Wine, Sausage and Melanie from Munich

We are sticking close to home today, venturing in to Greve In Chianti (pronounced greh-vey), which is about 3 kilometers from here. There is a large wine shop with varietals from the entire region and a butcher that has been in business since the 1700's. 

Mom's couch adventure will last exactly one night. I'm not sure if that's because it's about two feet too short, or her fear of the long incredibly nasty looking black bugs that crawl under the door from the back yard. I have relocated several wasps that have made their way in to our humble abode through a unique catch and release program. This entails me screaming, scooping them up in a plastic bag while dancing around, tossing said bag out onto the porch and slamming the door. Dont worry, my love... I retrieve the plastic bags later so as not to add insult or injury to the beautiful surroundings.

Speaking of, the yard overlooks an olive grove and is situated atop a hill which provides an amazing view. The sunset last night was awesome, and I hope despite our creepy crawly and beastly winged neighbors to enjoy a meal out there before we leave. I bought gorgonzola pasta for one night and chicken for another. And eggs... picked up right off the shelf, unrefrigerated, with the yolks as dark yellow as I've ever seen them. Yum.

Our first stop -- finding an internet cafe. I send mom into a store to ask and she uses all her Italian words to discover that it is located right next door. Still, job well done. She is much better navigating than she gives herself credit for. Here is a hint I plan to remove from this post later... please send her an email or post on Facebook. I think she's a bit sad she hasn't heard much from folks. I keep reminding her we are in Italy, but I think she would love to get a note. Or several. 

Next up is La Cantine de Greve in Chianti. It is a massive wine store with tasting stations and a plethora of wine from all across Tuscany. We buy a card with 25 euros in credit on it. Tastings range, based on the price of the bottle, from ,60 euros to 12. We exhaust the card in about an hour, which means that by 12:30 PM -- mom and I are a wee bit hammered. Happy, but hammered. I've earmarked a few bottles to pick up before we leave this area on Wednesday. That way I can ship all the bottles home from here and take advantage of the discount you get on bottles when you ship, I think something like 16%. 

We venture out into the main square to pop into the shops that are open -- where I find this killer bracelet -- and then sit down in an open air cafe for lunch. We order pasta with truffle sauce (seriously, I can't get enough of this stuff) and possibly the worst bruschetta in all of Italy. Mom says it's my fault because I made her order it. I'm not saying anything, especially since she treats me to gelato afterward. 

Who can be mad while eating gelato?

Then we head to Antica Macelleria Falaroni, a butcher shop that has been in business since 1729. This place is amazing. I swear, if I could figure out how to smuggle meat back into the United States, I might risk jail for this mouthgasm. Yes -- that good. Sadly, despite my newfound old age, my boobs do not sag enough to hide a salami let alone a slab of proscuitto. Still, the meat hooks and cleavers hanging on every wall and the hind quarters lining the ceiling from Porky The Pig and his fifty cousins are quite entertaining. Mom is a bit grossed out by the bits of hair, but I'm fascinated by the hip bone sticking out the side and am dying to touch one. I don't think I should elaborate on the ecstasy I find myself in upon discovering the cheese cellar... 

I mean, this is a PG-13 blog after all.

We buy a few snacks and head to the car and then for home. Or not quite. Don't tell mom, but I'm driving in the wrong direction specifically so we can hit a few wineries on the way. The first one we stop in, Castello Vicchiomaggio, doesn't have wine I love necessarily, but they are sweet and one of the girls gives us an amazing tour. First we stop in the fields to learn a bit about the vines. They don't start harvesting them until they are five years old. When they are 45, they are destroyed. The older vines produce less grapes with more juice and these are used to make the reserve wine. She describes how you can tell what varietal the vine is from how the leaves look.

Then, it's on to the distillery, where she talks about the giant oak barrels, and how every few years, they have to pay someone to come in, crawl INSIDE these monstrous casks through a tiny hole, and scrape the insides to remove sediment. She has never been in one. Of course I asked. The smaller French Oak casks can only be used for a few years and cost 800 euros a piece. They can be used about twice. The trees used have to be a hundred years old and only the heart is used. I wish I could remember everything she was telling me, but sadly, we did the tour AFTER the tasting.

Next, we stopped at another winery -- Castello di Verrazzano. The woman behind the counter had the most unbelievably sour disposition. I am sure the people coming in and out of these places all day aren't fun, but lady... you sell wine for a living. Being more of a people person might increase profits. This theory is proven ten fold by the next place we stop, where Melanie from Munich is an absolute doll. She came to Italy to paint, but has made a little segeway, selling wine at Fattoria Di Calcinaia. The white is delicious, and we even manage to swallow the grappa without too much trouble (I am not convinced this stuff isn't actually made of turpentine), but it's her personality that is delicious... and we are drinking. There are some lovely folks from Tennessee in the shop when we arrive who have also had the same experience with the surly señora down the road, and we all have a really nice conversation about the importance of costumer service and smiling. Melanie has plenty of the later and is thus nominated as the patron saint of today. 

So here's the score... 

Castello di Verrazzano -- 0 bottles purchased
Fattoria Di Calcinaia -- 5 bottles purchased

Melanie wins, and I think we've had enough fun for today. Tomorrow, the market in Siena and San Gimignano.

Dear Sergio...

Dear Sergio,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

1. You work for Hertz's Italian delegation and you are not a jerk.
2. At 12:35, when most of Italy has locked up shop for siesta, you not only take my call asking for directions... you wait for our arrival.
3. You speak English. Really well.
4. Despite our cancelled reservations making your day harder on Saturday, you are still nice to us. You actually offer us a different car, albeit in three hours.
5. You give excellent recommendations on a local Etruscan museum (seriously awesome) and a restaurant (sadly, not open) where we can pass some time waiting for said car to be returned.
6. You help troubleshoot problem with GPS, which is actually a faulty plug, and then give us a different cord and let us keep our tiny black Fiat Panda. You then joke that if we knew the problem was with the GPS, we would have missed the museum.
7. You are wearing white pants. Ok... this is not actually a plus, but it does take cojones.

Friend, you deserve a raise.

Much love,


America 

Ciao, Montepulciano... Hello, Chianti!

Ah, Italy. Your troublesome ways never disappoint me. I think people here must siesta just to escape the craziness of living in a country with no rules and no formal procedures. There aren't even lanes on the road, for Heaven sake. However, I must admit, one of my favorite things about Italy is driving here. At 130 km per hour on the Autostrade, things begin to blur. Literally. 

We slept about 11 hours each of the past two nights, that, and whatever the pharmacist gave me last night seems to be doing  wonders. I'm congested, and have a runny nose, but I am feeling much better. We are up and packed to go by about 11:00 AM. We decide to complete our winery tour of the place next door before heading out to the Fiat dealership to see about a piece for the car, then moing on to the Hertz in Chuisi if that doesn't work. The winery is awesome, and though I've decided I'm not a huge fan of this nobile wine of Montepulciano, I love seeing the bulging casks of oak towering above me and those stacked three high lining the walls of the musty cellar. Some of my favorite pics from the trip are taken in this dungeon. 

The drive to Chiusi isn't bad, but finding the Hertz is a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey sort of adventure. We end up calling, and lucky us, actually reaching an English-speaking and extremely helpful chap named Sergio. This story I'll save for the following post.

We stop in a tiny ceramics factory on the side of the road where I find a bowl as big as a trough for 88 euros. I leave it there as it would cost three times that much to ship home. Then it's on to Greve in Chianti, by way of a supermarket. The first place I try and stop SAYS supermarket, but it's actually a shoe store. My Italian still isn't so good, apparently. When I do finally manage provisions, it is pouring rain and I am soaked by the time I get back to the car. What does mom want? Instant coffee. I don't even drink coffee, and that makes me cringe. I'm might be coerced into instant wine, though. That might be the next big thing. Sold in packets... for those moments you just need a pick-me-up.

Like when we arrive at the absolutely adorable little stone farmhouse we will be staying in the next few nights. Nobody here to meet us. Here's the funny thing though... Italians don't ever seem to be on time, but both the sister-in-law of the woman renting us the place who stops by to say the father-in-law is on the way with the key, and the pater familias himself, comment on us being outside our estimated window of two to four in the afternoon. I apologize -- in Italian -- and explain about the car. It is what it is. What it is. What it freaking is. Nothing seems to go according to plan here, so I'm just going with the flow now.

And the flow is heading out to dinner. After a half hour drive, the last of which is up a dirt road into the middle of nowhere, our lovely "fully operational" GPS says we've arrived at  the restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet. We make our way back to Greve central, where we find a darling little restaurant called La Cantina di Manetti Allesandro. The owner is way friendly and sits us down with a glass of prossecco each -- on the house. 

Here's what we order:

Coccoli con Stracchino e Prosciutto o Lardo di Colonnata (fried pizza dough with ham or lardo di colonnata and stracchino cheese) 

Gnocchi Gorgonzola e Tartufo (potato gnocchi with gorgonzola cheese and truffle)

Cantina con Mozzarella, Tartufo, Bresaola e Rucola (pizza with mozzarella, truffle, cured beef and rocket)

The gnocchi, which is technically pasta, is amazing. Absoeffinglutely amazing. The sauce literally makes me want to lick the plate, which I do, but in a refined way so as not to draw too much attention to myself. My eyes roll back in my head a little. Of course, that could be the prossecco, too, but I'm convinced this is the most amazing thing I've eaten in Italy so far. Yum. I can barely finish my dinner, and I catch mom wrapping hers in a napkin and sticking it in the bag with the extra appetizer. Even while I am stroking my Italian food baby, Francesca, the owner sends over desserts, also on the house. He winks at me. 

Nice, but here's the thing. Italian men? Too skinny. They dress funny. Not this guy, per se, but he IS wearing a fanny pack. Most of the men here are either bald, or have really really thick hair I would be afraid to lose things in (like my sanity, which is help on by a very thin cord at this point.) It's the same thing with the pasta -- I'm just not sold. So for all you clowns back home who keep advising me to find myself a nice Italian boy... I've got my eye on the prize back home, thank you very much.

Back home, I've put a load of wash in and tucked mom onto the couch. Look, it's not my doing -- she chose to sleep there. There are two bedrooms (upstairs) and two bathrooms (one on each floor.) The problem is, upstairs there is a step down and then step up that is right by the stairs. If one was not careful on the way to a midnight potty run, they could literally fall down the stairs quite easily. When the father-in-law left, I looked at mom and told her I was worried about that, and she said she already planned to sleep on the couch. We will see how tonight goes.

In the meantime, I have to just tell you how delighted I am to finally have a bidet... I mean a ROOM... with a view. 

Mom, Part II: Under Tuscan Storm Clouds

Ah! The first day the entire trip this far that we didn't have to rise at the crack of dawn and go somewhere. So, we slept in...the bed is still hard mind you, but more like limestone instead of granite and mine is only 4" off the floor, but I sleep like the dead, until 11:30!!!! Mama Mia, but I feel great! Poor Amy is still suffering from sinusitis/flu like symptoms, but a true trooper, or a crazy woman, not sure which she ventures out into the early Montepulciano afternoon. Let me make this very clear...this town is spectacular,so quaint and friendly and oozing charm at every turn of the winding roads. It would be possible to stay here forever, but haven't seen a hospital here so not sure what kind of work I would find. Maybe something stomping olives into olive oil?

We journey into town which takes us up a very steep winding turn, that may just harbor some local in a tiny car trying to make it down the narrow drive which by the way doubles as a walkway. We jump against the wall just in the nick of time and the local looks thankful that he didn't have to kill anyone on Sunday. Once we make it to the top of the hill it is all downhill towards town. I am getting better all the time making it up the steep inclines so it must be true that "practice makes perfect" and with so many opportunities to practice here I am not sure what I will do when I get back to the flat landscape of Florida.

Lots of fun shopping as we walk up the hill and we have both made some fun purchases before we stop for lunch.  We are wedged in a small table for two in front of the shop door and against the bar, I decide on the spinach soup and the bread with goat cheese and truffle sauce and a glass of the local wine, while Amy chooses the eggplant cheese fondue and the grilled veggies and lots of water. The food is scrumptious and the soup is one of the best things I have had so far. After lunch we try to find a pharmacia so that Amy can get something for her ailments and are told first down the street then up the street and finally they confess that it is Sunday, so  most likely not open, and after all it is only about 2pm and shops close from 12:30 till 3p for siesta.

We wander in and out of wine tasting places, spice and pasta places and olive oil stores, but are drawn like moths to a flame to the leather and paper stores. One darling little paper shop we stumble into has the sweetest young gal who takes the time to show us how she personally binds the journals with ribbed leather bindings and tells us that some of the paper is also made at the shop. What beautiful craftsmanship, we are in awe! Sweaters, hand knit of course, leather shoes and boots, purses and bags, scarves and baubles, it's enough to make your wallet pucker! Amy and I are world class shoppers and this place is like Mecca!

Finally, as the sun sinks slowly into the Tuscan hillside we find a Pharmacia open, but some cold medicine and decide that it would be great to get back to the apartment and turn in early, tomorrow is another day and we do have to leave for Chainti with a short backtrack to Hertz in Chuisi to see about getting the GPS squared away or the car lighter unit fixed.

We have a glass of tea, (medicine for Amy) and a biscotti so fresh that feels like they picked the figs today and we will be off to sleep dreaming about Chianti!

I only cry when it Hertz...

What would a day in Italy be for us without fiasco upon fiasco? Thankfully, I'm still smiling. In fact, I'm pretty damn happy. The town we are staying in -- Montepulciano -- is divine. High in the hills and much, much cooler than Rome. Sadly, the hill also poses a bit of a problem. All the great shops and trattorias are at the bottom and mom is a teeny bit nervous as we make our descent for dinner.

I digress. I should start at the beginning.

I returned from my fabulous foray to Trevi Foutain and the Pantheon (which I realize I have been referring to as the Parthenon for several days) and mom is a bit beside herself. I've been gone for two hours and she was sure I'd been raped and killed. I remind her I am an adult and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. She says she was about to call the police. I tell her she needs to stop reading the murder mystery she's got her nose buried in.

We grab the bags and get in the cab that Lady Ana calls for us. Meter has been running for a while and is already at 6 euro when we get in after hugs, kisses and a gift of a pair of mom's fabulous earrings to our hostess. We've stayed a bit later than planned to mail off the extra stuff we accumulated without our luggage. Okay, fine... we did a little shopping, too. But when we arrive at  Mailboxes, Etc., we discover they are closed. That's the same result we had last night after I dragged the bag uphill for twenty minutes. We get in another cab to head to Termini Station. 

That's when mom remembers that we were supposed to leave town early for a reason.

We were supposed to pick the car up in Chuisi by 12:30 PM when the Hertz location closes -- for the weekend. It's 10:00 AM and thing aren't looking good for the home team. I have her get in line for train tickets while I get on the phone to Hertz. No cars in Florence, and no other options near our destination. Awesome. Well, if all roads lead from Rome... one has to take us to Montepulciano. 

Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner, and unfortunately, it won't be mom, who will probably have a heart attack when she finds out I'm driving us out of Rome. At least it's not on a Vespa! We jump in our third cab of the hour with a driver who is an absolute doll. He regales us with stories about a recent trip he took to America with his family. It was a shame to get to our destination so soon, as we were laughing and having a lovely time.

Which ended promptly when we arrived at Hertz.

The woman behind the counter clearly did not want to help us. She was miffed that mom had paid with her card and I would be driving. Though we had cleared this in the US when we made the booking, it was NOT ok now. We had also rented a GPS, and when I asked if she would show us how to operate it, she glared at me and said she already programmed  it in English. Then she had mom sign the damage waiver before we looked at the car. Record scratch, not okay with me, so I asked her to stop. She looked at me and said something about how we were already breaking the rules and they don't have enough cars to go around. Ok, ok... I'll just go take a look. There was, of course, more damage -- including a major dent under the passenger door. Not a ding, a dent. I walked back into the store and asked her to change the other copy she had ripped off and stapled to our re opt for their records. She refused and told me she wasn't renting me the car. I kind of ran out the door with the keys, snapped a few pics, threw the luggage and mom in and pressed go.

Driving in Rome? That was nothing compared to all the other stuff we've experienced. 

And the GPS was the best money spent on is trip. Until it died about 45  minutes away from our destination. We call Hertz emergency roadside assistance, which is busy. They say they will call us back. Emergency. Roadside. Assistance. We call the Hertz we picked the car up from, but since we don't understand Italian, we keep getting disconnected at the prompts. About eight times. We call the Hertz at the airport. Nothing. We finally get a call back from roadside assistance, who tell us the problem is the GPS, not the car. I discover later that isn't accurate, but it doesn't matter much. We will stop in Siena on Monday and get this sorted out before we head to the next town. We are hoping to ship stuff from there, too. 

 I won't be holding my breath on either account.

It isn't clear where we are supposed to go when we arrive in Montepulciano, but thanks to the directions we write down before the machine calls it quits and wonderfully marked roads, we DO actually arrive. Our new hostess is kind enough to meet us at the entrance to town and lead us through the winding back streets we never would have found on our own. There were flowers and a small birthday cake waiting for me when we arrived. I parked mom in the house with the luggage and went with Cinzia and her sister to park the car outside the city wall. 

Mom and I set out when I return. Literally right next door is a very old winery, which we wander into, marveling at casks reaching far above our heads. The cellar is brick, with cobwebs hanging from the black candelabras on the ceiling and walls. There are barrels upon barrels, and the musty scent in the air is a mixture of dampness and wood. It is magnificent, and we are sad to be kicked out for a large tasting that they have scheduled, though happy to be invited back later. We stroll down the road and come upon a board with all kinds of posters advertising events. One, a flute concert, is happening tonight. Now, actually. As in it started about 15 minutes before we saw the sign. We move as quickly as we can straight up to the Piazza Ricci to an international music school. I'm following the sound of the music, and we make it in time to hear about six different pieces.

I learn another thing today. I love music. That I knew. I'm a big fan of violin, adore cello, can appreciate the piano, a saxophone or trumpet. I do not like the flute. Please forgive me if you are a flute player, but who the hell picks that as the instrument they want to build a career out of? In a symphony, okay. But solo? Blech...

We haven't eaten much today... a roll for breakfast, a bit of cheese and buffalo salami in the car, and a small snack -- mozzarella and prosciutto on crostini -- after the concert at a small bar overlooking the countryside. We have glasses of white wine and a birthday toast. Then we head to the main square and take some pics before the long descent to poke in shops and eventually grab an actual meal.

So we've come full circle. Mom's blogging tomorrow since I'm coming down with something. Vacation colds have summer colds bat, hands down. I think we plan to take it easy tomorrow. Sleep in. 

If you read my post from this morning, you already know that sounds perfect to me.

A Birthday Wish

I'm up early, sitting in front of the relatively deserted Trevi Fountain as pigeons wander around peking between the smooth black cobblestones in search of breakfast. The sound of the few tourists here and the carabinieri drowned out by the crashing water in front of me. I think this may be my favorite spot in Rome. It's a lovely place to begin another year.

I've waited until today to toss my coin into the pool of water here, the coin that will ensure my return. I've thought about what to wish for. For my book to be a success. Luck in love. A family. A long life. Thinking about what I desire reminds me of how grateful I am for what I have. Wonderful friends and family. A good job. My own home. Enough money to spend a month in Italy. There isn't much I need, and so as I pull the coin from the pocket of my jeans, swing my arm forward and open my hand as the coin arcs through the air and disappears into the water without a sound, what I wish for is much more basic. More simple. 

I wish for happiness. 

Today we pack up to embark on the part of the trip that I have most been looking forward to -- Tuscany. I want to drive aimlessly through the Italian countryside with no particular destination in mind. To hike the Cinque Terre. To drink wine and watch the sunset. To have real conversations. 

We start today with more flurry of activity, making a run to the shipping office, gathering our bags for the train ride to Chiusi. Picking up the car. But then it will be more relaxed. Two nights in Montepulciano, three in Chiante de Greve, and three in Levanto along the Italian Riviera. An apartment. A stone house. A bed and breakfast. Our days will slow. I'll sleep late... siesta properly, as the Italians do, and stroll in the evenings. No rushing from here to there. Nowhere we have to be at any certain time. 

I suppose in a way, my wish will have already come true. I can think of nothing that would bring me more happiness than embracing the Italian art of how sweet it is to do nothing... “il dolce far niete."

Wish me luck.

Running through Rome, and piles of old bones...

I've discovered something new this morning. Italians don't get up early. Tourists really don't either. I went running past Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon this morning and literally had them all to myself. I stretched while staring at all the curves and features of Trevi, and again while walking under the portico of the Pantheon, using the smooth marble columns for support. There were quite a few men making their way to work or opening shops and I think I could have paid for a really nice dinner had I just charged for ogling. I would say it was my Vibrams, but I'm wearing those on my feet. They were staring about four feet higher.

I also discovered that the mosquitoes in Rome like American, too. Unfortunately, they like the taste of mom better.

We hit the Vatican today, which as we learn from our fabulous guide (who just happened to be from Orlando, confirming my fears that this is actually owned and operated by Disney), that we are actually standing in another country. However, it's the Sistine Chapel that holds the biggest surprise for me. The most famous portion of the ceiling that Michelangelo painstakingly worked on for more than four years, standing up for 16 hours a day with brush overhead, is just a tiny fraction of the whole ceiling. The image of God touching Adam's finger to give him the spark of life is much, much smaller than I imagined. The final judgment painting borrows a lot from the pop culture of the time, heavily referencing Dante's Inferno. The piety of reform resulting in fig leaves being placed over all the nudity Romans used to embrace. That, coupled with the church's pilfering pieces of the Colosseum and the Pantheon to build St. Peter's Basilica leave a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Love the art, but not the ostentatious display of wealth, which seems kind inappropriate when the mission of the entity is to help those in its fold. 

Mom's two cents worth: even though she's not catholic, she says the information was amazing. 

I drop mom back off at the apartment for a siesta while I make friends with Francesco, the most popular tie dealer in all of Rome, according to the source -- him. The tiny little shop will only fit him and I, which is fine, since he's ignoring everyone else anyway. Says he doesn't like their attitude. Apparently I'm okay, but since he says he counts all of Washington's congressman as customers, I'm skeptical about his judgment. He also says Portland's basketball players buy his ties. Anyway... very sweet man and we have a nice, very real, conversation before I'm sold on which patterns I like best. It reminds me of Fight Club, when Brad Pitt remarks about single serving friends. People have a lot of interactions like that. This is not that case with Francesco, and I appreciate that kind of experience... a lot.

Afterward, I head to the monk bone church, for lack of a better description and my complete inability to remember the proper name. The walls and ceilings are covered with the bones of dead monks. Hip bones, vertebrae, ribs, skulls -- all in amazing formations that look like mosaic. It is awesome. And it smells weird. Pics are not allowed, but I did sneak you one. Tech support (I heart you, Sarah Markel!) is working on figuring out how we can post these to the blog as I type. Eye candy soon... I promise!

We had a light dinner and I am happy for a big salad and mom for her fruit. We tried to ship our booty home to no avail today, so we are in trouble tomorrow as we load the pack mules -- meaning us -- for the train station. Destination Tuscany. Though I love Rome, I can hardly wait for the next part of our adventure. And driving in Italy should be fun. Mom will be curled up on the floor in the backseat praying, no doubt. 

There's another adventure I embark on tomorrow as well... I turn 37.