Ritual ciambellina photo (so fresh!)

We did go to the Coliseum while we were in Italy, I will have you know, since the boy wanted to go there, and we also showed him St. Peter's; while in Milan, we visited the Castello Sforzesco, which I had somehow missed multiple times on previous visits to the city.

But I was in Italy for the ciambelline.

You know that!

(Also there for the overheard chatter at caffe counters and in the street, as you also know).

And wow they were good.

OK, no I wasn't able to share with Leo a massive ciambellina fresh out of the oven as I did last visit to Italy on the final morning of the trip when we stumbled out of the hotel and across the street of tiny Fiumicino (it's also a town) into a nondescript coffee bar shortly before our flight home. But that's possibly a once-in-a-life-time ciambellina event, as ciambelline aficionados know (ahem!). (It was nearly the size of a dinner plate and did you hear me? Fresh out of the oven!)

So yes, I had lots of good ciambelline during our trip this summer to Italy, including the one above in Rome. Actually, this time around I had some ciambelle (what I would call ciambelline) and some ciambelline (li'l baby-sized numbers), if I follow the nomenclature of the bariste. 

I also had some cornetti, including some fresh out of the oven (thanks to Caffe Portofino on Via Cola di Rienzo in Rome). (Cornetti caldi makes me think of the Jovanotti song "Gente della Notte," in which he sings about staying out all night and having breakfast at the crack of dawn feasting on cornetti caldi, hot croissant-like pastries).

Sometimes I bought them "da portare via" and we would eat them back at the apartment we were renting, or the hotel in Milan. But when I could, I lingered at the bar to watch the busy bariste at their craft. Or I saved mine for a scenic spot.

I often had to hunt around for ciambelline, going street to street and bar to bar, since the pastry cases aren't packed with them -- which is odd, because I believe they are gobbled up first since if I arrived too late there were sometimes none or only a few left (not a scientific claim, however, since I have never witnessed an Italian ordering a ciambellina but I have seen them order cornetti and other pastries like bomboloni in droves).

Anyhoo ritual ciambellina photo & ritual ciambellina blog post now in the books!

Oh before I go, any favorite Italian pastries/favorite Italian pasticcerie anyone wants to mention? (Or other favorite dishes?) I tried to branch out a bit this trip -- though I will always be a ciambellina-lover.

Yours truly,

Miss Ciambellina

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Diario di viaggio della ragazza americana

Un mese fa ero appena arrivata in Italia per le ferie. Ma ora 3 settimane dopo il rientro in USA, è come se non ci fossi mai stata. Come se il viaggio l'avessi fatto l'anno scorso o anche tanti anni fa.

Sull'uscio di casa l'altro ieri, stavo a guardare le stelle, e mi dicevo, 'Poco tempo fa guardavi le stelle sopra Firenze,' come per convincermi invece di ricordare.

Quando viaggio in Italia, viaggio nel tempo -- ritorno ai bei giorni trascorsi soprattutto a Firenze come ex-pat. Ricorro ad un modo di vivere che quando sono rientrata in USA ho dovuto lasciare più o meno alle spalle: Le giornate spostandomi a piedi o in autobus. La colazione fatta al bar. Una serie di acquisti giornalieri --  quando mi fermavo al forno, e mi fermavo all'edicola, e poi mi fermavo al tabaccaio. 

Mi ricordo che spesso quando studiavo in Italia, vari studenti italiani -- maschi, quasi sempre maschi -- mi chiedevano, 'Ma è vero che ci divertiamo di più qui in Italia?'

Non so come rispondevo allora ma ora posso dire senza dubbio, 'Si, si.' 

La vita in Italia mi sembra più vivace, più movimentata, e va vissuta per la strada, all'aperto, in compagnia. 

Da noi invece in USA, siamo tutti rinchiusi dentro casa, da soli, spesso con l'aria condizionata accesa a tutt'andare tal che poi siamo costretti ad indossare un maglione. Ci lamentiamo del caldo ma infatti nessuno di noi sa veramente quanto caldo fa perché non usciamo un granché! Passiamo da un ambiente con l'aria condizionata ad un altro.

Noi Americani non facciamo due passi in centro, non passiamo per la piazza, la giratina non va fatta -- perché spesso nei nostri paesi e nelle nostre città non c'è più un centro e certamente non c'è una piazza (gli eccezioni ci sono, certo, tipo la città di Savannah nel Georgia dove ci sono delle piazze bellissime ma Savannah è davvero eccezionale in tanti modi e non se ne parla di New York perché pure NY è eccezionale fra le città americane -- eccezionale nel senso unica, non tipica).

Forse è inutile perché la mania per l'America sembra ormai diffusa per l'Italia. Ma ogni tanto cerco di spargere la voce fra gli italiani che la bella vita si fa ancora in Italia. 

In questi giorni, spostandomi in macchina, senza fermarmi al bar per un caffe o un aperitivo, senza un salto in piazza, in questi giorni quando nessuno mi convince di fare due passi, quando non mi fermo al mercato perché non ci sono mercati come si trovano a Piazza Santo Spirito a Firenze (per fare un esempio qualsiasi), quando immagino in Italia ci siano vetrine dappertutto dove c'è scritto "Chiuso per ferie," resto a bocca aperta che un mese fa ero li, in piazza, per la strada, a guardare le stelle e l'Arno.

Un abbraccio ai miei amici italiani, pure quelli che non ho ancora incontrato!

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The photo I take every time I visit Florence (1966 flood)

A photo of one of the markers commemorating the heights the Arno River reached in 1966 when there was the terrible flood. 

"Qui arrivò l'acqua dell'Arno. Il 4 Nov. 1966."

(The waters of the Arno reached this point. Nov. 4, 1966.")

The markers are everywhere in center city Florence and in some cases, you really marvel at how high the river surged -- markers at the level of the second or third story of a building, for example.  

I was telling Leo about the markers while we walked around the city, and I said that people came from all over the world to help the Florentines recover, largely because the flood damaged countless works of art. To which he said, "Which ones?"

Yeah, Mommy, which ones?

Well, I didn't know but I've begun to research it a bit -- and there are many articles about the flood, especially since the 50th anniversary was in 2016. If you're curious, too, come along.

Take a look at this Art and Antiques piece about a Vasari work that has finally been completely restored.

Or this article from The Florentine about the damage the flood inflicted on the famed Ghiberti doors on the Baptistery in Piazza Duomo -- five of the ten panels were "ripped from their doors by the flood waters."

That was all before my time, of course. But the history of Florence, perhaps especially the modern history, which doesn't seem as remote as say the Medici era, ensnares me a bit like the personal histories of my parents. What shaped these monoliths in my life?

Good thing the kid is so curious -- I've learned all kinds of interesting things! I've also learned not to speak idly -- if I say works of art were destroyed, Leo is going to ask for specifics about which works of art I mean.

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Best photos/Italy: Has anyone seen this dog?

Tea Vela, an English setter, is missing! And some tricky commenters have weighed in on whether Tea Vela is alive (I cut out of the frame the rather pessimistic guy who doesn't think the dog is alive).

Spotted in Rome, in the Prati neighborhood. Reward? A whopping 1,500 euros! That's some kind of reward. Must be some very sad, worried pet owners behind this flyer.

Also missing: Turbo the Cat.

Couldn't resist snapping a photo!

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In Italy for the banner hed: "Addio al governo Draghi"

I go to Italy to reconnect with the old Jeanne, the one who wasn't able to resist the siren call of il Bel Paese after her college graduation. The Jeanne who hadn't yet become a newspaper reporter or an NPR station producer or a contract editor for CNN.

But as much as I am retracing my ex-pat steps, during this most recent trip I was still the journalist I had become post-Italy. And I swooned when I saw this headline: "Addio al governo Draghi."

While I slept, the Italian government had fallen (the headline can be translated as: Goodbye to the Draghi administration). As often happens, the coalition of political parties that make up the administration could not hold.

It wasn't totally unexpected, except that when I went to bed the night before, it appeared a deal had been reached to keep the current administration/coalition in power. (Plus, the prime minister in question is a serious economist named Mario Draghi who's the country's only hope at navigating the post-pandemic financial woes.)

When I went to the newsstand the next morning, I immediately realized that deal had failed.

It's not like the time that Mike went to Italy and the Pope died (!) but still, a government collapse is pretty darn big news, and for a journo like me, it quickens the pulse.

I also love this photo:

Not all that often is an American president shown (i.e. photographed) downing a quickie coffee as the world unravels around him.

There are headlines that you will never forget. I happen to have another Italian headline that I will always recall -- tied to my semester abroad in Siena: 'L'Italia è desta.' Show of hands who remembers that one! But it's a story for another day. For now, I am merely mulling over the political fortunes of my adopted country.

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The boarding doors are closing, Jeanne Bonner

It began maybe two days ago -- perhaps more. Pre-emptive sadness. The time in Florence (and in Italy) non basterebbe -- wouldn't be enough.

Odd to think I didn’t see it coming. But I try not to be greedy and I thought, in the case of Florence, a week sounded like plenty of time. Now I see it’s plenty of time to become situated, settled -- and receptive to a longer stay.

People are without work, some children go to bed hungry, Covid has been raging and the political systems of so many democratic countries seem frighteningly fraught. So the notion that soon I will be heartsick over leaving this small Italian city that I called home years ago is a notion that should cause no one any harm. Not even me. And yet.

This is the second to the last full day in Florence, and I’ve come to Leo’s room in our flat on Borgo Ognissanti so I can write with a view of green shutters and red tile rooves.

I do not want to leave. 

I want instead to begin some research grant like I had at the New York Public Library (maybe on 'nostalgia tourism'?! I wrote about it for CNN after a trip to Turin -- just joking or magari! as the Italians would say). I want instead to enroll Leo in Italian lessons at the British Institute (which is also quite good for foreigners who want to learn Italian) or some other school as I had planned. I want instead to go back to Siena, seeing as we came close the other day with Mike’s friend, Dante, during our hike near Arezzo.

Last night I went to meet Jacqui for a drink at one of the most delightful places I have ever seen – an outdoor bar in Oltrarno between two medieval gates to the city (one leads to Via Pisana, where the large supermarket is). While we spoke, I glanced up at one of the stone archways – rare that the backdrop for a drink is gorgeous, historic, monumental. (The alt title for this post was 'In Florence, picking up where I left off' -- gloriously true with Jacqui!).

Yesterday morning I must have walked five miles. I was out for two hours while the other two slept. I went along the Lungarno to San Niccolò (and through the old city gate, I gazed up at the steep, narrow road I once took to Forte Belvedere on previous monumental walks) and then across my other old bridge (by Santa Croce) then through the old Etruscan streets, to Piazza della Signoria (which was delightful, half-empty) where I realized maybe I could try to get tickets at the Accademia to see the David (the real David) (alas, no).

I will need to transcribe the streets I roamed because it was a monumental walk. Even I lost my bearings at one point (where the streets curve around the Duomo). I feel alive when I am walking (perhaps I've mentioned?). (Like my father before me). And my meanderings were fruitful in in one way: I snapped another picture of a pietra d’inciampo commemorating an Italian victim of the Shoah – in Via dei Pucci.

What I bought yesterday:

Una ciambellina (of course)

Friday’s edition of La Repubblica (which comes with the Venerdi mag)

3 packs of (Italian) Pokemon cards

 

What I bought the day before

Florentine paper goods -- including, of course, a journal

A book by Tabucchi that I wanted (Si sta facendo sempre più tardi)

*

Yesterday: the Boboli gardens. Yesterday: the new museum about the Italian language in Santa Maria Novella (only two rooms so far – one day it will be a proper museum – lots of mentions of Pietro Bembo -- too late to read his treatise on language?)

Also yesterday: realizing seriously the holiday is at a close. You will have to leave Italy, Jeanne Bonner (again). Last call. 

In fact, I am not even going to write much more here because Italy beckons me – from the window of the second bedroom of the Borgo Ognissanti flat where Leo never did actually sleep. I have opened the shutters and the windows, as I mentioned, and the sounds of Italy as it wakes up are filling the room. They are loud and in some ways unforgiving – how urgent all the cars and trucks sound, roaring back from the sleepy Sunday chiusura -- but since I want to be out there with them, they sound just fine. Plus I hear the distinctive sound of the saracinesche -- the shutters -- loudly opening as business for the day gets underway. 

Not to mention the purring of pigeons on the roof above me. 

Even the sound of pigeons is lovely right now. God help me!

Letter from Borgo Ognissanti

I see my life as divided in two: Before Italy and After Italy. As I wrote in my Bennington graduation lecture, "If my life were a novel, the central year dividing the action into 'the before' and 'the after' would be the year I left for Italy on a study abroad program."

Or perhaps you could phrase it this way: My life is divided into the period of monolingual me versus bilingual me, since once I discovered that I could think, speak and write in not one but two languages, there was no going back.

(You, of course, could also divide my life into Before Leo and During Leo, which may make you wonder, how would YOU divide your life?).

Earlier, I wrote that Jeanne on vacation is Jeanne walking while immersed in Italian. But I've speculated, what if all of a sudden Arkansas adopted Italian as its official state language? (Or South Jersey for that matter). Would it have the same ambience? Would it evoke the same gauzy invitation for swooning?

Let's stay on Terra Firma and have me strolling among Italians as they continue the work of Dante in their everyday conversations.

And especially among Florentines as they jabber away in their C-less Italian.

To be fair -- and to add some nuance to this geographical hagiography -- I've described Florentines in my attempts at fiction as a hostile high school clique that hazes newcomers but which you'd nonetheless cut yourself to join (And Senesi -- the people who live in Siena -- and Pisani are arguably snobbier; I've also heard Milanesi aren't the friendliest people).

And yet it is also true that knowing Italians -- knowing them enough that they whisk you off into the country, up a mountain to a rustic restaurant or over to a hidden beach studded with caves -- is like having the secret key to the hidden door (or the hidden key to the secret door). It makes a magical place -- Italy -- truly sparkle.

We had several occasions to insert the secret key in the hidden door; for example at Serre Bistrot, an Oltrarno restaurant you'll find in a private garden (Il Giardino Torrigiani) that heretofore I'd only seen on a map of Florence, even though it's quite close to my old apartment, which I shared with my friend, Irene, who took us to Serre Bistrot. It's described as a secret garden in the heart of Florence, and that's more or less true (specifically near Piazza Torquato Tasso, which you may or may not consider the heart of Florence). You won't stumble over it -- you have to look carefully at the map and seek out what Irene called "an internal road" that leads to the entrance.

We also took a hike! Mike's friend, Dante, took us up into the Pratomagno mountain range near Arezzo so we – or really Leo – could have a break from the painful heat of the cities we had been visiting. And it was delightful. Classic Italian gita – drove two hours (not a half hour, not un’oretta, but a full two hours), had a wonderful lunch al bosco in this rustic little eatery where Mike and I ate half the menu (at lunch!) and Dante had a quartino of wine (at lunch!), and then proceeded to take a short hike in the wonderfully breezy environs of Pratomagno. 

We hiked to a red, iron cross at the top of the crest of the mountain that had been built by ‘Francescani secolari’ in honor of St. Francis, who had spent a great deal of time nearby. The wind was truly delicious, the way Rahawa Haile described it in her essay about hiking, "Going It Alone."

And Leo ran up the mountain. Ran. Literally. 

He was way out ahead and he kept saying to me, “There’s a good view over here.”

There was an organized group of school-age kids and when they reached the summit as we were descending, we could hear them celebrating with shouts of joy. I kept looking back at them as they encircled the cross, thinking, 'This is perfection.'

(When you reach the summit, there's a stamp and an ink pad, which we duly used on my travel journal. Why do I act as though the journal page with the stamps is like a manuscript of Shakespeare? I was careful not to write on the back to preserve it).

Dante had picked us up near the station at 10:30; at around 3 p.m., when I was ready for a nap but casually mentioned that I hadn’t been to Siena in a while, he said, “Andiamo ora se vuoi!” (We can go now if you want). 

And then there's the Italian lesson, courtesy of Cristiano, which I wrote about earlier (maybe every Italian male would have begun the lesson with the word for cuckhold?!). Not to mention the evening we dined at the house of our friend Vicki (German by birth, Florentine by choice) and Leo had his first glass of Coca-cola (in Italy!) while I gazed out at the building's verdant courtyard, which I've described before as 'If 'Rear Window' were filmed in Italy.' 

We are lucky to have such adventures when we set foot back in Italy.

Plus, there are also always new adventures -- ways to stretch this relationship with Italy, because I feel at home in Italy, even when I am not with friends. So I was delighted to see we were staying near the French bookstore in Piazza Ognissanti, a place I'd never needed to patronize since I was plenty busy with Italian books when I lived in Florence. But now that I visit Montreal and in particular the neighborhood Petite Italie, I know that there are bilingual Italian-French books to be had and they are delightful (I have Erri De Luca's Non ora, non qui//Pas ici, pas maintenant in the bilingual edition, published under the Folio series by Gallimard).

Inside the darling little store, the proprietor juggled her infant while answering my questions about the bilingual editions and ringing me up (plus responding to the phone; at one point, I heard her say to an unseen caller, “Buongiorno, si, si ... ah Bonjour, oui nous l’avons….”).

She also patiently put up with the neighborhood lunatic who entered the store to harass her -- and judging by her cool-as-a-cucumber attitude, he comes in often. It reminded me of a Ligabue lyric that mentions "l'idiota del paese" -- the village idiot, whom everyone knew and everyone said hello to, even if he puzzled them.

You may not believe me, but I am leaving out 1,000 other tiny encounters and moments! But isn't that the way with Italy? Especially when you spend the first ~two hours of your day pounding the cobblestones, head up, eyes aglow (and not from the screen of your cellphone).

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Best photos/Italy trip: Our little Roman gladiator!

At the approach from Piazza del Popolo to the Villa Borghese park, these two jump out, offering to confer official status on Leo. 

If my name isn't gullible -- I actually thought they worked for the park! Yep, until part of their schtick involved some weird move by which they passed the (fake) swords near Leo's privates -- I began to suspect then. And of course when it was over, they begged (rather aggressively!) for a king's ransom. But what a photo!

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Florentine journal

July 28, 2022

It's 8:40 a.m. and so far today I have:

 

*Written in my journal

*Jogged along the Arno

*Fatto la moka con biscotti (made coffee with the moka coffee pot plus breakfast cookies -- my preferred breakfast any day of the year)

*Visited una pietra d’inciampo in Piazza Santo Spirito (stones that mark the homes of Jewish Italians deported by the Nazis during WWII)

*Had a cappuccino (at Caffe Ricchi on the piazza – old haunts)

*Watched rowers along the Arno

*Found a new place for ciambelline (Pasticceria Balletti on Borgo Ognissanti)

*Took inventory of what’s new in my old old neighborhood (=Oltrarno/Santo Spirito section. The restaurant Borgo Antico still there, also Trattoria Casalinga still there, Residenza Sorelle Bandini where Daddy stayed in 1996 when he came to visit me, gone – or in any event existing under a new name; morning market on, Caffe Cabiria still there, I Raddi at the corner now has picnic tables outside; opposite my old apartment on Via dei Serragli, the fiaschetteria is still there but now I see they have a warehouse across the street where they store all the wine).

I see Ballerini, the tiny bakery on the street of our rental apartment, also has homemade cantuccini for dunking in vin santo – duly noted for later.

In other news: Half of Spain is visiting Italy!

From yesterday’s journal: I can now say I have seen Galileo’s finger! (at the Museo del Galileo in Florence, which is a science museum). Jealous yet?

This morning’s marathon walk took me from Borgo Ognissanti to:

Via del Melagrano – Lungarno Vespucci – Piazza Goldoni (at foot of my old bridge, Ponte alla Carraia; I used to pass the statue of Goldoni every morning as I hurried to get the bus just beyond Piazza Santa Maria Novella) – via della Vigna Nuova – via del Purgatorio – back to Via della Vigna Nuova – then via degli Strozzi – Piazza della Repubblica (where I visit the newsstand) – Via Orsanmichele -- Via Calzaiuoli – all culminating in Piazza della Signoria (Florence’s living room) where I swoon, turning the corner into the square and seeing the tower of Palazzo Vecchio (largely mine for the ogling at this hour).

From there, I make a stop on Via Georgofili, behind the Uffizi, for my ritual visit to the monuments marking where the Mafia detonated bombs in 1993 in an effort to deter criminal investigations and reassert its iron hand (oddly, I was in Sicily at the time it happened – and yes I am that old, but don’t tell Leo).

This morning, I see paddleboarders in addition to rowers on the Arno. I would say rowing on the Arno would be perfection. 

(Writing in your journal while gazing across the Arno to Chiesa di San Frediano in Cestello? Also perfection).

I stop in to pray at Chiesa Ognissanti on my way back and ethereal choral music fills the sanctuary, a perfect accompaniment to prayer & contemplation. 

Later, when we all go back, Mike gives money to Leo to light a candle and I tell him to say a prayer for Grandma. At this rate, Pat has been prayed for in half the churches in Italy. I am mindful of their trips to Italy both to visit me and on their own, including the trip to Milan where Mommy left a message that began, "Buongiorno Jeanne!" 

I have mentioned it before on this blog but I am not sure you -- I! -- could ever sufficiently savor my mother's heavy Brooklyn accent wrapping itself around 'good morning' in Italian. The intertwining, as it were, of my two lives, as if there weren't already overwhelming evidence of how very lucky I am.

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What passes for art in my head (I 💓 la moka!)

The Italian lesson

Cornuto. It's not the first word Leo has learned in Italian, but it may be the one he remembers the longest -- scrawled on my journal and explained in minute detail by one of the many Italian characters I've come to know.

(Italian-Americans will recognize the word or the accompanying hand gesture, at left, both of which convey that someone is a cuckold. Perhaps the worst insult you could level at a man in Italy -- and hence the first word in the lesson).

His teacher? Cristiano -- my old student, who once told me I shouldn't worry that I was losing my Italian by returning to live in America since the errors I was making were the very same I had made when I was still living in Italy. Ba-dum-bum!

Or when I said I was having trouble finding work and he suggested that I try finding a job at Hooters (in an email to my boyfriend, AKA Mike; the exact phrase was something like 'one of those restaurants where the waitresses have their tits out'). When we've reunited in Italy during my trips back, he often explains away his bad English by saying he had a bad teacher (me). Tuscan humor at its finest. He's from a suburb of Florence, and despite the gruff, semi-macho demeanor, is a devoted husband (to his middle school sweetheart) and father.

Some very astute, very organized parents are raising their children bilingual but I am not. I found myself busy enough when Leo was born bathing, changing and feeding him that the idea of adding another task (or doing all of that in my second language) seemed absurd, especially since we were no longer in Italy (plus, I wanted to form a bond in my main language, the language I write in, primarily). 

But I do want Leo to learn some Italian, particularly since Mike is what one might call a "heritage speaker" -- he learned Italian because he is of Italian origin. His grandfather was born in a small town near Benevento in Southern Italy (which we visited during our last trip). So Leonardo is also Italian!

Now there's studying Italian in your own country and there's learning Italian on the ground in Italy. I always make a distinction because when I went abroad for a semester in Siena during college, the first two words I learned were as follows:

Scherzare (verb): to joke, to kid.

Sciopero (noun): labor strike

I had never encountered those words in the 18 months I had been studying Italian at college in America but they were essential to navigating Italian life once I arrived -- especially scherzare. The Italian university students I met in Siena punctuated practically every sentence with the phrase, "Sto scherzando." ("I am joking"). And once I went to live in Florence, there were quite a few times that a sciopero of the bus drivers left me high and dry.

What does that say about Italy? I like to think it says something -- especially, again, the verb scherzare (pronounced sort of like ~ skare-czar-ay). Italians cannot live without joking and hence any American visitor who wants to understand Italians must learn the verb for joking or kidding.

Now back to cornuto -- whose introduction also probably says something about Italians, or this particular Italian conducting the "lesson."

When I called Cristiano to fix a time to meet, he asked if Leo spoke Italian and I thought it best to be honest. No, he does not, I said.

"No problem," Cristiano replied. "Glielo insegno io!" I'll teach him.

Right then and there I knew we were talking about lessons that would be remarkably different from how I teach.

When we sat down for lunch, Cristiano asked for a piece of paper so he could begin instruction. I whipped out my journal and had the presence of mind not to tear out a page but rather let him write directly in the book so we'd have a "souvenir" of our time together.

And the very first word he tackled was cornuto, followed by "vaffunculo" (see definition here if this is the one word of Italian you've managed to miss), and various uses of the word for shit ("merda").

Leo was delighted! And when we returned to Connecticut, I heard him bragging in the pool to his buddies that he can now curse in Italian.

But more importantly, he asked a lot of questions about Italian this trip -- about words and expressions and meanings, even whether a word was "gendered." I guess he learned that in Spanish class. Not what I learned in Spanish class at Burns Avenue Elementary! (We learned, I kid you not, the American Pledge of Allegiance, which I can still recite in Spanish).

PUBLIC SERVICE MESSAGE for WRITING IN A JOURNAL: Do you see how amazing it is to keep a journal? You hand it over to your hooligan of a friend and he writes an entry for the ages. His impromptu Italian lesson becomes part of the journal that I took everywhere I went, jotting down the addresses of coffee bars, grocery store lists, comments of people passing me on the street, complaints of fellow shoppers ('Troppo scolata, signorina' -- too revealing, miss -- said of a shirt) and of course as my time in Italy came to close, evidence of sadness that I had to leave this marvelous world behind. My other world, my other identity, fed by my knowledge of Italian.

But wait! There's more: Leo knows how to lie in Italian!

After dropping what felt like millions of euros on Pokemon cards, museum admissions and gelati, we jumped at a chance to save a little money when we arrived at the courtyard of Santo Spirito in Florence where for a small entrance fee you could see a relatively hidden part of the famous Brunelleschi church  that includes a crucifix made by Michelangelo (I used to go to mass there and I am not sure I even know there was a side courtyard you could access).

If Leo were less than 10 years old -- say 9, for example, or nove in Italian -- he could enter for free. I guess Mike and I discussed it in front of Leo (who turned 10 in early July) but without giving any instructions to him. Then we turned to the attendant and said in Italian, "Two adult admissions and one free child admission."

She was rather stern, the attendant (one of those women who could be a nun but you're not sure) and turned to Leo immediately, saying, "Quanti anni hai?" How old are you? 

Without any coaching, he said, "Nove." Nine! And hence free.

Stunned, I turned to Mike. "The boy knows how to lie in Italian!" (mentire -- he'll probably learn that word soon, too.)

The courtyard is quite nice, by the way, full of tombs whose inscriptions I "enjoyed" reading (enjoyed linguistically because how a culture talks about death is somewhat unique). And that Michelangelo? Well, as Leo said of La Pietà at St. Peters, it was "good."

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In Italy, the streets are my lab

OK let's back up a moment. I've told you that I want to buy everything in Italy -- even maybe the air. I've tempted you with some of the dishes I've been scarfing up. Now I want to return to the first sensations of my trip, once the long flight was over and I was reunited with Italy.

The first morning in Milan (which is to say the first morning of the trip), I wake at 6:50a and head out subito (immediately) on foot while Leo and Mike sleep. 

Left out of the hotel, left onto Via Turati (where Mike is delighted to discover the San Carlo potato chip HQ is) to find the perfect caffe/coffee bar for a cappuccino & una ciambellina. I did OK – a small corner job, workman-like but some of the paste (pastries) I bought were still hot! And fancy isn't always the ticket.

I begin collecting information immediately because in Italy, the street is part of my lab -- language lab, culture lab, architecture lab. The coffee bars, too, and any surface that contains Italian writing. They are my beat.

So I notice the massive macchinetta for the coffee is giving the barista trouble and the building that houses the American embassy is also home to Radio Monte Carlo (the station name, when I read or say it quietly to myself, is broadcast in my head in the original Italian that you would hear on the radio).

I also notice, much to my chagrin, that English is everywhere – everywhere. But for different audiences. In some cases, it's there to communicate to people born speaking English. In other cases, it's an absurd flourish (or whatever the opposite of flourish is) to an otherwise Italian-only public service message or advertisement (Trenitalia, I am looking at you!).

Morning #2, I go to Il Chiosco Manin, an outdoor coffee counter in Milan, just to the left of an entrance to the public gardens. A customer beside me ordered, “Un caffe per cortesia.” (‘A coffee, please,’ except that he used the form of please that includes the word ‘courtesy’ – and the order feels extra courtly. Also, for those of you playing along at home, un caffe = an espresso. If you want a cappuccino -- and I do -- you have to say cappuccino).

Another man bikes up to get his coffee. “Ciao Salvatore,” he says to the barman.

While I have my cappuccino at the tiny bancone that sits on the street, the radio is on, and it’s perfection.

Another woman arrives at Il Chiosco and the barista says, “Ciao Lorena.” It's like I'm gatecrashing a party where everyone else knows each other, but no one minds I am there.

I eye the oranges that are used for smoothies – tempting. Meanwhile someone calls out, “Buon di!” And then the garbage truck arrives – and the sanitation workers get out of the truck to have their coffees, too.

I am observing. And when I am done observing while standing still, I say my goodbyes to the barista and begin walking again to observe some more. I feel like I could walk all day and only then would I be sated, happy, fully on vacation. 

Vacation for Jeanne = walking in Italy (while someone speaks behind me, next to me, near me in Italian).

Now I am walking through a stone gate that’s part of the old walls of the city – next to the fancy shopping street Via della Spiga – and the sidewalk ducks under a portico (do we have porticos in America? We should). 

Courtyards abound in Milan and the portoni (front doors/main entrances of buildings) to them reveal oases of greenery and sometimes sculpture.

I’ve struggled to find an open giornalaio in Milan – even the concierge at our hotel shrugged his shoulders. Victims of the pandemic, which is heartbreaking because newsstands are Italian mom-and-pop stores that double as mini-piazzas. A place for an exchange. (They also sell Pokemon cards! Ask me how I know!)

But Mike manages to buy for me at Milano Centrale:

-La Settimana Enigmistica (weekly puzzle magazine)

-Bell’Italia (most beautiful travel magazine you've ever seen)

-La Cucina Italiana (food mag)

Doing the frontpage crossword in the puzzle mag ('Settimana Enigmistica' -- you can see the word 'enigma' in there), I learn, or re-learn, that 'musicare' is a verb (clue: “Musicò Tosca.”)

I am collecting information about 1,000 tiny moments, 1,000 tiny encounters between myself and Italy. Later in Rome, I trip over myself to snap a photo of the perfect graffiti spotted as we entered the Villa Borghese from Piazza del Popolo: ‘Sei bella come Roma’ = You're as beautiful as Rome. Not sure there is a way to top that, other than -- maybe -- you're as beautiful as the Taj Mahal or a hologram of your face should be beamed permanently from the sky.

Everything that has words draws my attention (as I may have, ahem, mentioned). I walk the streets each morning silently repeating phrases from ads, billboards, shop windows (Idraulico, giorno e notte = Plumber available all hours; Traslochi/sgomberi = relocations, junk removal; Saldi = sales).  I am shopping a lot but mainly my kind of acquisti, like anything sold at the giornalaio (newsstand). Yesterday I bought La Gazzetta dello Sport just so Leo could see Italy’s pink sports newspaper (he marveled that there seemed to be 35 pages about soccer and 1 page about car racing and maybe 1 page about volleyball and that’s it). I told him that anywhere in Italy, when you see someone across the bar or piazza holding a pink newspaper, you know at a glance he or she (OR HE!) is reading the national sports newspaper.

What I bought so far:

Il Corriere della Sera (2X)

L’Espresso (magazine)

Panorama (magazine)

A new red Moka coffee pot from Bialetti (yes I now have probably 10 Mokas of various sizes)

La Gazzetta dello Sport (see above)

A lightweight plastic basketball for Leo (dal giornalaio!)

A kitchen towel

A place mat with the “definition” of Spaghetti

A bare midriff shirt (ma sei matta? Am shopping around now for a new lifestyle so I can actually wear it)

A green wool sweater from Benetton like the brown one I've had for more years than I care to admit

10 or so books (including two by Edith Bruck; when Leo saw another copy of Andremo in Città, he said, ‘Mommy you have that one already!’ I suppose seeing it around the house for a few years will do that.)

*

I am no different than all the other tourists snapping photos. Except I snap photos of the 'Missing dog' flyers on utility poles and the tree stumps some cracker jack street artist has transformed into sculpture, not to mention compelling graffiti and street signs of particular relevance (I will always take photo of  the sign for Via della Vigna Vecchia anytime I visit Florence -- it was once my home).

We are taking trams in Milan and some of them are “antiques.” The #1 tram line that we took to Castello Sforzesco is just such a model. Wooden bench seats line the walls of the tram. There’s a shimmy and shake to its accelerations. Like a museum that allows a step back in time in addition to a method of transportation.

One of the major streets in Milan is Via Alessandro Manzoni and that tickles me for some reason. Like, where in New York is the F. Scott Fitzgerald Boulevard?!

Italy is basically just one big Tickle-me Elmo doll. Every damn thing -- good or bad -- intrigues me.

That's all for now from Il Belpaese!

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Greatest compliment ever? (In Rome)

"Sei bella come Roma."

I'm available if anyone wants to say this about me ("You're as beautiful as Rome"). 

Spotted on the approach to the Villa Borghese.

Hard to think of a better way to woo a woman. Men, take note!

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I sing of ciambelline, tagliatelle & vino

Arma virumque cano ... the three words that launch Virgil's Aeneid (and also indirectly my study of Italian since studying the modern Romans means studying Italian) and which I memorized long ago in my high school Latin class translate as: "I sing of arms and the man," or, "Arms and the man I sing."

Nothing quite so lofty for me; rather, of ciambelline, tagliatelle, cappuccino (made right), biscotti, focaccia, polenta, prosciutto, cioccolato and vino I sing.

I wouldn't even say I have eaten particularly good on this trip, compared to other visits or to the period when I spent months and years here. But still, let's be serious: I have eaten things fit for a president. Or maybe even the Pope. Because in Italy, non si scherza. No joking around (when it comes to food -- lots of joking around when it comes to everything else).

At night when I am drifting off to sleep or on a long car ride, I often think about what makes Italy different from America, and when it comes to food, I always think their penchant, their insistence, their belief in moderation is the key. As I walk the streets of Italy surrounded by the artful display windows of coffee bars and osterie and gelaterie, it can be hard to believe that Italians subscribe to moderation but oh, they do. I often tell people about the scenes I've witnessed at dinner parties where Italians fight over who will be FORCED to eat what's left of the pasta dish or the second course. Because if they believe they've had enough, they are loathe to have more than enough.

I don't know if I've really embraced moderation this trip -- my trips to Italy in the past decade have often consisted of double breakfasts (two ciambelline -- yes due!!! -- or a ciambellina followed by a yoghurt), something I would never have done when I lived here. But I know that anytime I've overdone it, I've felt ill at ease. And I think that's how Italians feel. They don't want to be "stuffed," as we would say in America. They want to satisfy their hunger and then move on.

OK, without further ado, here's a sampling of what I've eaten during this visit to Italy:

*Ciambelline: these are the donut-shaped pastries that are my favorite and which inspire a hunt each trip (each morning of each trip) to find the best. The hunt is especially keen since this is the second holiday in Florence where my old pasticceria/bar is closed for vacation. Also see name of blog.

*Bomboloni: Same basic stuff as a ciambellina (singular) but without the hole and typically filled with custard. If donuts came without the hole and were light and airy and fresh from the oven: they would be bomboloni.

*Focaccia: Salty, oily bread. So good it's made its way -- in bastardized form, typically -- to America.

*Polenta con i funghi: I don't eat polenta much outside of Italy but I do like it. And also good with mushrooms.

*Prosciutto crudo: the only kind of prosciutto I eat. I love its salty, silky texture. I had it in sandwiches and plain, as part of antipasti.

*Crostini: (as you probably know) little toast appetizers that in Tuscany frequently feature pate. Delicious! Especially in Italy. Not especially outside of Italy.

*Fiori di zucca (fritti): fried zucchini flowers. Had them in Florence at Antico Ristori dei Cambi near Borgo San Frediano. Squisiti (literally: exquisite).

*Panzanella (con pane croccante): Prepared by my friend Veronica, this "wet" salad features bread prominently, in addition to tomatoes and cucumbers.

*Polpo (had it twice, in fact): Octopus. I could be an Octopusarian.

*Pecorino con miele: Florentines (dare I say Italians?) like combining salty pecorino cheese & honey. Had it at Osteria Centopoveri.

*Cioccolato alle nocciole: Like a bacio candy, but a whole chocolate bar with WHOLE hazelnuts. Yes it exists, yes it rocks and in Italy the supermarket stocks plenty.

*Gelato, gusto: nocciola (and only nocciola): I don't always eat a lot of gelato but this trip I haven't resisted all that well. And why should I? Last I checked even Ben & Jerry's doesn't make hazelnut ice cream (plain -- it's already perfect, no need to add any zany ingredients).

Plus: a dozen cappuccini, and gallons of fizzy water.

And I still don't think it's enough. 

Buon appetito, y'all!

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