasonable when converted to euros or dollars—nope. Nearly one to one for my currencies. Sometimes a 50 CHF plate of noodles with tomatoes is a $50 plate of noodles with tomatoes.

We stayed in a tiny town called Tegna which next to the Ponte Brolla gorge on the Maggia river, one of the rivers where water rushes down from the Alps to feed the Po River. From an elevated bridge the gorge looks like it has a pretty normal stream at the bottom until I realized that it was all supersized. When we walked down near the river what looked like small river rocks turned out to be immense boulders. It looked like giants had been playing games with rocks and had gotten called home for lunch mid rock skipping.

We left the relaxed, Italian-speaking region behind and headed through one of miracles of modern road building, the Gotthard tunnel. The first tunnel under the Gotthard was for trains and opened in 1882. Cars had to wait their turn until 1980 when the 11-mile long tunnel opened, the longest tunnel in the world at that time (it’s now the fifth longest). It turns out that eleven miles in a tunnel is a long time, not as bad as twenty-two minutes of a hypothetical Thanksgiving dinner between when an uncle declares his support for Qanon and when you can escape after dessert, but definitely longer than twenty-two minutes of most anything else. The first time that we drove through I didn’t know anything about the tunnel and remarked to the family after about five minutes in the dark that this was a really long tunnel. We were at about mile three at that point. It’s one lane in each direction and there can be quite a wait to get in, but we were lucky this time. I’ve done it now five times and each time I’ve been impressed by how respectful drivers are of this stretch of road. The speed limit is 30 miles per hour and drivers mostly obey, as well as leaving an abundant distance between cars.

And then you see light, and you are out, and in a different world. Soaring peaks with snow, and German road signs and food. We stopped for lunch with a friend who lives overlooking Lake Zurich and then decided to drive five hours into France to position ourselves well to make our all-important ticketed time on the Eurotunnel train with the car.

Google routed us along some stretches of the autoroute, but largely along country roads that followed through small towns and countryside, and around countless roundabouts. John recently read David Gilmour’s The Pursuit of Italy where Gilmour posits that the differences in Italy and France’s culture, history, and wealth may be partially due to geography. Italy has a mountain chain that runs its length north to south cutting off one part from another and has almost no navigable rivers. France, on the other hand, has mountains on its borders with most of the country being a fertile plain, and has many wide, deep, navigable rivers. This was dramatically apparent as we drove from Zurich into the Champagne region passing lush, fertile fields of crops and flowing water, so different from our Italian landscape.

We arrived for the night in a tiny village called L’Épine, the hotel chosen mainly as it was touted as very dog-friendly. When I mean a tiny village I know of what I speak. It makes our village look like a metropolis. But it does have the huge hulking Flamboyant-Gothic Basilica di Notre-Dame (yes, Flamboyant Gothic is a thing) in the middle of its three streets, one shop, and one restaurant. We walked around it after dinner when it was dark and misty and the three people who might have been out on the street during the day had left and it was like aliens had planted this thing in here. How could this place have ever created this?

The next day ended in Calais. Calais is the closest French town to England—the channel is a mere 21-miles wide here, so it has been a strategically-important port town pretty much forever. This geographic fate has hit it hard, most recently in WWII, where much of the town was bombed flat. We stayed in a sweet family-run Victorian B&B about a mile from the sea, and as we walked towards the shore the buildings abruptly changed to post-war architecture in every direction. The town was in the throes of Tour de France anticipation, with banners and signs everywhere, as the Tour was due to end Stage 4 in about a week.

The next morning was something I’d fretted about since we started planning the trip—Calais to Folkestone on the Eurotunnel. We arrived 90 minutes early for our ticketed time and pulled right up to the drive-through area of the Pet Welcome Center. A woman walked up and said “Nancy Raff? Is this Lola?” I was amazed—turns out our license plate was scanned on the approach and the records pulled up in advance. She checked Lola’s EU pet passport and I got to scan my dog, a first for me and Lola. All was cleared and we went to the automatic check in. I put in the reservation number and the screen said we were early for our train and would we like to change to the one 30 minutes earlier? Why, yes! We drove on to a parking lot with multiple lanes, like the staging area for a ferry. After about five minutes they started loading us. We drove down to the train and on to one of two levels. We got the top. You drive forward the length of the train until it is filled. Attendants urge you forward and make sure to leave enough room to close doors sealing off one train car from another. Five minutes later we were off. You can get out of your car but as there’s nowhere to go everybody just stays seated.

I am only a tiny bit claustrophobic, but these tunnels did cause me a few moments of careful thought. I am not sure which I found more intimidating, to be deep under a mountain in the Alps or under all the water of the English Channel. Thirty minutes in the dark to ponder various ways of dying, then we arrive in Folkestone and drive off the train. Easy. And yet a whole other world in a matter of minutes.

Next week, Part 2. The son graduates and the Plague hits.

Resources:

Ticino area, Switzerland: our inn, Boato Bistrot & Bed, was clean and simple but I wouldn’t really recommend it. One of those places where the photos on the site were so much better that you wonder if you’ve arrived at the right place. We passed a restaurant on our walk, Da Enzo, that looked very much worth a visit—and it is right on the edge of the gorge. I’m actively looking for recommendations for this area from readers who use this route often.

L’Épine, France: Aux Armes de Champagne, comfortable stop right next to the basilica, although modern in its restoration. Good restaurant too with an impressive chariot of cheeses. Very dog friendly and seems to be a popular stop with the British vacation diaspora. Convenient for exploring the Champagne region.

Calais, France: We looked hard to find something with some charm in very post-war Calais and found it at the quirky and simple Les Secrets des Loges, a bed and breakfast in old Victorian house overlooking the theater. The best part was the lovely family who ran it along with their four cats. One downside was very thin walls.

June 10, 2022 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Just another Sunday

The most important part of the Italian Sunday is lunch. Just like lunch is the most important thing Monday through Saturday, but more so. More food. More courses. More participants. More leisurely. John and I have started frequenting a new restaurant in town for Sunday lunch, only open on the weekend, and run by some local butchers who spend the rest of their week in their butcher shop down the street. Butchers around here are proud of their bistecca, probably the largest and most wonderful steak you will ever have in life. It is a Tuscan tradition and often the crown of the Sunday lunch and it’s cool to see some butchers taking the initiative to take it all the way to the table to ensure it’s done perfectly.

But first a little background about how it shakes out with food loyalties between two, it might be said, competitive people, and how all that led to our allegiance to this restaurant. John and I each have different favorite places to get food and we often have loaded conversations defending our choices. “These tomatoes are not very flavorful. Did you happen to get them at your produce place?” (This kind of snarky comment could be made by either of us.) For fruit and vegetables, my favorite is always the farm stand. John is sceptical of the claim that they are actually organic so he will go all the way to the suburbs of our village three kilometers away (a cluster of about 10 buildings) to hit the biodynamic farm and store where they follow the mysterious theories of Rudolf Steiner, which include all the organic basics but add some strictly scientific twists such as burying ground quartz stuffed into the horn of a cow in the fields, which is said to harvest “cosmic forces in the soil” and planting by moonlight.

The bio store is run by one of the sweetest families on earth, all are wonderful except for the tiny grandmother in her eighties who stands beaming and helpful behind the register with her sweet husband. I adored her until she once tried to get me to buy expensive silicon supplements with the claim that they would make me look younger and have more energy. I don’t know whether it was the implication that I am not looking in fact, young or energetic, or some buggy tomatoes I’ve purchased, but I’m no longer a fan of the bio store. Which leaves John to shop there. She apparently thinks he already looks adequately young and has never tried to sell him silicon. This adds to to slow burn. The farm store owner, by contrast, told me that last time I was in that I was getting more beautiful all the time as I am becoming maturata. Like a fine cheese, I guess. John suspects that this outburst might have something to do with the fact that he is newly single, but I am quite sure he was overwhelmed by my slightly sweaty, no makeup, didn’t shower that day glory.

Right by the bio store is located one of the three local butcher stores. The two guys in this store know John much better than me as it is in his shopping territory. And they love him in a way that I am adored by two different butchers, who are located in the square. I have worked hard to earn this affection by giving them special assignments, like sourcing a huge, whole turkey every year and once having them amass two kilograms of duck fat (which took over two months) so we could make cassoulet. One time our guests enthusiastically got a hunk of beef from them that was so large that John and one of the handier guests had to cut it apart with a Sawzall on the kitchen counter so that we could cook it, a story that the butchers loved. This is why I get the hearty buongiorno upon entering, and occasionally a free coffee when the butchers and I happen to be at the bar at the same time. John doesn’t give his butchers fun challenges like this, just gets normal things like a chicken breast, so I have no explanation for the suburban butchers’ love for John.

We discovered that John’s butchers had opened a restaurant just down the hill from our house and we tried it and I was quickly convinced to expand my allegiances as it was wonderful. We started going for Sunday lunch on most weekends. We are still not eating indoors so they haul a table out in front for us every week and set it up with a tablecloth. A gorgeous 20-something friend of our kids waits on our table and remembers the details of what we prefer week to week—we can never remember the name of the wine we like—but she knows.

We are the only patrons who eat outside and we’ve begun to recognize the other regulars as they file inside, all commenting on the weather and wishing us a good meal. The only suspicion we’ve had was a seven-year old girl, who moved to the far side of her mother as they walked by and she saw us seated on the sidewalk. Clearly there was something off, and possibly dangerous, about people who prefer to eat by themselves outside to being social with the crowd inside like normal people, pandemic or not.

One Sunday there was a crowd of about thirty people waiting on the sidewalk, all talking and some holding flowers. We hadn’t reserved and were a little concerned about getting a table with such a large group to accommodate but the butchers moved a couple of the groups aside so that they could bring out our little table. Finally the subjects of the celebration arrived—a couple celebrating their 40th anniversary—and were greeted with cheers and flowers. They all finally filed inside.

The week after that the restaurant was the scene of the cheese rolling competition lunch break. We had watched the competition a bit that morning so it felt thrilling to see the athletes close up as they filed by, some so old and stiff that they could barely walk, a behemoth on each team who clearly rolled in the parmigiano weight class, and a few buff beauties in their physical prime. Watching that morning it was clear that for cheese rolling being in one’s physical prime might not be all it’s hyped up to be as the old guys often ruled the day. Decades of hurling cheeses down roads lets one perfect spin, release, and force. If they were carrying a small, well-worn, leather cheese satchel over their shoulder you knew the competition felt fear. At lunch there were about a hundred of them in the party room and the noise was deafening, even from our perch outside.

Sebastian recently had an 18-year old school friend visiting and we took him to the restaurant. They had been out until 3am the night before for the passeggiata in the next town and Sebastian’s friend was receiving some subtly flirtatious texts from an Italian girl he’d met. We quickly called over our waitress, who is a couple years older than our kids and is smart, fierce, and charming. She read all the texts and gave advice. The texts were indeed flirtatious but the task was to keep the conversation going in a witty way—don’t rush forward too fast—as everyone knows she has a boyfriend.

The butchers raise all of their own animals very nearby—one of the partners had to leave yesterday mid-lunch to go feed them—so they know a disconcerting amount about each cut. When you order a steak, which we do very rarely these days, you have to go inside to pick the exact piece you want. You hear a bit more than perhaps you’d like. “Ah, yes, a young female.” The butchers watch over the shoulder of the chef who cuts the steak and sometimes grabs the knife himself to finish the cut, making sure it’s perfect.

Our outside table has a view up to our house. One time I pointed towards the house and told one of the butchers that is was ours. “Of course I knew that,” he replied. We are all Kilometer Zero around here, from the produce, to the meat, to the flirtations, to the gatherings, to us. I’ve never felt this held.

March 27, 2022 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

When a goddess descends

In 1963, the most exciting event occurred in our village since Florence smacked down Milan in the big battle of 1440—Claudia Cardinale came to town to shoot the movie La Ragazza di Bube. Her equally gorgeous co-star was George Chakiris, who had just won an Academy Award and a Golden Globe for his performance as gang leader Bernardo Nunez in West Side Story, but today all the old men seem to remember only Claudia. I have not interviewed the older women on the subject. Claudia’s career was just becoming hot, hot, hot as earlier in 1963 she’d starred in Fellini’s 8½ with Marcello Mastroianni, AND with Burt Lancaster in Visconti’s The Leopard. Both films were critically acclaimed and are often cited by critics and scholars as among the greatest films ever made, so when she hit the village to shoot La Ragazza di Bube it was noticed by the locals—they didn’t even need the Esquire article about her, titled “The Next Goddess of Love,” to help form an opinion. Most Americans know her as from the breakthrough film she did the next year, playing Princess Dala in The Pink Panther, as David Niven’s love interest.

The after effects of this brief event in 1963 are everywhere in the village. The movie poster is lovingly displayed in several of the coffee bars. When John was scouting for a shoot and had a tour of the attic of our local theater, the very spot on the floor, tucked under the eves, where Claudia napped between scenes 50 years earlier was pointed out with awe.

But we were lucky enough to be in the piazza when Claudia returned for a visit in honor of the 50th anniversary of the film. The square was cleared of cars for the occasion and packed with about a hundred people, mainly quite old and male, many of whom I barely recognized as they were all cleaned up and wearing their finest suits. A black car pulled into the piazza and the square became completely silent. Claudia alighted, and was greeted by the mayor, wearing not only his best suit but also his Italian flag sash, only pulled out for very special occasions. Like when he swore me in as an Italian citizen.

One more poster being added before Claudia’s visit.

She walked across the square, chain smoking and now quite stout, was presented with an award, and was whisked off to revisit key sites from the movie followed by a long Tuscan lunch with the local glitterati. But the look on the men’s faces when she crossed the square. I could almost see their youthful passions, possibilities, and obsessions, existing for one important moment intact and alive, a shadow self revealed in the sunlight, as Claudia stood before them. And it was beautiful to behold. Later there was a viewing of the film in our village theater (photo above).

Claudia is still going strong having starred in over 145 movies with stars as diverse as John Wayne, Rita Hayworth, Klaus Kinski, Rock Hudson, Anthony Quinn, and George Segal. In 2020 she was in Netflix’s film Rogue City. Despite a bit of a rocky start to her romantic life, including having a child at 18, she lived with Italian director Pasquale Squitieri for 42 years until his death at 78. She was born in Tunisia to Sicilian parents and is fluent in French, Arabic, Italian, English, and Spanish. She is a passionate advocate for women’s and gay rights. In a 2014 interview she said, “If you want to practice this craft, you have to have inner strength. Otherwise, you’ll lose your idea of who you are. Every film I make entails becoming a different woman. And in front of a camera, no less! But when I’m finished, I’m me again.”

Claudia, here’s to you. Not only from the men of the village, but from me. Never lose the grace of being yourself.

Italian actress Claudia Cardinale and American actor George Chakiris star in Luigi Comencini’s film ‘La Ragazza Di Bube’, also known as ‘Bebo’s Girl’, 1964. (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

March 27, 2022 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

The affair

When Donella was in high school one of her favorite classes was art history. This was curious to me as I’d tried to interest her in this subject throughout her life with absolutely no success; I used to be fairly passionate about art history and had even done a yearlong work/study program at a London auction house. After we moved to Italy it seemed relevant that she could tell a Parmesan from a Parmigianino, but she was deeply disinterested. One day when we were in Arezzo and she took me into a church to see the Cimabue Crucifix and I knew something had changed.

It all had to do with her art history teacher. There’s a certain type of small-town Italian beauty aesthetic that I find endlessly fascinating. The opposite of the French less is more mantra, this type of Italian woman believes that more is more—there’s nothing shiny, sparkling, towering, tight, or colorful that’s ignored, often in the same outfit. I adore this as it’s completely independent from natural beauty, designer trends, or idealized body type. When the Italian small-town woman is wearing gold stilettos, a tight leopard-patterned skirt, and a purple fur jacket, and is properly made up with heavy makeup and perfectly-styled, vibrantly dyed hair there is simply nothing she can’t do, no head she can’t turn, no man she can’t have. I watch in endless fascination, clothed in my uniform of jeans, oversized sweater, and distressed sneakers, wondering if I’ve ever felt this kind of female superpower.

In this realm, the art history teacher reigned supreme. She was in her seventies and Donella would often report the day’s curatorial choices to us. “Tight leather pants, over the knee platform boots, and a gold lame sparkly, tight sweater.” The class was mainly girls, and they all followed this woman’s every move closely, like groupies.

She obviously was covering the curriculum, hence the Cimabue detour, but as in all things in Italian education most of the real learning was off-syllabus. One day a female student was obviously upset and not paying attention. The teacher halted the lesson and asked what was happening in her life. The girl, tears pouring down her face, revealed that she’d just had a breakup with her boyfriend. The teacher promptly said that they needed to turn their focus from Renaissance perspective to much more important things, and to circle the chairs around. The couple of boys in the class sat in the perimeter.

The relationship story was revealed, with much commiseration, and then it was the teacher’s turn. She counseled the girls that they really had to watch who they fell in love with because the wrong choices could bring great complication. She, for instance, had been married for many years, but also had been having a long-term affair with another teacher down the hall, in the same school, who many of the students also had as a teacher. Her husband and lover even shared the same last name. Although she loved both men this romantic triangle had made all of their lives difficult and perhaps this romantic situation might have been better to avoid.

Donella came home that day with her eyes particularly wide as this was the kind of curriculum she hadn’t run across in school in California.

……. More to come on educating kids in Italy.

January 23, 2022 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

My own private theater

Descriptions of modern high-end houses often brag about having a private theater where one can gather with friends and watch a movie. Starting in the Renaissance, wealthy Italian home builders also had the desire to share entertainment with their friends, but instead of small screening room they built actual theaters in their houses, sometimes including stages with sets, an orchestra pit, and box seats, so they could host theatrical productions or operas in the comfort of their own homes. Or, uh, palaces. Even our small village of around 6,000 people used to have six different private theaters, and recently I did a walking tour that visited them all.

The most mysterious one of them (pictured above) was one I’d only heard about only once or twice over the ten years we’ve been here. When we were looking for a house to buy a couple of people asked if we’d seen the place for sale with the theater, right in the middle of town. A friend said she was walking around the rundown rooms and she opened a door that she thought was to a closet and BOOM, there she was, in the middle of a private theater. Seemed kind of too good to be true, but we couldn’t find anyone to show it to us and when we finally saw plans of it we reached the same conclusion that friends had—the layout was very difficult to convert into a house. So when I had the chance to see this place on the tour I jumped. It’s on the main floor on a smallish palazzo on the distinctive steep, straight street of town that descends and then crossed the valley in a perfect line. Inaugurated at the beginning of the 18^th century, The Ulivi Stefanelli Palace theater is pretty humble. It was designed for a standing audience and has its backdrops painted into the walls instead of changeable, but the backgrounds are full of perspectives where your gaze loses itself in the search of imaginary places dotted with bizarre and fantastic characters. It has a petite balcony surrounding it where guests could watch from a different angle.

Today, the old palazzo has been divided into flats so the main floor now holds the theater, a couple of other rooms that could be used as bedrooms, a place that could be a kitchen, and a back garden. (Apparently the floor above is also for sale which could make it much more liveable.) And yes, it is for sale if your home owning dreams include your own spettacolo.

This desire to see a mysterious piece of real estate in the village made me curious about theaters in Italy. Turns out that Italians invented theaters as we know them, as well as some of the widely-credited art forms that are still performed in them, like opera and the Commedia dell’arte.

Theaters started to boom in Italy during the Renaissance as the passion for perspective that was taking over painting naturally extended to backdrops for performances, setting the stage (OK, I will stop) for a flood of innovation as they brought their theories into this three-dimensional space.

The first permanent modern interior theater, the Teatro Olimpico, was designed by Palladio and is still in existence in Vicenza, near Venice. Opened in 1585, the theater has an elliptical shape with tiered seats so everyone could see and hear well. The design was a reflection of Palladio’s love of Roman antiquities.

The scenery could not be changed, but the set incorporated the latest thinking about perspective and vanishing points, emphasized by a tilted floor to force perspective. Every seat was aligned to marvel at one of these views.

The demand for spectacle drove even more innovation and in 1618 the Teatro Farnese was designed in Parma and had the world’s first proscenium, creating a window around the action, the standard in most theaters today, and it also allowed for scene changes. First used in 1628, it hosted about everything you’d want to share with the 3,000 people you’d invited over for pizza and a beer: drama, opera, and ballet were performed on the stage; equestrian acts and sumptuous balls were held in the large arena between stage and seating—this area could also be flooded to a depth of two feet and used for mock naval battles; and, when not floating little boats, hosted court ceremonies and princely extravaganzas.

Competition heated up across Italy and noble families were quick to put the artists they had on the payroll, including Michelangelo and Da Vinci, to design costumes, scenery, and stage machinery for their private events between the big assignments, like the Sistine Chapel.

The ultimate piece of scene change high tech, the chariot and pole system, hit in 1641. Giacomo Torelli designed a set of slots in the stage floor to set backdrops into that were connected to a set of understage “chariots” on casters to roll them back and forth, all engineered with winches, pulleys and ropes so that scenes could be changed with a single winch. This clever bit of engineering quickly spread all over Europe and was the standard until the end of the 1890s. This technology was more than just pretty—it allowed for the use of specific scenes rather than a general static backdrop—plays could now be written about much more specific places and situations.

Back to the village, in addition to the small gem I talked about at the open, the theater craze hit hard and six theaters were built over the years. According to the director of our local theater, Andrea Merendelli, in 1631 Italy was in the throes of yet another round of the plague, which had killed 10,000 in Florence out of a population of 75,000, and one out of four people in Milan. At that time wooden blockades were put up at the village gates to check health passes that travelers carried to prove they had not been to plague-ridden towns, and to keep anyone suspect out. On February 17, local records show, not only were a troupe of performers admitted to town to put on plays but the wooden planks forming some of the blockades were repurposed to extend a stage. Merendelli assumes that they must have been a well-known troupe for this exception to be made—actors were beginning to be stars during this period and often cannons were shot off to announce their arrival in larger towns.

The main theater in the village is well-used and loved to this day. We’ve been many times to events ranging from a Pink Floyd tribute band (Pink Floyd is huge here) to school plays, to film screenings, to all sorts of performances.

Lola loves evenings at the theater.

Sebastian’s fifth-grade play packed them in.

Built in 1789 as a part of a grand compound that included a palazzo, a private chapel, and a garden leading to the private theater, the grandness has gone—the garden is now a parking lot and a road through town—but the theater remains as an historical setting for a vibrantly alive local events.

The other four theaters in town did not fare as well. One burned, two were broken up and converted into unrecognizable civic offices. One tiny piazza still hosts events, now mainly musical, as it has since the 1500s. A tunnel leads in from one side in which, during the Renaissance, a large machine was placed to produce an echo.

I had so much fun uncovering all of this and realizing how much the Italian love of spectacle and beautiful spaces, that has been a constant through the centuries, adds to life daily life. I wonder when they were creating these spaces if it ever crossed their minds that villagers would be enjoying them, and making them their own, hundreds of years later. Somehow it seems unlikely that will be the case for most of what we are building today.

December 29, 2021 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Little treasures of 2021

Here are some of my favorite adventures and discoveries of the year. If you’ve stuck with me this long you know that as much as I love an over-the-top Relais & Chateaux-type joint I find even more delight in small places that may be a little rough around the edges, but are one of a kind. A couple from this year have stuck in my mind with such fondness that I figured you have to know about them.

Greater Bologna

The photo above is from Ca’ Lo Spicchio, a house from the 1500s in the mountains about 45 minutes away from both Bologna and Modena that offers one room for rent. It’s almost impossible to find, but worth the drive down one-lane unpaved mountain roads, except when Google Maps is insistent that you turn up a goat path. Run by a retired advertising executive and his fashion-industry partner every detail is thought through and done with an attentive eye, from the building restoration to the guest room touches. Their home also includes two dogs, seven cats, two horses, chickens who are the focus of attention from the fox they befriend, and one of the best situated pools I’ve seen. The guest suite has a bed and lounge up more of a ladder than staircase located above the living room with a big fireplace and wood-burning stove. Definitionally cozy.

The Truffle Hunters

One of my favorite films of the year, The Truffle Hunters is a documentary with intelligence, heart, a poetic eye, and humor, beloved at Sundance and Cannes. It’s a breath of fresh air —not one cliched drone shot—with every frame filled with creativity. I laughed out loud several times the first time I saw it as each new scene was a surprising delight, and I could feel the fun the filmmakers had creating it. The film follows a men hunting white truffles in Piedmont, Italy—a notoriously closed and suspicious group who somehow opened up to these two American filmmakers, Michael Dweck and Gregory Kershaw—who shot the documentary over three years. Dweck and Kershaw were able to capture the men’s trials and joy, as well as the cutthroat, competitive world of selling and marketing this high-priced delicacy when supplies are dwindling due to climate change and competition. It embodies so much of what I love about Italy, and the Italians, and I hope you get as much joy and inspiration from it as I did.

Tivoli

On a trip to pick up Sebastian at the Rome airport we spent a night in the small town of Tivoli, which is more car-friendly than driving into the center of Rome. What started out as a night of convenience turned into love. Tivoli is the nearest town to two of greater Rome’s heavy-hitting sites—Hadrian’s Villa and Villa d’Este—but it turned out to be charming in its own right. The modern outskirts that you spiral around to reach the historical center on a plateau are not promising, but once you get to the old town it has that mix that I love—real, working, a little dingy, and bursting with life.

At night we walked Lola down a dark, narrow medieval street when from behind a shuttered second floor window we heard “Alexa, spegni la luce” (“Alexa, turn off the light”). Perfect moment.

We stayed at the Residenze Gregoriane, which is part of a palace from the 1500s. It has only three rooms, decorated in an older Italian aesthetic, and serves breakfast in a perfect courtyard adorned by frescoes and mosaics created by some of the same artisans who worked on the Villa d’Este. The family who runs it is one of warmest and most welcoming we’ve run across, which is saying a lot in Italy.

We visited Hadrian’s Villa on a very hot day and we lost our breath in more than one way. Another visit is in the cards during the cooler months. Built between 118 and 138 AD the ruins of this single palace are extensive and gorgeous. It has been revered since Renaissance times and I had one of those moments, which I occasionally get in a Roman ruin, where I am overcome with the sophistication, beauty, and grace of the lives of the elite Romans. This architecture had a goal of impressing visitors, no doubt, but it transcends its “look how rich and powerful I am” mission into something profoundly pleasing. Which many of other such palaces don’t. Looking at you, Forbidden City.

Also near, and somewhere I am excited to visit, is the Villa d’Este, started in 1560. A masterpiece of Italian garden design, it’s known for its fountains, including one that is an organ fueled by water.

Tivoli is a great base for those seeking a deeper experience of Rome beyond the main sites in the center. Close by is also the Temple of the Vestal Virgins, among the other UNESCO sites.

Maremma

This part of Tuscany, bordering the Tyrrhenian Sea, is not very well-known. On the mainland there are many Etruscan sites and gorgeous beaches. Just off the coast are the islands of the Tuscan archipelago. We went for an a couple of nights to the Hotel Torre Mozza, with seven rooms. Our room was in the 16th-century watchtower that juts into the Mediterranean and had a door cut through the thick defensive walls opening over the waves.

The island of Elba is a short ferry ride away from Piombino. I had spent several days on the island a couple years ago, but this trip we just went over to the island for memorable lunch on a small square at the Trattoria Moderna di Matteo in the tiny town of Capoliveri.

“Ancora Tu” by Lucio Battisti

Sebastian introduced me to this Italian mega-hit from 1976, “Ancora Tu” (“You Again”), from one of Italy’s biggest musical stars of the 1960s and 70s, Lucio Battisti. I just love the poignant way it captures the magic of a familiar love.

You again, it doesn’t surprise me, you know. / Ancora tu, non mi sorprende lo sai.

You again, but, weren’t we supposed to not see each other any more? / Ancora tu, ma non dovevamo vederci più?

And, how are you? Useless question. / E come stai. Domanda inutile.

You’re like me, and we can’t help but laugh. / Stai come me, e ci scappa da ridere.

My love, have you eaten or not? / Amore mio, hai già mangiato o no?

I, too, am hungry and not only of you. / Ho fame anch’io e non soltanto di te.

How beautiful you are, you seem younger / Che bella sei, sembri più giovane

or perhaps you’re just nicer. / o forse sei solo più simpatica.

Oh, I know what you want to know. / Oh io lo so cosa tu vuoi sapere.

No one, no, I just restarted to smoke. / Nessuna no, ho solo ripreso a fumare.

It is still you, unfortunately the only one. / Sei ancora tu, purtroppo l’unica.

Still you, the incorrigible one. / Ancora tu, l’incorregibile.

But to leave you is not possible. / Ma lasciarti non è possibile.

No, to leave you is not possible. / No, lasciarti non è possibile.

To leave you is not possible. / Lasciarti non è possibile.

No, to leave you is not possible. / No, lasciarti non è possibile.

It is still you, unfortunately the only one. / Sei ancora tu, purtroppo l’unica.

It is still you, the incorrigible one. / Ancora tu, l’incorregibile.

But to leave you is not possible. / Ma lasciarti non è possibile.

No, to leave you is not possible. / No, lasciarti non è possibile.

To leave you is not possible. / Lasciarti non è possibile.

No, to leave you is not possible./ No, lasciarti non è possibile.

Desperation, joy of mine, / Disperazione, gioia mia.

I’ll be still yours, hoping it’s not madness. / Sarò ancora tuo, sperando che non sia follia.

But, let it be what will be. / Ma sia quel che sia.

Hold me, my love, / Abbracciami amore mio,

hold me, my love, / abbracciami amor mio,

‘cause now I want it too. / Ché adesso lo voglio anch’io.

You again, it doesn’t surprise me, you know. / Ancora tu, non mi sorprende lo sai.

You again, but, weren’t we supposed to not see each other any more? / Ancora tu, ma non dovevamo vederci più?

And, how are you? Useless question. / E come stai? Domanda inutile.

You’re like me, and we can’t help but laugh. / Stai come me, e ci scappa da ridere.

My love, have you eaten or not? / Amore mio, hai già mangiato o no?

I, too, am hungry and not only of you. / Ho fame anch’io e non soltanto di te.

How beautiful you are, you seem younger / Che bella sei, sembri più giovane

or perhaps you’re just nicer. / o forse sei solo più simpatica.

Il cantautore italiano Lucio Battisti 1969

December 5, 2021 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

The ties that bind us

The echoes of WWII are all around us here. The war is not an abstract thing—I have a friend who found a bomb in the woods when he was a kid and he and his brother were thinking of hitting it with a large stick before they decided to show it to their parents. The bomb removal experts came and said it was unexploded, and if they had pounded on it they would likely both be dead. Occasionally, a discussion with one of the oldest members of the village will disclose a great wrong done during the war to their family by another family in the village. The shadows are everywhere, including which coffee bars and grocery stores people frequent; some bars are known to be more fascist or communist. I know people who will not shop at the Co-op grocery store as it is owned by the communist party.

This year’s village play, Tovaglia a Quadri, picked up on some of these themes. When, and how, is it appropriate to make our way back into society after having been a refugee hiding away—or in quarantine; how do people create a plan for the future after a catastrophe; and what role do elections, and politicians play (or don’t play) in such times? The performance, as I’ve covered before—go to Itch.world and search Tovaglia a Quadri for other editions—is a witty, sardonic look at events in the village and nation, always freshly written a few weeks before it’s performed. The thread that united the series of vignettes this year was the importance of the links between people that tie us all together—and how to find it again and restore it. The title of the play, Filocrazia, alludes to the power of the invisible ropes, or cables (a filo), that bind us to one another, and to a place.

The play is usually staged in a tiny square in the village, but due to Covid restrictions they had to move the location for the first time to an old castle a kilometer or two out of town and stage the play in its larger courtyard. This castle, which is now a popular place for a pizza or a large gathering for Sunday lunch, is on a site that dates back to pagan times, but the present structure was built in 1234 and passed from one powerful family to another. It was the summer home of a famous nobleman and soldier from the 1400s, Baldaccio Bruni, who was murdered in Florence in the Palazzo Vecchio by another Florentine noble family who was concerned about his growing power. His body was thrown out the window, dragged through the streets, and then beheaded in the Piazza della Signoria. His ghost is said to haunt this castle, which actually seems possible when you go down in the dungeons at night. Considering what happened to him I think he has every reason to be a ghost.

The castle had a rich history during WWII as well. It was the German headquarters, into which an Allied pilot, who was shot down, accidentally parachuted.

The site informed the play as it featured a group of refugees who have moved to the castle in the countryside to hide from an undisclosed great danger. They think the danger has now largely passed but are split into factions between those who are eager to return and take up the old ways, those who want to remain sequestered, and those who want to use this opportunity to reinvent and improve their community.

The play took place during the runup to the election for mayor in the village and the playwrights couldn’t resist adding a bit current political commentary. Two candidates come to the castle to campaign during this pivotal moment for change, one from the right and one from the left. One is dressed in white and one in black, but they are indistinguishable in every way—they say exactly the same dialogue to the same people, making the same promises. The pilot who parachuted into the castle makes an appearance, as well as a philosopher who comes to help clarify matters, holding a large book called The Book of the Future. It turns out all the pages are blank. A particularly fitting symbol for our current situation—the future is always unknown, but right now it is more unknown than usual. The conclusion of the play, which I profoundly agree with, is that only our ties to each other will get us through and allow us to move forward.

This year’s audience included Ralph Fiennes, right, with director and playwright Andrea Merendelli.

On the topic of the echoes of WWII John and I finally stopped in the lovely hilltop town of Lucignano, between Arezzo and Siena. We went to a little square for lunch and I noticed an interesting inscription on the wall. I am always trying to decipher signs, but this one was particularly intriguing.

“QUANDO SI È FORTI SI È CARI AGLI AMICI E SI È TEMUTI DAI NEMICI.” “When you are strong you are dear to your friends and feared by enemies,” is a quote from Mussolini from March 26, 1939 during a celebration of the twentieth anniversary of fascism. I was intrigued so I investigated and found that this phrase is thrown around even now. In October 2020, when Italy briefly opened gyms during one of the waves of Covid, the anti-fascist journalist Paolo Berizzi, whose work uncovering neo-fascists has forced him to live under the protection of security for over a year, managed to anger almost everyone with a single Tweet. “Robust support from the center right in defence of gyms. ‘When you are strong you are dear to your friends and feared by enemies.'” This linkage of gyms to political extremism went too far, according to one person who responded “This tweet, frankly, does no honor to anyone, neither to you, nor to anti-fascism. You know that I often love to talk to you, so I think I can afford it: it really fell down …”

That’s it for now from the village.