You might be wondering what I’ve been doing since I’ve come back. Unfortunately, not much running. You know how it goes, working a lot in January to pick up the slack for the holidays, then, you know, auto accident in February. You know how things go. It’s nothing to get alarmed about, but it did prevent me from running.
Monday, March 12, 2007
L.A. Marathon
Monday, February 19, 2007
SPECIAL POST: Italy Trip Finale
Hello everyone! Forgive my lengthy pauses between posts. It’s been a rather productive new year, and hopefully some great news to come in the months ahead.. So with that, let’s take a quick little tour of my last leg through Italy, where I traveled alone.
First stop, ROME.
I can’t tell you why, but I wasn’t expecting to get real excited about this city, but then I went to the Colosseum and everything changed. I mean, how could I not like Rome? It’s my kind of city. Grand. Outgoing. Hedonistic. I can’t imagine anyone have an in between opinion about this city. Either you like it or you don’t.
Oh and look, my house is just next door.
I stayed three nights in Rome, and fortunately, since I was staying in a hostel that made connecting with folks a lot easier (lots of Australians this time of year). My highlight, though, was while venturing out alone.
Last night in Rome. Two men. Italian. Both with heads shaved bald. Both shared the same birthday (different years). There names: Stefano and Sandro. Great guys. They actually became friends while traveling in America, and we all shared a laugh over their similarities. The best part was when the three of us were walking around, and Sandro turned it into an architectural tour, giving us insights into the how’s and why’s of Rome’s stunning buildings. My experience was made complete when they drive me back to my place in one of those little European cars. It was a blast! At the end, we exchanged email addresses and such, and I had to start laughing, when Sandro asked, “MySpace?” Oh, such a small world we are becoming.
By the time I had to say goodbye to Rome, I didn’t want to leave. I felt like I had become a resident. Well, maybe I dream about that for the future. Right now, LUCCA is waiting. Off we go!
Well, after a stop in Florence, of course. See, I left Florence without buying a pair of boots. Over the course of days that had passed, those boots became a damn near obsession of mine. So the plan was on the way to Lucca, stop in Florence, get the boots, get on the train, and go.
It was going to be my one big splurge. I didn’t even know if by buying these boots, I would wind up penniless at the end of the trip. Oh well, I figured, if that happens, at least I’ll look great at my funeral. But there was a snag in my plan. Or rather, a tear. Seems like the only pair in my size required a little stitching at the seam. If I wanted them to do it, I would have to wait for the seamstress to return from lunch, hours later. Buy or don’t buy?
Oh hell, let’s get ‘em. We’ll fix ‘em in Lucca. And that set the pace for my visit. I was a LOCAL IN LUCCA. I was there for two nights (or one full day) and I had all these errands to do. Laundry, post office, and such, so that’s what I did. I stayed at this adorable place, and had the shared dorm room all to myself.
The tourist information office pointed me to the place to get my boots repaired. The man spoke English because he had lived in Australia for some time, but we didn’t need to speak the same language for him to understand the look on my face when he mentioned replacing the whole seam. I told him to do the best that he could so that I could have them by 10am the next morning.
Then I stepped out, navigating my way through the beautiful historic center of Lucca,
to eat local treats at the open-air market, went to the local post office and successfully handled that transaction in my broken Italian, and even had a bottle of wine uncorked at the local grocery store. I even took a stroll up along the ramparts (the walls surrounding the city). Lions are everywhere in Italy and here is no exception.
And when no one was looking, I even did a cartwheel. (I only do that when I’m really happy.)
And sure enough, the next day, at 10am, my boots were ready, one hem slightly imperfect, but perfectly mine. Then, to make it unforgettable, he wouldn’t charge me. Smiling, he said, “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”
With boots in hand, I hopped on the train again, and continued to head north to CINQUE TERRE.
Cinque Terre literally means “five lands”, and it is five small coastal towns strung together by hiking paths. I stayed in RIOMAGGIORE for three nights, and what an experience!
I made my way to Bar Centrale. There I met Alberto, Richardo, Stefano (some locals) and Kim, whose name received a quick translation: Cassandra. Some hours and quite a few drinks later, Kim and I agreed to meet the next morning to walk the Cinque Terre, and then later that evening, meet up with Richardo and Stefano for dinner. Richardo insisted on cooking for us.
The next day, her and I took a local train up to the first town, Vernazza,
had lunch, and then walked two towns south to Cornegia. Perched high up on a mountain, the trails weave between breathtaking views of the sea and inland farms.
By the time we were down, we couldn’t wait for dinner. Kim and I met Stefano at Bar Ivo, and on our way to Richardo’s home, we stopped and picked up a bottle of wine, from a local grower. Dinner, of course, was amazing and just whole lot of fun.
And then, like that, it was time to leave. Cinque Terre felt so like home that it was strange to get on the train again. And as the train moved north, the sunny sea disappeared and turned into a gray sky and flat land.
Next stop: MILAN. My plan was to only stay a night, because I was really hoping to catch a quick train to Lake Como. Although radically off-season, I wanted to buy my friend, Tania, a poster that she fell in love with at one of her favorite restaurants in Los Angeles. But since I had to stop in Milan, I figured while I was there, why not walk through area around Via Montenapoleone to explore Milan’s most-known asset: Fashion. (Yeah, it was fun.)
The next morning, my plan to go to Lake Como was underway, that is, until I was holding the ticket in my hand, but couldn’t find the train. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be a train. But on the bright side, the previous night, while visiting the Tourist Information office, the agent was so generous to give me a gigantic Lake Como wall calendar. So, feeling a little comforted by the fact that I had something, I settled in my seat as the train took me, instead, directly to VENICE.
Well, what started as a short train ride turned into a Day of Misdirection. The hotel I booked was on the mainland, not the island. (Be careful about that should you travel to Venice.) And when I was able to negotiate my way out of my current room, it then took hours to find the new hotel.
In the process, I met Eric. He was trying to get out of his room, too, and I couldn’t have walked in at a more perfect moment. When I said I wanted out, he jumped up. “Me, too.” I thought, “Cool, look at that. I already have a buddy.”
Not so fast. Eric (not his real name since he was born in China), who works for DHL in Germany was visiting due to amazing flight specials offered in Germany, like “10 Euros to Any Destination in Europe.” Anyways, after we finally made it to the new hotel, we went back out to catch a bite to eat and check out the Venice nightscene. And that’s when things took a turn.
Every place we walked into he was rude to the waitstaff, and then he was trying to get all over me. Needless to say, the first chance I had, I ditched him. And of course, as my luck would have it, I have a photo of him.
The next day, under gray skies and light showers, I experienced an almost perfect day. I was just peaceful to walk around, watch people play with pigeons in St. Mark’s Square,
eat gelato, and when my feet started to hurt too much, I sipped on quiet a few Proseccos (a sweet drink native to Venice) during happy hour at Buraco Jazz club. Soon after I decided to leave, it didn’t take long before I made friends at another bar. Eventually a group of four of us all had dinner together. I guess you could call it a feast for my last true night in Italy.
I had a hard time saying goodbye to Venice, and fortunately the slow vaparetto took an hour to get to the train station. That actually did make it easier.
I went back to Florence, hung out at a pub before catching a bus to the airport. And for my last adventure, I spent the night, there, in the airport with a local resident who was flying out on early next morning to visit her family in China.
So we talked on and off, between our attempts to sleep on hard plastic chairs. And then before I knew it, the airport came to life, I boarded my plane, and came home.
With that, I just wanted to say THANK YOU again for making this all possible, for all your support and encouragement. This was an experience of a lifetime.
And stay tuned, because I’m not done yet. It’s time to get back to some running.
First stop, ROME.
I can’t tell you why, but I wasn’t expecting to get real excited about this city, but then I went to the Colosseum and everything changed. I mean, how could I not like Rome? It’s my kind of city. Grand. Outgoing. Hedonistic. I can’t imagine anyone have an in between opinion about this city. Either you like it or you don’t.
Oh and look, my house is just next door.
I stayed three nights in Rome, and fortunately, since I was staying in a hostel that made connecting with folks a lot easier (lots of Australians this time of year). My highlight, though, was while venturing out alone.
Last night in Rome. Two men. Italian. Both with heads shaved bald. Both shared the same birthday (different years). There names: Stefano and Sandro. Great guys. They actually became friends while traveling in America, and we all shared a laugh over their similarities. The best part was when the three of us were walking around, and Sandro turned it into an architectural tour, giving us insights into the how’s and why’s of Rome’s stunning buildings. My experience was made complete when they drive me back to my place in one of those little European cars. It was a blast! At the end, we exchanged email addresses and such, and I had to start laughing, when Sandro asked, “MySpace?” Oh, such a small world we are becoming.
By the time I had to say goodbye to Rome, I didn’t want to leave. I felt like I had become a resident. Well, maybe I dream about that for the future. Right now, LUCCA is waiting. Off we go!
Well, after a stop in Florence, of course. See, I left Florence without buying a pair of boots. Over the course of days that had passed, those boots became a damn near obsession of mine. So the plan was on the way to Lucca, stop in Florence, get the boots, get on the train, and go.
It was going to be my one big splurge. I didn’t even know if by buying these boots, I would wind up penniless at the end of the trip. Oh well, I figured, if that happens, at least I’ll look great at my funeral. But there was a snag in my plan. Or rather, a tear. Seems like the only pair in my size required a little stitching at the seam. If I wanted them to do it, I would have to wait for the seamstress to return from lunch, hours later. Buy or don’t buy?
Oh hell, let’s get ‘em. We’ll fix ‘em in Lucca. And that set the pace for my visit. I was a LOCAL IN LUCCA. I was there for two nights (or one full day) and I had all these errands to do. Laundry, post office, and such, so that’s what I did. I stayed at this adorable place, and had the shared dorm room all to myself.
The tourist information office pointed me to the place to get my boots repaired. The man spoke English because he had lived in Australia for some time, but we didn’t need to speak the same language for him to understand the look on my face when he mentioned replacing the whole seam. I told him to do the best that he could so that I could have them by 10am the next morning.
Then I stepped out, navigating my way through the beautiful historic center of Lucca,
to eat local treats at the open-air market, went to the local post office and successfully handled that transaction in my broken Italian, and even had a bottle of wine uncorked at the local grocery store. I even took a stroll up along the ramparts (the walls surrounding the city). Lions are everywhere in Italy and here is no exception.
And when no one was looking, I even did a cartwheel. (I only do that when I’m really happy.)
And sure enough, the next day, at 10am, my boots were ready, one hem slightly imperfect, but perfectly mine. Then, to make it unforgettable, he wouldn’t charge me. Smiling, he said, “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”
With boots in hand, I hopped on the train again, and continued to head north to CINQUE TERRE.
Cinque Terre literally means “five lands”, and it is five small coastal towns strung together by hiking paths. I stayed in RIOMAGGIORE for three nights, and what an experience!
I made my way to Bar Centrale. There I met Alberto, Richardo, Stefano (some locals) and Kim, whose name received a quick translation: Cassandra. Some hours and quite a few drinks later, Kim and I agreed to meet the next morning to walk the Cinque Terre, and then later that evening, meet up with Richardo and Stefano for dinner. Richardo insisted on cooking for us.
The next day, her and I took a local train up to the first town, Vernazza,
had lunch, and then walked two towns south to Cornegia. Perched high up on a mountain, the trails weave between breathtaking views of the sea and inland farms.By the time we were down, we couldn’t wait for dinner. Kim and I met Stefano at Bar Ivo, and on our way to Richardo’s home, we stopped and picked up a bottle of wine, from a local grower. Dinner, of course, was amazing and just whole lot of fun.
And then, like that, it was time to leave. Cinque Terre felt so like home that it was strange to get on the train again. And as the train moved north, the sunny sea disappeared and turned into a gray sky and flat land.
Next stop: MILAN. My plan was to only stay a night, because I was really hoping to catch a quick train to Lake Como. Although radically off-season, I wanted to buy my friend, Tania, a poster that she fell in love with at one of her favorite restaurants in Los Angeles. But since I had to stop in Milan, I figured while I was there, why not walk through area around Via Montenapoleone to explore Milan’s most-known asset: Fashion. (Yeah, it was fun.)
The next morning, my plan to go to Lake Como was underway, that is, until I was holding the ticket in my hand, but couldn’t find the train. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be a train. But on the bright side, the previous night, while visiting the Tourist Information office, the agent was so generous to give me a gigantic Lake Como wall calendar. So, feeling a little comforted by the fact that I had something, I settled in my seat as the train took me, instead, directly to VENICE.
Well, what started as a short train ride turned into a Day of Misdirection. The hotel I booked was on the mainland, not the island. (Be careful about that should you travel to Venice.) And when I was able to negotiate my way out of my current room, it then took hours to find the new hotel.
In the process, I met Eric. He was trying to get out of his room, too, and I couldn’t have walked in at a more perfect moment. When I said I wanted out, he jumped up. “Me, too.” I thought, “Cool, look at that. I already have a buddy.”
Not so fast. Eric (not his real name since he was born in China), who works for DHL in Germany was visiting due to amazing flight specials offered in Germany, like “10 Euros to Any Destination in Europe.” Anyways, after we finally made it to the new hotel, we went back out to catch a bite to eat and check out the Venice nightscene. And that’s when things took a turn.
Every place we walked into he was rude to the waitstaff, and then he was trying to get all over me. Needless to say, the first chance I had, I ditched him. And of course, as my luck would have it, I have a photo of him.
The next day, under gray skies and light showers, I experienced an almost perfect day. I was just peaceful to walk around, watch people play with pigeons in St. Mark’s Square,
eat gelato, and when my feet started to hurt too much, I sipped on quiet a few Proseccos (a sweet drink native to Venice) during happy hour at Buraco Jazz club. Soon after I decided to leave, it didn’t take long before I made friends at another bar. Eventually a group of four of us all had dinner together. I guess you could call it a feast for my last true night in Italy.I had a hard time saying goodbye to Venice, and fortunately the slow vaparetto took an hour to get to the train station. That actually did make it easier.
I went back to Florence, hung out at a pub before catching a bus to the airport. And for my last adventure, I spent the night, there, in the airport with a local resident who was flying out on early next morning to visit her family in China.
So we talked on and off, between our attempts to sleep on hard plastic chairs. And then before I knew it, the airport came to life, I boarded my plane, and came home.
With that, I just wanted to say THANK YOU again for making this all possible, for all your support and encouragement. This was an experience of a lifetime.
And stay tuned, because I’m not done yet. It’s time to get back to some running.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
SPECIAL POST: Family in Marche
Are you ready to eat a lot of good food and down shots of grappolino? Good, because we’re going to see the Rossini’s in Marche!
** THE TRAIN STATION **
I took a three-hour train ride from Cortona to the station in Senigallia. Since my cousin Carlo knows less English than I know Italian, I relied heavily on the translation efforts of my friend, Sonia, who can speak Italian and whose family is also from Marche, and the staff at the Hotel Baglioni, where I stayed for the marathon in Florence, to help make the arrangements. I figured once I was talking to him in person that I could hand gesture my way through any conversion. I am Italian after all, but the details of my arrival were just too important.
So it was strange when I arrived and he wasn’t there. I was tired, and I was freezing. And after being in the loveliness of Cortona, the graffiti on the Senigallia station walls put me a little on edge.
I tried calling, but the telephone cards are like Rubik’s Cubes to me. Even when I thought I figured out how to place a call, the phone just rang and rang. Was I really getting this right?
Worse thing, though, I wondered if, after all this, I would be just hoping on the train again, never meeting my relatives, and traveling onward to Rome.
Fortunately, though, I eventually did get through, and it was Marisa (pronounced Muh-ree-za), Carlo’s wife. From what I could understand was that she was happy to hear from me, and that Carlo had left his cell phone outside, but I couldn’t seem to get my question answered, “Dové Carlo? In treno stazione o in macchina?” Eventually, it sounded like I would be seeing him soon enough. I hung up the phone and sat back down on the cold metal bench.
Not even a second later, the doors opened, and a hurried man walked in.
“Jennifer?”
“Carlo?”
And I swept out of the train station, my luggage quickly removed from my hands, a giant hug, and away we go!
I found out later that it had taken him so long, because the lady at the Hotel Baglioni had told I had blonde hair.
** BEGINNING MOMENTS **
Of course, before I could completely thaw out, the first thing that Carlo asked was how long I was planning on staying. “One night,” I said. “Just to meet you is enough,” and he said, “Until you leave.” In the end, after a couple days of intense negotiations, I agreed to stay for a week.
The town of Montignano is only ten minutes up a hill from Senigallia. It was night by the time I arrived, and in general, I didn’t get many photos, but in the days that followed, I learned that Senigallia is around 300 years old. Across from the station is a castle/fort, and like many towns off the sea, it was once a lookout point. Everything that extends out from this point looks like it has been built in the last 50 years or so, and has a slightly worn beach town feel to it.
Needless to say, we were home in no time. And get this, it’s Great-Grandpa’s house! By the way, Carlo’s grandfather is brother to Great-Grandpa, capisce?
Marisa made some tortellini, which Carlo and I picked up on the way home, followed by minute steak and potatoes. It was so similar to Mom’s cooking. They showed me their photos, and I got a little choked up, as Grandpa would like to say. Here’s my favorite photo, and it seems as though everyone has it:
Now, from what I understand, not everyone in this photo is family. It’s more like three or four families, but they all have been in this town for generations. It seemed like everyone I met could point to someone in this photo. So as far as I’m concerned, everyone I met is family.
** THE ROSSINI TEST **
But the question whether I was really family was posed.
At one point, Carlo wagged his pointer finger up towards the ceiling, and said (in the Italian equivalent), “Let’s see if you’re a Rossini.” Then he pulled out the grappa, poured me a shot, and placed it in front of me.
Well, what do you think happened? (As if that was a test. Please.)
What really won them over, though, was my computer skills. In no time, I was whisked upstairs to troubleshoot some issues / questions Carlo had about his laptop. Somehow, even with everything in Italian, I managed to figure it out, and explain it to him so he understood what was going on. In the process, he saw how fast I typed, and next thing I know, he’s dictating his email responses to me. That’s where I had to stop.
But we all had a good laugh. Either that, or the grappa was kicking in.
** OPEN THE WINDOW **
Things are really made well in Italy, even things like windows. They are very well constructed, super sturdy, and built in layers, so that you can enjoy them wide open in the summer or have them completely locked down in the winter. It was around 45 degrees while I was there, which I was told was warm for the season.
As Carlo and Marisa showed me how to open the window, they told me about the time cousin Sandy had visited. She wanted to open the window, and if I understood correctly, was having difficulties.
“Apertura la finestra!”, they said, laughing with glee, followed by, one of the few English phrases they knew, “Open the window!” I got a kick out of it, too, so after awhile that was just something that was injected into conversation.
The next morning when I did open the window, this is what I saw.
Beautiful, isn’t? I can only imagine how lovely it must look in the summer. According to Sonia, the best food (product) comes out of Marche. There are plenty of farms, and everyone seems to have one hand in the earth. Even Carlo and Marisa have two small lots, one for grain (to make bread) and the other, for olive (for olive oil).
** VISITING GREAT-GRANDMA **
Beyond those two small lots, hardly a block away down a dirt road from the Rossini home, is an abandoned home.
That happens to be Great-Grandma’s home. Although I didn’t go inside, but I did take a little something with me: a little rock.
Just beyond Great-Grandma’s house is the cemetery where most of Montignano’s families have come to rest.
Another street or so away is the church where they were married – Mary and Orlando Rossini. The church is located in Piazza Giordano Bruno.
And beyond that, down a hill, is the sea.
** MANY MEETINGS **
From the moment I stepped into town, I was introduced to a lot of people, and somehow I managed to keep up with five people talking to me at once. It was a lot of fun, though, and at times, rather funny all together. It goes without saying, of course, that their hospitality over flowed. I was shuttled from one home to another and one restaurant to another. All that was allowed of me was my presence.
On the first night, the bulk of the people I would meet all got together for pizza. Here we are:
In Italy, they have sausage like in Chicago, and it’s called salsiccia. And what a treat that was for me! It’s been years.
The next day, we had lunch at the Osteria sul Lago.
It was another big outing:
And aren’t they cute?
Okay, I can’t remember their names for the life of me, but he was the first person I met that spoke some English, which apparently was more than I could handle. Seems that after being completely immersed in the Italian language, I started to think in it. As I struggled to speak with him, I thought to myself, “Good god, I’ve arrived in Italy speaking broken Italian, and I’m going to leave speaking broken English.”
Later that night, I met some descendants from Great-Grandma’s side.
Before I left, thankfully I remembered to bring a handful of photos, one of each American relative, to share, and while I was there, I always made sure I brought them on me.
Well, when I started showing my little plastic baggy worth of photos, Paola (if I remember correctly) pulled out all her photo albums. It was a blast! Her son, Sandro, had a different opinion however.
To make matters worse, I asked if I could borrow a photo, so I could scan it at Carlo and Marisa’s, but Sandro offered to do it instead. Well, that opened up the flood gates and photo after photo was being handed to him, from Carlo, from me, and most of all, his mom, who kept saying, “Sandro. Sandro.”
I can still hear his name being called. Eventually, I grabbed an entire photo album and handed it to him, “Sandro! Sandro!” We all had a good laugh.
The most famous night, hands down, was the dinner with Carlo’s friend, Salvatore, a farmer, his wife, Marisa, and the man with the beard whose name I bite my fist trying to remember. He is also a friend as well as a retired police office (Polizia) like Carlo.
Now, if it hasn’t been clear up to this point, my Italian was very broken, but we all managed. I can only imagined that they struggle to understand me as much as I working to make myself understandable. I was complimented often by my efforts, but I received only one complaint and that was by Salvatore.
He said, in Italian, “I’m not woah-ME-KNEE.” The word he was saying was uomini, which means men.
So, I quickly replied, in Italian, “Hey, if you’re not a man, well…”
This, of course, just made him keep starting over, and repeating the same thing. He wasn’t ever quite reaching whatever point he was trying to make, and in the process, everyone starting cracking up, the ladies especially.
By the time, we got it all straightened out that Salvatore was a man and that I should be pronouncing it “WOAH-me-knee”, everyone at the table was practically in tears. Here’s our uomini photo:
After that, well, I just had to apertura la finestra (Open the window!) and went to the window manufacturing business of Marcello.
Across the street from the company is his home and a farm. And look! I’m holding a baby bunny.
Afterwards, I went to Sabrina’s house, joined by her husband, mom, and two sons, who are 16 and 22 and very into American culture. They think Italy is (roll eyes) whatever. (Of course.) She works at the deli.
The following day, which was day #7 of 8, Francesca, along with her mom, Morella, and husband, Frederico, picked me up and treated me out to a lovely Frasassi cave.
She has a little boy, Filipo, but he didn’t make it, because he was in school, and her father, Giuliano, didn’t make it because he was not feeling so well.
The cave is packed with waxy stalagmites and stalactites. Here is the only photo I managed to take before I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand anymore. After all, it does sound exactly the same. “Sorry, I don’t understand no fotographia.”
And Francesca was an absolute too, asking the tour guide if he spoke English, which I was expecting him too. When he said he didn’t, she worked so hard, even pulling out a pocket dictionary at time, to translate what he was saying.
After the tour, we went to back to their apartment. Francesca lives on the top floor.
What a view, huh? Her grandparents live in another unit on the floor just below her, and her parents, where we had lunch, live on the floor below that. So they’re all in the same building.
It was a delicious lunch, but after seven days of being oh-so gracious to have double helpings of everything, well, my poor digestion just couldn’t keep up anymore. I need to excuse myself.
After that Frederico kept teasing me, “How are you feeling? Bleeeeh.” Ah, yes, for some things, there are no cultural barriers.
No worries, though, I managed to take a little nap and get my appetite up and running just in time to go to the Cesar’s!
See that cute couple on the right. Get this, his name is Cesare and her name is Cesarina. Those are her parents, Elsa and Mario. They grew up one house away from each other, and they are still very much in love today. You can tell that they lead a very joyous life. Their two daughters, Silvia and Luanna, are just as amazing, and here we speak the international language of “Charlie’s Angels”:
I’ve also been given very strict orders to find Brad Pitt and bring him back to Italy. Once in you say you live in Los Angeles, everybody wants you to catch them a star, sheesh!
So, are you feeling full yet? Well, I hope you still have just a little bit more room left, because on my last night, we all went to a steakhouse. Despite the fact that we live off the sea and our ancestors were in the fishing business, we all eat red meat like it’s going out of style. Carlo and I noticed that lovely similarity and would constantly rub our hands together and say, “Carne!” (meat).
Needless to say, this particular place was chosen especially for me.
But it wasn’t all eating, drinking, and food coma. I enjoyed quite a many of my afternoons with Marisa, singing (she has a lovely voice) and watching “Amici”, which I became totally hooked on. See, “Amici” has two groups – the singers and the dancers. So it’s like “American Idol” meets “Dancing with the Stars”. Plus, on “Amici”, they are recorded during their rehearsals as well as live performances. It’s so “Fame”, only the scarves are tied slightly differently, because well, they’re European.
** LEAVING MARCHE **
It was difficult saying good-bye, partly because I couldn’t move from all the weight I gained while I was there. But that’s okay, I’m treating every pound as a memory.
It was such a wonderful experience. I felt immediately at home, and after a few days, I felt like anything in this world was possible. You know THAT feeling?
Carlo and Marisa made me promise to return within a year. It’s a promise I’d actually really like to keep. And of course, I told them they had to come out here.
But in the meantime, we have the memories, and we’ll always have the looouuuuve!
** STAY TUNED **
Next week, I’ll be finishing up our winter running break with the last segment of my trip. So stay tuned, and enjoy the reprieve, because before you know it, it’ll be all about running again.
** THE TRAIN STATION **
I took a three-hour train ride from Cortona to the station in Senigallia. Since my cousin Carlo knows less English than I know Italian, I relied heavily on the translation efforts of my friend, Sonia, who can speak Italian and whose family is also from Marche, and the staff at the Hotel Baglioni, where I stayed for the marathon in Florence, to help make the arrangements. I figured once I was talking to him in person that I could hand gesture my way through any conversion. I am Italian after all, but the details of my arrival were just too important.
So it was strange when I arrived and he wasn’t there. I was tired, and I was freezing. And after being in the loveliness of Cortona, the graffiti on the Senigallia station walls put me a little on edge.
I tried calling, but the telephone cards are like Rubik’s Cubes to me. Even when I thought I figured out how to place a call, the phone just rang and rang. Was I really getting this right?
Worse thing, though, I wondered if, after all this, I would be just hoping on the train again, never meeting my relatives, and traveling onward to Rome.
Fortunately, though, I eventually did get through, and it was Marisa (pronounced Muh-ree-za), Carlo’s wife. From what I could understand was that she was happy to hear from me, and that Carlo had left his cell phone outside, but I couldn’t seem to get my question answered, “Dové Carlo? In treno stazione o in macchina?” Eventually, it sounded like I would be seeing him soon enough. I hung up the phone and sat back down on the cold metal bench.
Not even a second later, the doors opened, and a hurried man walked in.
“Jennifer?”
“Carlo?”
And I swept out of the train station, my luggage quickly removed from my hands, a giant hug, and away we go!
I found out later that it had taken him so long, because the lady at the Hotel Baglioni had told I had blonde hair.
** BEGINNING MOMENTS **
Of course, before I could completely thaw out, the first thing that Carlo asked was how long I was planning on staying. “One night,” I said. “Just to meet you is enough,” and he said, “Until you leave.” In the end, after a couple days of intense negotiations, I agreed to stay for a week.
The town of Montignano is only ten minutes up a hill from Senigallia. It was night by the time I arrived, and in general, I didn’t get many photos, but in the days that followed, I learned that Senigallia is around 300 years old. Across from the station is a castle/fort, and like many towns off the sea, it was once a lookout point. Everything that extends out from this point looks like it has been built in the last 50 years or so, and has a slightly worn beach town feel to it.
Needless to say, we were home in no time. And get this, it’s Great-Grandpa’s house! By the way, Carlo’s grandfather is brother to Great-Grandpa, capisce?
Marisa made some tortellini, which Carlo and I picked up on the way home, followed by minute steak and potatoes. It was so similar to Mom’s cooking. They showed me their photos, and I got a little choked up, as Grandpa would like to say. Here’s my favorite photo, and it seems as though everyone has it:
Now, from what I understand, not everyone in this photo is family. It’s more like three or four families, but they all have been in this town for generations. It seemed like everyone I met could point to someone in this photo. So as far as I’m concerned, everyone I met is family.
** THE ROSSINI TEST **
But the question whether I was really family was posed.
At one point, Carlo wagged his pointer finger up towards the ceiling, and said (in the Italian equivalent), “Let’s see if you’re a Rossini.” Then he pulled out the grappa, poured me a shot, and placed it in front of me.
Well, what do you think happened? (As if that was a test. Please.)
What really won them over, though, was my computer skills. In no time, I was whisked upstairs to troubleshoot some issues / questions Carlo had about his laptop. Somehow, even with everything in Italian, I managed to figure it out, and explain it to him so he understood what was going on. In the process, he saw how fast I typed, and next thing I know, he’s dictating his email responses to me. That’s where I had to stop.
But we all had a good laugh. Either that, or the grappa was kicking in.
** OPEN THE WINDOW **
Things are really made well in Italy, even things like windows. They are very well constructed, super sturdy, and built in layers, so that you can enjoy them wide open in the summer or have them completely locked down in the winter. It was around 45 degrees while I was there, which I was told was warm for the season.
As Carlo and Marisa showed me how to open the window, they told me about the time cousin Sandy had visited. She wanted to open the window, and if I understood correctly, was having difficulties.
“Apertura la finestra!”, they said, laughing with glee, followed by, one of the few English phrases they knew, “Open the window!” I got a kick out of it, too, so after awhile that was just something that was injected into conversation.
The next morning when I did open the window, this is what I saw.
Beautiful, isn’t? I can only imagine how lovely it must look in the summer. According to Sonia, the best food (product) comes out of Marche. There are plenty of farms, and everyone seems to have one hand in the earth. Even Carlo and Marisa have two small lots, one for grain (to make bread) and the other, for olive (for olive oil).
** VISITING GREAT-GRANDMA **
Beyond those two small lots, hardly a block away down a dirt road from the Rossini home, is an abandoned home.
That happens to be Great-Grandma’s home. Although I didn’t go inside, but I did take a little something with me: a little rock.
Just beyond Great-Grandma’s house is the cemetery where most of Montignano’s families have come to rest.
Another street or so away is the church where they were married – Mary and Orlando Rossini. The church is located in Piazza Giordano Bruno.
And beyond that, down a hill, is the sea.
** MANY MEETINGS **
From the moment I stepped into town, I was introduced to a lot of people, and somehow I managed to keep up with five people talking to me at once. It was a lot of fun, though, and at times, rather funny all together. It goes without saying, of course, that their hospitality over flowed. I was shuttled from one home to another and one restaurant to another. All that was allowed of me was my presence.
On the first night, the bulk of the people I would meet all got together for pizza. Here we are:
In Italy, they have sausage like in Chicago, and it’s called salsiccia. And what a treat that was for me! It’s been years.
The next day, we had lunch at the Osteria sul Lago.
It was another big outing:
And aren’t they cute?
Okay, I can’t remember their names for the life of me, but he was the first person I met that spoke some English, which apparently was more than I could handle. Seems that after being completely immersed in the Italian language, I started to think in it. As I struggled to speak with him, I thought to myself, “Good god, I’ve arrived in Italy speaking broken Italian, and I’m going to leave speaking broken English.”
Later that night, I met some descendants from Great-Grandma’s side.
Before I left, thankfully I remembered to bring a handful of photos, one of each American relative, to share, and while I was there, I always made sure I brought them on me.
Well, when I started showing my little plastic baggy worth of photos, Paola (if I remember correctly) pulled out all her photo albums. It was a blast! Her son, Sandro, had a different opinion however.
To make matters worse, I asked if I could borrow a photo, so I could scan it at Carlo and Marisa’s, but Sandro offered to do it instead. Well, that opened up the flood gates and photo after photo was being handed to him, from Carlo, from me, and most of all, his mom, who kept saying, “Sandro. Sandro.”
I can still hear his name being called. Eventually, I grabbed an entire photo album and handed it to him, “Sandro! Sandro!” We all had a good laugh.
The most famous night, hands down, was the dinner with Carlo’s friend, Salvatore, a farmer, his wife, Marisa, and the man with the beard whose name I bite my fist trying to remember. He is also a friend as well as a retired police office (Polizia) like Carlo.
Now, if it hasn’t been clear up to this point, my Italian was very broken, but we all managed. I can only imagined that they struggle to understand me as much as I working to make myself understandable. I was complimented often by my efforts, but I received only one complaint and that was by Salvatore.
He said, in Italian, “I’m not woah-ME-KNEE.” The word he was saying was uomini, which means men.
So, I quickly replied, in Italian, “Hey, if you’re not a man, well…”
This, of course, just made him keep starting over, and repeating the same thing. He wasn’t ever quite reaching whatever point he was trying to make, and in the process, everyone starting cracking up, the ladies especially.
By the time, we got it all straightened out that Salvatore was a man and that I should be pronouncing it “WOAH-me-knee”, everyone at the table was practically in tears. Here’s our uomini photo:
After that, well, I just had to apertura la finestra (Open the window!) and went to the window manufacturing business of Marcello.
Across the street from the company is his home and a farm. And look! I’m holding a baby bunny.
Afterwards, I went to Sabrina’s house, joined by her husband, mom, and two sons, who are 16 and 22 and very into American culture. They think Italy is (roll eyes) whatever. (Of course.) She works at the deli.
The following day, which was day #7 of 8, Francesca, along with her mom, Morella, and husband, Frederico, picked me up and treated me out to a lovely Frasassi cave.
She has a little boy, Filipo, but he didn’t make it, because he was in school, and her father, Giuliano, didn’t make it because he was not feeling so well.
The cave is packed with waxy stalagmites and stalactites. Here is the only photo I managed to take before I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand anymore. After all, it does sound exactly the same. “Sorry, I don’t understand no fotographia.”
And Francesca was an absolute too, asking the tour guide if he spoke English, which I was expecting him too. When he said he didn’t, she worked so hard, even pulling out a pocket dictionary at time, to translate what he was saying.
After the tour, we went to back to their apartment. Francesca lives on the top floor.
What a view, huh? Her grandparents live in another unit on the floor just below her, and her parents, where we had lunch, live on the floor below that. So they’re all in the same building.
It was a delicious lunch, but after seven days of being oh-so gracious to have double helpings of everything, well, my poor digestion just couldn’t keep up anymore. I need to excuse myself.
After that Frederico kept teasing me, “How are you feeling? Bleeeeh.” Ah, yes, for some things, there are no cultural barriers.
No worries, though, I managed to take a little nap and get my appetite up and running just in time to go to the Cesar’s!
See that cute couple on the right. Get this, his name is Cesare and her name is Cesarina. Those are her parents, Elsa and Mario. They grew up one house away from each other, and they are still very much in love today. You can tell that they lead a very joyous life. Their two daughters, Silvia and Luanna, are just as amazing, and here we speak the international language of “Charlie’s Angels”:
I’ve also been given very strict orders to find Brad Pitt and bring him back to Italy. Once in you say you live in Los Angeles, everybody wants you to catch them a star, sheesh!
So, are you feeling full yet? Well, I hope you still have just a little bit more room left, because on my last night, we all went to a steakhouse. Despite the fact that we live off the sea and our ancestors were in the fishing business, we all eat red meat like it’s going out of style. Carlo and I noticed that lovely similarity and would constantly rub our hands together and say, “Carne!” (meat).
Needless to say, this particular place was chosen especially for me.
But it wasn’t all eating, drinking, and food coma. I enjoyed quite a many of my afternoons with Marisa, singing (she has a lovely voice) and watching “Amici”, which I became totally hooked on. See, “Amici” has two groups – the singers and the dancers. So it’s like “American Idol” meets “Dancing with the Stars”. Plus, on “Amici”, they are recorded during their rehearsals as well as live performances. It’s so “Fame”, only the scarves are tied slightly differently, because well, they’re European.
** LEAVING MARCHE **
It was difficult saying good-bye, partly because I couldn’t move from all the weight I gained while I was there. But that’s okay, I’m treating every pound as a memory.
It was such a wonderful experience. I felt immediately at home, and after a few days, I felt like anything in this world was possible. You know THAT feeling?
Carlo and Marisa made me promise to return within a year. It’s a promise I’d actually really like to keep. And of course, I told them they had to come out here.
But in the meantime, we have the memories, and we’ll always have the looouuuuve!
** STAY TUNED **
Next week, I’ll be finishing up our winter running break with the last segment of my trip. So stay tuned, and enjoy the reprieve, because before you know it, it’ll be all about running again.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
The Adventure Begins
To celebrate the New Year, this week’s update will be about the rest of my trip in Italy. So stay where you are, keep sipping your Bloody Mary, and while contemplating how one can really have a clean slate, especially after all you’ve done this past year, you naughty thing, please read on:
As you might remember, I had three glorious weeks in Italy. The trip can be essentially broken down into three segments: the marathon, which you’ve heard about, meeting my relatives in the providence of Marche, and then the last part, traveling solo (alone).
After the marathon, I stayed two more nights in Florence. Long before I actually booked the tickets, APLA was booking the hotel rooms. They would pay for three nights, and then they asked if I wanted to pay for an additional two. I thought, “why not?”
It was perfect, because I had a chance to walk off the marathon, and really get to enjoy the company of my fellow marathoners. The highlight was on our last evening, where a group of six of us ate at Trattoria 4 Leoni. This really kicked off my culinary adventures in Italy. Marco, our waiter, handed us menus, and before we could really study them, he asked, “Do you trust me?” We all looked at each other. Okay. And then the food started coming, dish after dish. What an experience!
The next day, we said our goodbyes. Those participants that made their arrangements completely through APLA were heading towards the airport and the rest of us were heading to different cities. My roommate was off to Venice. Rochelle would be heading to Rome the following day. And I wanted to make one little stop before I went and saw my family.
I took the train south down to Cortona, and actually, Rochelle decided to make a day trip of it and join me, especially when she heard that I was seeking out the house of Frances Mayes, author of the “Under the Tuscan Sun.” I have to admit that I don’t often get struck, but I read her book years back and I was really touched by it. A writing teacher I had recently had informed us that she was trying to get us to write poetry, or in other words, the stuff that pours out from our hearts, because no matter what form it is in, when it from that place, then there’s a rhythm that naturally flows. It’s the poetry you can’t make up and die trying to create, and then without any effort at all, it appears. That’s what that book was like for me, and that’s why I had to make the journey.
It was an overcast day, and as we made our way closer, it just looked worse. We got on a bus that curled its way up tight winding roads. It was mid-afternoon and, not knowing what to expect, and feeling responsible for Rochelle’s happiness, I was worried. I started thinking, “Oh please, let it be clear enough to see the house.” Just then, around the bend, the sky was clear, and there was sun! Cortona, being on top of the hill, is high enough to live above the clouds. We were struck.
It took a little too long to get my room, but we headed out, trying to beat the sun. Based on the directions I found online, we just needed to walk uphill (it’s all uphill in Cortona!) and at a tavern, turn left. When we asked a driver how to get there, in broken Italian, he asked us to hold on, asked another guy for directions, understood how to get there, and then asked the wedding party he was waiting to escort away if he could leave for a few moments to drive us up the hill! Only in Italy.
Unfortunately, Rochelle didn’t get to see it, and the following day, when I did find her house, I realized how close we were! While there isn’t a large front lawn, rather it’s quite close to the road. It is a quite road that looks out into a cascading valley of green. The façade is worn, but the coral makes is so warm and inviting. And so I sat in front of it for a little while, declared that to be my life one day, and then wrote a short thank you note and placed it under the candle.
Afterwards, I had another amazing meal. Steak with a pesto green sauce and a wine that was perfectly selected by my waiter. Somewhere between the 45-minute walk downhill back into town and that meal, I fell in love with Cortona. If there was a small town I ever feel like I could live in, it would be that one.
I think it was a perfect way to move from the hectic energy of the marathon to the long awaited moment of meeting my relatives.
(Stay tuned for next week the next segment of this exciting journey. I figured I should stop now. Give you a break. So, please, go and make yourself another Bloody Mary, because trust me, you’ll need it to deal with alcohol content of next week’s edition, which is overflowing with Booze! Carne! and Loooooove!)
As you might remember, I had three glorious weeks in Italy. The trip can be essentially broken down into three segments: the marathon, which you’ve heard about, meeting my relatives in the providence of Marche, and then the last part, traveling solo (alone).
After the marathon, I stayed two more nights in Florence. Long before I actually booked the tickets, APLA was booking the hotel rooms. They would pay for three nights, and then they asked if I wanted to pay for an additional two. I thought, “why not?”
It was perfect, because I had a chance to walk off the marathon, and really get to enjoy the company of my fellow marathoners. The highlight was on our last evening, where a group of six of us ate at Trattoria 4 Leoni. This really kicked off my culinary adventures in Italy. Marco, our waiter, handed us menus, and before we could really study them, he asked, “Do you trust me?” We all looked at each other. Okay. And then the food started coming, dish after dish. What an experience!
The next day, we said our goodbyes. Those participants that made their arrangements completely through APLA were heading towards the airport and the rest of us were heading to different cities. My roommate was off to Venice. Rochelle would be heading to Rome the following day. And I wanted to make one little stop before I went and saw my family.
I took the train south down to Cortona, and actually, Rochelle decided to make a day trip of it and join me, especially when she heard that I was seeking out the house of Frances Mayes, author of the “Under the Tuscan Sun.” I have to admit that I don’t often get struck, but I read her book years back and I was really touched by it. A writing teacher I had recently had informed us that she was trying to get us to write poetry, or in other words, the stuff that pours out from our hearts, because no matter what form it is in, when it from that place, then there’s a rhythm that naturally flows. It’s the poetry you can’t make up and die trying to create, and then without any effort at all, it appears. That’s what that book was like for me, and that’s why I had to make the journey.
It was an overcast day, and as we made our way closer, it just looked worse. We got on a bus that curled its way up tight winding roads. It was mid-afternoon and, not knowing what to expect, and feeling responsible for Rochelle’s happiness, I was worried. I started thinking, “Oh please, let it be clear enough to see the house.” Just then, around the bend, the sky was clear, and there was sun! Cortona, being on top of the hill, is high enough to live above the clouds. We were struck.
It took a little too long to get my room, but we headed out, trying to beat the sun. Based on the directions I found online, we just needed to walk uphill (it’s all uphill in Cortona!) and at a tavern, turn left. When we asked a driver how to get there, in broken Italian, he asked us to hold on, asked another guy for directions, understood how to get there, and then asked the wedding party he was waiting to escort away if he could leave for a few moments to drive us up the hill! Only in Italy.
Unfortunately, Rochelle didn’t get to see it, and the following day, when I did find her house, I realized how close we were! While there isn’t a large front lawn, rather it’s quite close to the road. It is a quite road that looks out into a cascading valley of green. The façade is worn, but the coral makes is so warm and inviting. And so I sat in front of it for a little while, declared that to be my life one day, and then wrote a short thank you note and placed it under the candle.
Afterwards, I had another amazing meal. Steak with a pesto green sauce and a wine that was perfectly selected by my waiter. Somewhere between the 45-minute walk downhill back into town and that meal, I fell in love with Cortona. If there was a small town I ever feel like I could live in, it would be that one.
I think it was a perfect way to move from the hectic energy of the marathon to the long awaited moment of meeting my relatives.
(Stay tuned for next week the next segment of this exciting journey. I figured I should stop now. Give you a break. So, please, go and make yourself another Bloody Mary, because trust me, you’ll need it to deal with alcohol content of next week’s edition, which is overflowing with Booze! Carne! and Loooooove!)
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