I was circling my courtyard listening to On The Media when a small twig arrived, bouncing at my feet. I looked towards Marianna who was on her balcony with the ever-adorable Pongo, talking on her phone. She pointed up. I followed her finger to the next balcony to find Renzo.
“I couldn’t get your attention by shouting, so I threw something.”
“It worked. How’re you both?”
“We’re making gnocchi. Want some?”
“That would be incredible!” My enthusiasm drew a laugh from Marianna and a wag from Pongo.
“We’re not sure how they’ll come out, but so far it looks good.”
“Yeah, gnocchi are tricky,” I said, having myself only ever bought them in a package.
“Very tricky. I’ll bring some down in an hour or so.”
“Fantastic!”
When I first moved to this little house on Via delle Pertiche Prima, I wasn’t so sure about the balconies. Having neighbors able to peer into my yard from a short distance at any time of day or night, whenever they felt like it, made me a bit uncomfortable. Growing up in California, back yards were fenced, lots were large, neighbors had to cross driveways and other barriers to have access to our domain. Even in Manhattan, the closest thing we ever had to a balcony was a fire escape, and no one in our neighborhood used them like the Cramden’s did on The Honeymooners. I was used to privacy. I didn’t consciously consider privacy terribly important, but it was.
Sometime early in my residency here, an American friend came over to see my place. Marianna had hung bedspreads out to dry, low into the courtyard, almost to where I had to swat them away to enter my house.
“You gonna say anything to her about that?”
“No. She has a right to her airspace,” but it actually did bother me. Even though I had been here for more than a year at that point, there was still a large part of me that thought of myself on permanent vacation. My surroundings needed to be picture-perfect representations of Italian Life with as few messy daily realities intruding as possible.
But month by month, year by year my balcony neighbors have become balcony friends. Marianna drops clothes pins at a champion rate. I throw them back. When balcony herb plants are watered, my pavement gets wet. Pongo, the ever adorable, sheds all over the end of my courtyard, I sweep it up. Conversations are held between balconies and kitchens, with friends passing on the street, with neighbors in adjoining properties. That, is Italian life. That, is why I wanted to live here, even if the desire used to be more idealized than real.
One evening I was dining with Renzo and Patrizia at their table. Renzo invited me out to the balcony, stood at the rail, and gazed downward. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. He swept his hand across the view. I stepped up to the rail and looked over. My garden, imperfect and full of holes compared to the undulating mass of vegetation I aspired to, looked terrific from there. Renzo chuckled and nodded and let me have the balcony to myself. Until that moment I had viewed the garden as my project for my selfish enjoyment, and occasionally for that of a few guests. With his gesture, Renzo pointed to its function in the neighborhood. To have it tended and blooming was a pleasure for a dozen people in residences all around the property. It lifted spirits, provided color, attracted birds and the buzzings of pollinators.
I grew sleepy while waiting for today’s gnocchi and dozed on the sofa downstairs, having left the gate open for ease of delivery. Renzo cleared his throat. The covered dish waited on the table.
“You were sleeping, but you don’t want the gnocchi to get cold. They have to be eaten hot.”
“A thousand thanks to both of you. This is a very special treat,” I said, staggering to my feet.
“Buon pranzo!”
Gnocchi can be like uncured concrete if not well-prepared. Or they can be like these were; light and elegantly balanced between fluffy and rich. The sauce was deeply flavored, the cheese exactly enough.
“Congratulations,” I texted later, “Trattoria R&P wins all prizes for best in Umbria!”
The reply read, “Thanks for the compliment! I was the gnocchi chef, Patrizia is responsible for the ossobuco sauce. We are good collaborators.”
“Without equal,” I wrote back.
Balcony culture.
Photo is of Renzo making gnocchi (for the first time!)