Month: December 2016

When I was a kid, Christmas Eve was always at Grandma Zarko’s. She was born in Croatia in the late 1880’s as Irma Berich and emigrated to California to be Vito Zarko’s bride.

Vito had returned to the Dubrovnik area in search of a wife when he was in his forties, broke his leg, and ended up in the hospital not yet having been successful in his mission. During his recuperation, and being a bit desperate at that point, he began proposing randomly to the nuns who ran the place. Finally, one of them recommended a girl in the laundry room, a lay worker, who never ceased to talk about moving to America. The young woman was sent for, the proposal made and accepted, and six months later she was on a freighter from Liverpool holding a ticket sent her by a Vito Zarko from Sunnyvale, California.

What my grandfather loved most about Irma was her cooking. He died in 1935, but she continued to ply us with fabulous dishes made according to her Dalmatian recipes. Quince candy, spaghetti with prune and garlic sauce, a kind of strudel that has not since found its equal in my experience. On Christmas Eve and Good Friday, we all congregated in her dining room to feast on codfish, white cabbage, white onions, white potatoes, white wine, white bread, and white cheese. It was served on white soap-box china set on white linen. I never knew if this blinding combination was intentional, traditional, or happenstance, but twice a year we risked our vision to celebrate the coming of the light.

Irma died when I was fifteen, and Christmas Eve dinner was taken over by her daughters-in-law. Having no facility for preparing codfish, over the next few years another tradition emerged, one of little things; stuffed mushrooms, open faced melted cheese sandwiches with olives, small cups of creamy fruit salad.

This year in Orvieto, my lovely neighbors Renzo and Patrizia invited me to their celebration. I had dined with them at home before, was aware of their small apartment, their two grown children, Patrizia’s mother, Puni, and the size of their table. So, as I had another invitation to share fondue at a friend’s house in Porano, I sent a message to Renzo allowing them to opt out of their invitation if I would constitute a burden. An hour later, my buzzer sounds – Renzo at the gate.

“No! There’s always room! If you’ve other obligations, we understand, but please come if you can. Let me show you.”

A few weeks ago they hosted a block party in their street level cantina. It’s a narrow room that goes the full depth of the building with a kitchen and bathroom at the very back. He takes me into it now to allay my fears. “We’ll put a table here.” he indicates a span of about twenty meters, “it’ll be tight but we’ll be fine.”

I went for a bottle of prosecco to add to the fig and cinnamon-apple tort I purchased at the elementary school’s holiday presentation last Wednesday, dressed as nice as I’m able, and showed up about 8:30 for a dinner that would commence at nine. I went to knock just as Renzo opened the door. He pulled me in, took my gifts, and started with the introductions, ones that consisted of first names coupled with a dazzling network of relationships. As we reached the far end of the room, more people arrived and we wove our ways back for further introductions. Including the three little kids, there were thirty of us. Daughter Beatrice was introduced. “She speaks English, you might want to sit close to her.”

Didn’t work out. While people sat at table without making any obvious choices, and without instructions from anyone, except for the little kids we ended up with the youngest of us closest to the street and evenly progressed towards maturity as the table arrived at the kitchen. I was between Patrizia’s mother, Puni and Ermette, the husband of the lady across from me and father of Filiberto. Antipasto was already on our plates, and amidst scattered toasting – also without order or instruction – we began to eat.

We would not stop for three hours, the meal consisted of little things, and I felt right at home.

Antipasto was seven, distinct and delicious, finger foods, a tiny cup of salad, and another even smaller cup of a savory whipped confection topped with nuts. The lady across from me raised a warning finger as I reached for what Puni offered me because she couldn’t eat it all. “There will be more. Much, much more.”

Pasta in the form of risotto with peas followed, accompanied by a complete pink sea creature of some variety, that if it was to be eaten, I had to idea where to begin. Then small portions of eggplant parmesan, chickpeas, beans, greens, fruit, the tort I had contributed (“Who fixed this, it’s delicious!” “No one, I bought it.” Laughter all around.) and finally tiramisu and coffee.

Of course, there were various wines and proseccos to choose from during the meal. And lots of talking. In a flip from my young days, it was the youthful half of the table who took pictures and videos of just about everything. The three-year-old boy across from me, Filiberto, delighted in all he discovered, that is, whatever was in reach. Growing gradually more engaged and histrionic as the meal progressed, Filiberto’s performance culminated in a generously sustained squeal and jumping up and down in celebration of a tower of cup holders he built with his uncle.

The faces. Oh, what expressive, open, unselfconscious faces. What sustained affection. What ease.

Amidst all this genial confusion, a couple of internal reflections played out.

Next to Puni on my left was Renzo’s sister, whose name I forget, a ceramicist with a studio in Orvieto. She looks so much like my mother’s brother’s wife, Philomena, that it made me dizzy. Even her hair, the way she arranged it, and the style of combs she used to hold it in place. Her style of clothing, the way she held her head, her gestures. Only her energy distinguishes her from my aunt.

Phil was a little crazy. She stole from my mother, lied to the people at church, and manipulated to such an extent that even her own offspring couldn’t deal with her. At the same time, as one does with family (even family by marriage) I loved her. When she first met my uncle, her prodding, high-energy ways were a breath of fresh air. They lived together for years — though Phil insisted on their perfect rectitude, perhaps correctly. Then they married, two weeks later began to argue, and never stopped for longer than it took to breathe. All of this came flooding back to me whenever I glanced to my left.

To my right was a young man who reminded me so much of a friend of about thirty years ago that I kept wanting to refer to common memories in a language he wouldn’t understand. I never caught his name either, and although not quite as virtual a resemblance as Renzo’s sister has to Phil, his energy made him so hauntingly familiar that I was startled whenever I saw him relating to his friends or taking another photo. We were good friends, me and the guy he reminded me of, then we drifted apart as will happen, so last night was a sort of unanticipated illusion of a reunion.

All through childhood I wanted to attend Christmas midnight mass. My mother never could stay up that late, and my father had famously not been to church since 1934 when they passed the collection plate twice. I don’t believe I ever did get to go. So last night I had high hopes that the family would all troop towards the Duomo shortly before midnight. The hour arrived before I knew it, the table rattled with everyone’s drumming, auguri was shouted, and a group of young people went for the gifts – but no one left the building.

The gift exchange was modest. Puni received a device for cutting potatoes into french fries. She looked at it as if it had been discovered in an Etruscan tomb. I tried to explain, but was intercepted by a girl in her late teens who seemed to consider the device to be the ultimate in modern technology. Perhaps it was her gift. She enthused as Puni continued to grow more perplexed. I could see her trying to find a place for the thing, still in its original box years hence, where it wouldn’t be in the way. The middle-aged man across the table from her took the gadget in hand and mimed how Puni would use it. But all she could think was why would anyone ever want to eat french fries at home, let alone have a special thing to make them with.

Renzo gave me two history books, one in English and Italian about the Etruscans, the other in English about the Duomo. I ordered a book for him too, but it has not yet arrived. The woman across from me who comforted her crying son (not Filiberto) with such patience that for a moment I mistook her for the mother of Christ, gifted me a little white angel, which, once I’ve given it a more careful inspection, I may be able to eat.

A celebration of the arrival of the light cannot help but cause reflections.

It comes in waves.

I live in a beautiful city with wonderful, kind people. I have great neighbors. I’m working on a script I’ve been struggling with for years, and thanks to a comment from a friend of mine here – who never even heard about the play before we shared dinner – something important clicked and I’m gaining traction.

But then I read about what’s going on in North Carolina – one of those states I have, in fact, never even been to – and paralysis set in.

Things today that helped me learn to move again were:

My super-neighbor, Renzo, delivered more little blue lights to help me decorate for Le Feste. While here, he took a look at the cabinet doors in my kitchen (which were never installed correctly, as it turns out) and at a wet patch on an exterior wall (probably a leak in a pipe that is embedded therein). Then he invited me for lunch and shared the best pan-cooked chicken I have ever tasted and salad of fennel and onion, carrot (and other things) that fit the same category within the world of salads. The topic of conversation was primarily about food. I worry I’m unable to be kind enough in return.

Then I walked towards Piazza della Repubblica to see if Gianlucca, who owns the used bookstore, had a copy of a book I think Renzo would enjoy. (I slyly asked if he had read it, and casually, while he was sorting salad.) Gianlucca found it on eBay, but not on his shelves. He allowed me verbally to despair about politics for a few minutes, and did his level best to see events from my American point of view – more than many of us are able to muster for an Italian. It helped.

I had bought a ticket to Canto di Natale (A Christmas Carol) this morning, and set out for Teatro Mancinelli not quite knowing what to expect. The only thing I understood about it last year was that it took place in the lobby and was aimed mainly at children, so I skipped it. But then Andrea told me it was wonderful, so this year it became an event not to to be missed.

It did start in the lobby. Hooded figures swooped out of the shadows – what seemed like a dozen of them – and then, after a short introduction by the fellow who would play all the nice guys conflated into one (Cratchit, Nephew Fred, etc.) he bid us follow him upstairs. He ushered us into a beautiful room, primarily yellow, and we found our places to watch Scrooge at his greedy, cranky, blustery worst.

Then Ebenezer went home, and we followed him into the grand upstairs lobby, so deftly changed by pieces of gauze and lighting, that I, for one, hardly knew where we were at first. There Marley issued his warnings, and an acrobatic nymph of a Spirit of Christmas Past gave Scrooge his first lesson in gaining kindness; face your sadness and fear.

For the Spirit of Christmas Present a tall man with a black beard, a blue bouffant wig, a tutu, and stubby angel wings took us into a room primarily blue, and encouraged us all to dance and party while he provided Scrooge with lesson two; be humble, put your little life into perspective.

Finally, we were sent back to the upper lobby where we were greeted by a tall man in black tie and tales wearing white makeup, who moved beautifully and gave us the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. We watched a little silent film of Old Joe and his minions trading quips and coins over Scrooge’s precious nothings that he valued so dearly in life, and Scrooge was given his final lesson: you will die regardless of fame, fortune, power, or conceit.

Then he welcomed Bob into his folding arms.  The actors bowed silly, exchanged places with the audience, and wished us happiness as we exited, employing hearty handshakes and warm smiles.

It all took about an hour, but was so rich it felt like two – in a good way. The company seemed large and varied, but only five actors bowed. The kids were enthralled. I was enthralled by the kids.

I came home, took the blue lights Renzo had provided, filled a large lantern I have on the outside stairway with them, and let them cascade. Renzo’s wife and mother-in-law, Patrizia and Puni, came onto their balcony as I was finishing. “Bello! Bello!” I thanked them, agreed, and probably glowed as brightly as the lights. They admired the scene for a bit, and as they turned into their apartment Puni asked if I’d had dinner, yet. Yes, I said. More than my fill. Thank you.

My travel chum and I went to Firenze for a couple of days this past week. We shared an apartment at Casalini in the tiny village of La Romola. Maria Teresa, who runs the agriturismo there, is a friend from way back.

We arrived in La Romola Wednesday afternoon and drove to Scandicci that evening to catch the tram into centro. I’d not seen Firenze so tranquil in decades. People were in the streets, but there were no crowds. The holiday lights – turned on a day early, perhaps as a kind of tech rehearsal – are impossibly beautiful and difficult to describe or photograph, at least in a way that does them justice. That Firenze values the arts is elegantly on display though the medium of tiny, white LEDs, ingeniously arranged.

We returned the next morning to a different city. Already at the tram stop it was evident that this was the day to go into centro. The station’s parking lot was jammed to overflowing, so we followed the lines of curb-parked vehicles to a little, roughly paved, residential street, and were lucky to find a casual spot there. By the time the tram had gone three stops, it resembled a Queens-bound train during the evening rush hour. Once into town, we found crowds on the major streets so thick you could hardly move. But it was a gloriously brilliant day with a brilliantly blue sky, the air was fresh, the sun warm, and the city lolled in its own loveliness.

We strolled – not that there was much choice as to speed of travel – stopping for a beverage here, a pastry there, a light lunch. I’d never been to Orsanmichele, the church I have long heard is closest to the Florentine heart, so that was a goal for the afternoon. Then we would look for posters advertising concerts for the evening. The last tram out of town is around one in the morning, so there was nothing to require an early return to the countryside. Or so we had concluded in our innocence.

We had installed ourselves in one of the large outdoor, tourist-dependent, over-priced bars on Piazza delle Signorie when, halfway through my mini-torta della nonna, I happened to feel at my coat pocket. Hmmm. Kind of empty. I felt the other. The same. I stood up. Catherine glanced away from the Neptune Fountain with a quizzical eye. I checked the pockets of my trousers. Kleenex, two euro. I dived into my back pack, found nothing, took a breath, and announced that I could not find the car key.

Catherine remained remarkably calm. So did, I. I checked everything four or five more times before suggesting that I revisit the string of bars and restaurants that had so far marked our day. That was deemed by both of us to be a complicated but necessary response. Catherine can’t walk long or quickly, so I set off alone, avoiding the main streets as I wound through the Roman city between Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo.

As I went, I reviewed our possible options. Catherine had suggested we call the only person with a key to her apartment who has a car, ask him to search for the extra key (she wasn’t quite certain where she’d put it) and drive up with it the next morning. But first I would make sure the key wasn’t lying on the ground next to a chair where I had dropped it from my coat pocket while retrieving change or a tissue.

I moved quickly, but noted a singular lack of panic. Once the likely scenarios had played through my mind, I arrived at a point of certainty that this was a “false” emergency. That I’d left the key in the car, that the car was on a street no one would wander and so my stupidity was unlikely to be taken advantage of by a thief, and that there was no complicated rescue ahead of us that would involve grossly inconveniencing other people. But of course, one has to go through the steps, just the same. Speculative certainty didn’t mean we could kick back, enjoy a concert, then go in the dark and the cold to the car only to discover than my inner voice had been lying to me.

All the people at the food establishments we had lingered at were friendly, helpful, sympathetic. In fact, I had a great time describing the problem, searching without success, and receiving hopeful good wishes from everyone I dealt with. I’m not suggesting I would do the whole thing again on purpose, but it was more than not unpleasant, it was downright affirming.

Catherine met me on Piazza del Duomo, and we sat in the sun while she called our friend with her apartment key. She went into the bar to stand in a long line for the restroom while I watched her dog, Jake, at the curb. Jake is an adoration magnet. Not only was I not bothered at how long it took Catherine to return, I could have stood with him for hours. Young women squealed with delight, reserved men broke into smiles, older ladies stooped to pet him, babies in strollers stared, wide-eyed, hands reaching out. I exchanged glances and smiles with almost everyone who payed homage. Jake in the meantime craned his neck at each woman with blond hair who exited the bar.

By the time we arrived at the tram stop near the train station, Catherine had exhausted her allowed steps and was in considerable pain. The cars were packed, and she wasn’t able to find a seat. For two stops I watched her sink into a puddle, and practiced how I would ask the gentleman whose chair she was holding onto for the favor of exchanging places with her. I finally opened my mouth and talked. He was friendly, laughed a little, reported that he had just had a knee replacement, but that he was okay. Odd response, I thought. On the way to the next stop I reviewed what I’d said. I hadn’t specified that “the lady” was in pain, instead I had used the pronoun “lei” which is also used for second person formal address. So what I had asked may have been interpreted as a rather out-of-the-blue concern for his wellbeing rather than the request I’d intended.

In one of those sympathetic moments of internal exchange, he seemed to have replayed the conversation and come to the identical conclusion, for at the next stop he offered Catherine his seat. “I only have a couple more stops before I get off. I can deal.”

We arrived at Villa Costanza, at the other end of the line, and walked slowly towards the residential street where we had parked. When we got to the intersection, I bolted ahead, engaged by the mystery and suspense but still without anxiety. Inner reality; I left the key in the ignition. Outer reality; it would be disingenuous to pretend I don’t have a stake in the outcome. I arrived at the car and opened the door. My backpack wouldn’t allow me to climb in, so I removed it and placed it on the passenger seat. I leaned, put my hand where the key should have been and…

I pulled out the key and held it up in a victory salute. Catherine cheered. Jake looked up to see what the excitement was about. It was a false emergency after all. But the steps along the way are necessary, regardless of the anticipated result, for the learning that we hope occurs has greater value than we may ever know.

I came home from the far end of my street, Via delle Pertiche Prima. I’d just had an enjoyable “tea” with my friend Veronica, stopped by the ferramenta to see if Rafaelle might have time to fix a few things in my kitchenette (and to buy a new shower head while there) pet a cat, and enjoyed watching a dozen toddlers revel in their discovery of life. I already felt great.

I turned the corner from Via delle Donne to be greeted by the sight of three guys, three ladders, and twinkle lights. “Let the festivities begin,” I said as I approached. Renzo grinned, Gianni giggled, Giancarlo waved. The grand seasonal illumination, nationwide, is Thursday night. The good people of Via delle Pertiche Prima will be doing our part.

When I noticed last December that this little street made an extraordinary effort at beauty, all I could wonder while gazing at its hundred meters of lights, swags, and poles was how they figured out the electric bill. Some of us have feet of clay, I know, but really… what a community organization must be behind this, I thought!

Three weeks ago I came home to a similar sight; Renzo with a ladder replanting the sconces that are hung every three or four meters for the length of the street. The colors of Corsica, the quartiere we live in, are yellow and red. For spring and summer, the pots were planted with cascading petunia in the official colors, but they contracted a fungus, so in August, Renzo repotted them with red and white vinca. I could tell then he was a little distraught that the proper colors could only be approximated. The pansy that replaced the vinca are yellow and violet; a tad closer, but true art embraces limitations, and seriously, Renzo is a true artist.

By the time I’d reached my gate, Renzo had disappeared into his caverna and reemerged with several medium pots of pansies. I asked if he needed help. He grinned and shrugged and remained, best I could tell, non-committal. So, I went into my house and came out again carrying a ladder. We potted pansies past sunset and into an approaching storm. I’ve not felt so grateful and graced in years.

I offered to help tonight, too, but Renzo and Gianni both made it clear that as the job was already half done, and done by veterans, that all they needed was my moral support and appreciation. They turned on a few lights. The effect was magical. I gasped. They beamed and returned to work. I told them if they needed anything, to ring. Well, they did need to plug the lights they’d just hung into an electrical outlet. My curiosity of a year ago was about to be satisfied.

Gianni asked where my closest outlet was, for they were, after all, hanging lights on the wall to my garden. In the house. “Oh!” said Giancarlo, who was now leaning out of his second story window, “then hand me the wire, I’ll plug it in, your house is too far away.”

All along the street are metal mounts used to hang the banner poles in spring. For le feste the banners are removed and the poles, the pertiche, are wound with lights. Pertiche, as in the name of the street, refers to a Roman unit of measure of similar length to the English rod. I mentioned that tonight. “This was all orchards in the old days,” it was explained, “and they used pertiche to measure land, crop rows, the height of trees. The pertica became associated with this neighborhood. Hence, Via delle Pertiche Prima, Seconda, Vicolo delle Pertiche A, B, C, et cetera.” I pictured my little yard as part of a larger plantation, my house a storage shed, the soil well-tended, the apricot properly pruned.

At the neighborhood feast of a couple of weeks ago, a big topic of discussion was this year’s decorations. Last year, all the lights were colored. I found the street quite beautiful that way. But the dinner conversation seemed to revolve around getting new lights, LED’s, more efficient, more durable. And the subject of color was broached. I’m only speculating, but I think Renzo may have promoted white, a simpler look against the potted flowers on the walls (last spring’s innovation.) He turned to me and asked if I wanted to participate. Absolutely, I said! Can’t imagine anything more wonderful right now. “Good, then we’ll need several meters more of the new lights. That property was always a great darkness, now it will be a part of the street.” Others nodded in approval.

So, now I know who the movers and shapers are on Via delle Pertiche Prima, and how they’ve organized the electric bill; it goes something like “hand me the wire, I’ll plug it in.” Not quite the intricate systematization my American mind imagined, but it works – community planning, Italian style.