In Love with France, At Home In Italy

I'm looking at where I left off at the end of the past summer here in Umbria. A year of teaching French and helping others write has intervened. I had a large number of pieces pretty much ready to go, but they have been hibernating in my "Notes" Box awaiting the time I could actually finalize and post them. I think this is what can happen to anyone who writes but who also tries to deal with the business of everyday life. Further, maybe others are able to look on transitions as opportunities for excitement, whereas I tend to view them with anxiety and dread. Now who could complain about having the luxury of getting to live in an Italian-style paradise for a good chunk of the year? Non è logico in any language! Yet to write in fits and starts like this makes it hard to decide where to pick up the thread. One thing that's for sure: it's time to stop hoarding these pieces and stop obsessing about the order in which they will go. As an aside, I have to admire my friend...

“Ciliege finite!” declares fruit expert Marcello, during our first summer here. I remember that that was his response to my whining about wanting to prolong the cherry season when it was clear to him that it had passed. “But look at all those way up high—they look even better than the tons we’ve already eaten. I need a taller ladder.” Two summers later, I still don’t quite get it. The peas and favas planted on our behalf by Farmer G were delicious! Because peas have to be planted so early, at a time when I am scurrying around with no hope of getting my gardening act together, there have been no peas in any garden of mine in decades. And a fava? Never! I didn’t even know what to do with one until D popped one open and ate it in front of my fava-virgin eyes. So what next? I have a wonderful time picking and eating them, and want to go on doing it. But for how long? How long is long enough? Farmer G, who is on intimate terms with nature, tells me it’s time to pull up the peas and favas...

 “For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”    Well, I'm not so sure about the voice of the turtle part, but at least I haven't heard any gun shots from wild boar hunters, lately. I'm thinking that the wild boar survivors are busy making the next generation of future boar sausages. My hope has been to catch la primavera here during Spring Break, and then get one in  the States on our return. So far, so good!  On a gray day before all the flowers are in bloom, it is easier to appreciate the simple lines of the house. At the left are the new kitchen and pergola, upstairs loggia, and my bathroom, which were made in the space formerly occupied by an old pizza oven and animal quarters. The far right is the oldest part of the house, where the animal troughs have been transformed into a guest room. If you look closely, you ca...

 This being Italy, today started out great. And then there was no electricity. As on most wintry mornings, to warm up my bathroom, I turned on the wall heater whose swinging lever swung right into action. Next, I turned on the little-but-effective space heater I bought from Lidl and got ready to face the day. But then suddenly, all of that nice flow of warm air came to a halt:trouble in paradise!     Of course I figured it was all my fault. But I had done the same thing every morning without incident for the past few weeks, so for once it didn't seem like a case of mea culpa.     I hadn't yet eaten anything, but fortunately for me, someone had left the fruit salad out of the fridge, so there was no need to open it and jeopardize all the stuff jam-packed within. But then N got a hankering for some of those delicious Slovene beans perfumed with the neighbor's sausage, left over from yesterday. He pulled them out of the dark fridge quickly, ready to cho...

I call before the holiday weekend to tell the gas people that our meter is down to 15. “Non c’e problema, signora. Plenty of time. We will come tomorrow.” The Xmas holiday comes and goes, and nobody shows. When we next look at the gas meter a few days before New Year’s, it reads ZERO! Uh-oh! I am not great at being demanding in any language. I like to leave that to my husband. But in his Italian classes, he hasn’t yet gotten to the lesson that teaches how to be indignant—not that that would ever work in Italy, anyway. So unless our son is here, who knows just the right noises to make to get the natives to do what he wants, that job falls to me. Usually it works, since I manage to say things that are more comical than offensive;for example, I told the gas company “we are at ZERO, e zero non e buono!” Apparently that line was memorably funny, and they said they would send someone right away.  When it started getting dark with no sign of any gas, I was unanimously elected to call b...