Sacrificing a Terrace for a Husband: A Bait & Switch That Paid Off

Daisy in not-so-rare form

In 2008, I met my future husband. I was spending the summer in Italy, partly to explore the possibility of moving there—I’d been a frequent visitor due to my doctoral studies in archaeology—and partly to reward myself for having survived a very difficult year. I’d gotten rid of a bad boyfriend, gotten my elderly parents set up in assisted living (I’d been their primary caregiver in my home prior to that), gotten my finances in order and even gotten my Tasmanian devil of a dog trained. I finally felt I could breathe again.

And that's how I found myself at 41, never married, no kids. In many ways, my life had become the epitome of my worst fears. I’d lived my whole adult life focused on finding “The One” and chasing men down one rabbit hole after another, only to wind up brokenhearted, disillusioned, and another year or two or five older. And at the end of every bad romance, I found myself right back where I’d started—just older, and perhaps more in debt and more cynical. Faced with the choice of continuing on the same road, and waiting for the next bad boyfriend to come along (and in their defense, some weren't so much bad boyfriends as we were bad matches) or finding ways to make some radical shifts in my life, I focused on spending the summer in Italy.

Key components of my summer in Italy plans...

Moving to Italy had always been a fantasy of mine, the impossible dream that could only be made possible if I hit lotto, married well or landed some terribly exotic job. But instead of telling myself that it would never work, I decided to find out if there was a way it could work. Could I afford to move to Italy? How much money would I need? Could I find work there? And most importantly, when the fantasy of life in Italy hit up against the reality of day to day life in Italy, would I really love it as much as I imagined I would? Or would I simply find that I was just as lonely, just as longing for a spouse, and just as likely to make the same bad choices, albeit in a more romantic setting?

Orvieto, which is full of terraces on which to drink wine
Photo by Barbara Gillespie

To answer these questions, I decided to spend two months in Orvieto, a city in central Umbria that I’d visited once and fallen immediately in love with. I’ve had that experience in a few places—Vienna, Austria and Vancouver, BC, among others—where I stepped out of the train station or taxi or what have you, and felt immediately at home, that sensation of, “Yeah, I could live here.” Orvieto, a medieval hill town perched high on a plateau of tufa, or volcanic stone was one such place, and for a variety of reasons known and unknown, it called to me.

It was also important to me to choose a city where I knew no one, and where I was less likely to be surrounded by English speakers. To really test drive my move-to-Italy fantasy, I needed to be the stranger, plunked down in a place where I had no friends and no contacts, and where I’d be forced to speak Italian. (At that point, my Italian language skills were only good enough to order dinner and ask the location of the closest bathroom, and not much else.)

This is not a terrace.

I lined up a long term rental in a bed and breakfast, sent a deposit via wire transfer, and started communicating regularly with the friendly owner, Valeria. My future apartment had a terrace with a view over the rooftops of Orvieto, and I imagined this is where I’d spend the majority of my time, reading, writing and sipping wine. Expect that about a week or so before my arrival, Valeria emailed to tell me that I would be in a different apartment in a different location unrelated to the B&B. Her sister, who lived nearby, had just finished renovating a ground floor apartment below her home, and that’s where I’d be staying. It was larger and appeared more comfortable than the B&B apartment, but there was no terrace. “There’s a beautiful panorama of the hills from the apartment window,” wrote Valeria. But a window is not a terrace. I couldn’t sit at the window and drink wine and contemplate the view. Well I could, but it just wouldn't be the same. 

I tried to remain clam, but I was certain that I was falling victim to some kind of a bait and switch. Valeria kept assuring me that her sister’s apartment really was nicer than the B&B apartment. Her sister, Alessandra, emailed me a few times and Alessandra’s son sent several photos of the newly refurbished apartment. It did look nice, I had to allow. But still, no terrace.

But it did have a nice view. Photo by Barbara Gillespie

As it turned out, I got a pretty good deal in the end. At Alessandra’s apartment—my apartment, at least for those two months—I was in a neighborhood. I met my Italian neighbors, including a couple who lived most of the year in Houston and spoke English. I became friends with Alessandra and friendly with her 30-something daughter and son. I got invitations to dinners, to festivals, and I made contacts that might potentially help me in finding work or advancing my dissertation research. I met a few American couples who lived in Orvieto full- or part-time, and despite my pledge to avoid spending time just with English speakers, I was glad for their company and friendship. My Italian improved, at least a little bit.

Don't I look like I'm wondering
what the hell I'm going to do with my life?

I had all these experiences and exposure specifically because I was in that apartment, and not at the B&B, where I would have met other guests who came and went, rather than the Orvietani neighbors I saw every day. I would have spoken English with those guests and with Valeria, instead of learning Italian via the sink or swim method. And I think ultimately, I would have had a lonelier experience, sitting on my coveted terrace, drinking wine and looking over the rooftops of Orvieto, wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life.

My friend Barbara came to visit me from New York, and stayed about 10 days. Barb and I have been friends since high school, and we went to college together. Our friendship has endured for nearly 30 years now, through fallings out and hurt feelings and reconciliations. She knows me and my strengths and shortcomings as well as anyone in my life, and stood by, wincing much of the time, as I plodded through one disastrous relationship after another. So she also was my biggest cheerleader when it came to me remaking my life, and she fell almost as much in love with Italy and Orvieto and my little corner of town as I was.

And we did get to drink wine on a few terraces...
photo by Barbara Gillespie

We decided to put together a party for the 4^th of July, just a few days before Barb was to head home. We invited the neighbors and the American friends I’d made, and of course Alessandra and her kids. Her daughter called to ask if she could bring some friends to the party, and I said of course. That’s why, had I been tucked away in the B&B instead of at Alessandra’s apartment, Paolo would have never walked up through my door.

He showed up with bottles of his homemade wine and a big grin on his face. He was taller than anyone there, and had a personality to match his stature. Truth be told, he had eyes for Barb at first, and it wasn’t until a group dinner the next night that a little spark started to ignite between the two of us. (It probably helped that he learned Barb was happily married.)

So the apartment bait and switch turned out very differently—and much better—than my hosts or I could have possibly imagined. I was indignant at having to give up that terrace with a view. But I got a husband and now, a daughter out of the bargain. I’d say it was a pretty good trade-off, all in all.  

Who doesn't love a happy ending? 

Lazy Peasants and One Sucker of a Saint: Allerona’s Festivale di Sant Isidoro

Our statue of the miracle of St. Isidoro,
with an angel driving oxen while Isidoro prays. 

Allerona has a few traditional festivals each year. But my favorite, and far and away the most charming of them all (and hence my favorite) is the festival of Sant Isidoro, which takes places the second weekend in May. St. Isidore (Isidoro in Italian) hails from Spain, but he is celebrated in countries across the world, particularly in agrarian communities or those with an agrarian tradition, like Allerona. He’s known as the patron saint of “the fields and those who work in the fields.”

The legend goes that as a young man born into poverty, Isidoro went to work for a wealthy landowner. But he sometimes showed up late to work, as he first stopped to pray at church every morning. The landowner

accused Isidoro of cheating him out of time and labor, but Isidoro assured him that he worked harder and produced more than the other, less pious field hands. So the landowner, still suspicious, hid near the church door and sure enough, Isidoro went and prayed first thing. Still undetected, he followed Isidoro out to the fields, where legend has it that he saw—depending on the legend—somewhere between one and three angels pushing plows alongside Isidoro. The moral of the story of St. Isidoro is that if your spiritual life is in order, your earthly commitments will fall into order, also. Apparently, if Isidoro had been late to work because of frequent hangovers, the angels would not have appeared to help him.

Tractors waiting to be blessed,
to ensure a good year's harvest

In Allerona, the story of St. Isidoro varies somewhat from the original version. As Paolo has explained it to me, a bunch of contadini, or peasants, prayed to St. Isidoro for help tending their fields. While they either a) feasted b) danced c) slept or d) prayed some more—I’m not really clear based on Paolo’s version of the story—an angel appeared and plowed their fields.

So that’s right folks. The lesson here is that if you don’t have the time or inclination to do your work, just ask St. Isidoro for help, and then enjoy that second helping of pasta, extra few hours of sleep or another dance with your best girl.

Now that’s my cynical agnostic self, talking, of course. But the pugnaloni, a key feature of Allerona’s Festival of St. Isidoro, don’t do much to refute my contention that we’re talking about a bunch of lazy peasants and a sucker of a saint, who sends angels to plow fields just because some farmers don’t feel like doing it.

A pugnalone...

When Paolo first described to me what the pugnaloni were, I have to admit I was a bit confused. “They’re carts decorated with scenes from life in the campagna,” he explained. “Every year there’s a contest to pick the best one.” Decorated carts? Models? It was all sounding a little to craft-y to me. I gave him a quizzical look, one that I like to think conveys curiosity, but instead probably conveys, “That sounds fucking stupid.”

Still, I had to see for myself that first year. The festival kicks off with the blessing of the tractors in the town square. The priest comes, says a few words and waves his psalter in the general direction of the assembled tractors—and there are all shapes and sizes—and then the tractors slowly move out of the piazza. Then, the pugnaloni are brought in.

I’m happy to say that I had to eat crow yet again for a sarcastic eye-roll—or whatever one does to atone for a sarcastic eye-roll. (I should know this, given how frequently I make this type of atonement.) The pugnaloni, which can only be done partial justice in my photos, are among the most creative, charming and precious labors of love and tradition I’ve ever seen.

Why plow when you can polka?

Each pugnaloni depicts the story of St. Isidoro, but they also show a depiction of contadini life in the late-1800s, Allerona’s busiest and most populous epoch, when podere, or farmhouses, could easily house 20 or more family members, and their residents lived off what they farmed or traded for. Each pugnaloni is carefully, meticulously decorated, and each one features an angel, complete with white gown, wings and halo, pushing a plow or following an ox in the fields. The pugnaloni are decorated with fresh flowers, fruit and tiny little plants, and each has a tree in its center, decorated like a May pole and festooned with wheels of cheese, salami, bread, and other fruits of labor in the countryside. It may be a religious festival, but tell me there aren’t some pagan origins here somewhere.

After the pugnaloni are on display for a few hours, the corteo storico, or historic procession, begins. First comes the wood carving of St. Isidoro carried by several townsmen. Our priest, Don Luigi, follows closely behind and recites prayers into a loudspeaker, which is carried by another townsperson. Then comes our town philharmonic band, then the best part—about 100 or so Alleronese dressed in traditional clothes of the late 1800s. Their clothes are humble, simple and hand-sewn, so much so that you’d expect to see them piled into a horse-drawn buggy in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

This guy's too busy fishing to be bothered with farm work.

The saint, the priest, the band and the costumed Alleronese walk through the town square and head downhill in procession, and one by one, the pugnaloni carts fall in line behind them, pulled by one or two people and gently guided by a few more. Crackling fireworks fire off along the procession route, and those viewers who don’t follow the procession await its return in about a half an hour. More prayers and music ensue, and then everyone heads for lunch. (This is Italy after all, and St. Isidoro may be the patron saint of the fields, but even he wouldn't dare interrupt the sacred Sunday lunch, which starts promptly at 1 pm.)

In the afternoon, the pugnaloni are placed all around our town centro, and in every corner of the town traditional farm crafts are demonstrated, from making yarn from sheeps’ wool, to making cheese to separating wheat from chaff.

Paolo and his Nonno Gino carved these wooden models
when Paolo was just a little boy.

Foods typical of life in the campagna are offered as well. These include beans with anchovies and onions, unsalted bread and simple cookies. It’s all known as cucina povera—poor cuisine—and that pretty well sums up what country life was like in and around towns like Allerona, not just in the 19^th century but well into the 20^th, too. And people gobble the stuff up, not so much because it tastes good, but because it is a reminder of a time gone by—the comfort food of another era. It’s much like the way my mother used to buy a slice or two of head cheese at the supermarket—to my utter disgust. She grew up during the Great Depression, when her impoverished family would have received the offal of a neighbor’s pig like it was a platter full of T-bone steak. So maybe like my mom with her head cheese, the people of Allerona scarf down their cucina povera just so they don’t forget what poor tasted like.

Sweet, beautiful scenes of farm life.

For me, the real stars of the Festival of St. Isidoro will always be the pugnaloni, which I could never have imagined I’d enjoy so much. Isidoro may or may not have sent those angels to plow the fields, but beyond the legend of the saint, the pugnaloni are a tender and lovingly tended record of an age that no longer exists, but of a time that Alleronese of all ages hold close to their hearts. They remember a simpler life, when entertainment consisted of singing, telling stories, and attending dances, and when you courted the girl who lived up the road because, well, she was within walking distance and you’d grown up with her and her siblings. And maybe their food tasted better to them, because it was produced by their own hands. They toiled on the land. They lost infants and children to disease and hunger. Son and brothers left for war and never came back. A hail storm or a late spring freeze could ruin their year. And just maybe they deserved an angel to come and ease the workload a bit.

The corteo storico, or Allerona, circa 1890...

Nonno Gino at 100

Gino, in the green hat, arriving at his mass with grandson
Paolo and "little" brother, 97 year-old Mario.

It was a day we’d all been waiting for, some of us longer than others, and Nonno Gino definitely the longest. We’d all held out hope that he would make it; that he would hang on and hang tough long enough to celebrate his 100^th birthday in style.

And he did. And we did. And the whole town of Allerona did.

In the months leading up to April 27, every time Gino would start to feel low—winters are hard on him—we’d get him to talk about his party. About the food he wanted, about the music, about who would be there and who we should be sure to invite. And it worked every time—he’d rally and get excited planning his upcoming festa. What we knew for certain was that there would be porchetta—a small, whole roasted pig—and wine, lots of wine. What Gino didn’t know was that his daughter, Franca, along with Paolo’s aunts and cousins, were furiously planning a menu of antipasti to go along with the porchetta, to include a dizzying array of finger foods and so many desserts that we are still thawing and enjoying the frozen leftovers.

Neither rain, sleet or hail would keep Gino
from celebrating on his big day.

Gino wore a crisp new suit for his party, which was to commence with a mass at our town church, but not before Allerona’s philharmonic band serenaded him on the church piazza. We drove him up to town in our car and as soon as he stepped out, both the band and the skies above opened up, and he and a few hundred townspeople stood in the rain and listened to the band’s salute. There were few dry eyes in the piazza, and not because of the rain. For as much as I felt like a bystander—after all, he’s my grandfather only by virtue of a relatively recent marriage—I was hugged and kissed and told “auguri”—sort of like “best wishes”—by dozens of people, most of them waiting in the queue to get at Gino.

Inside the church, I held our squirmy daughter in my lap as the mass began. I complained quietly to my friend Estelle that someone, while hugging me, had somehow spilled some kind of lotion or body oil on me. My arms were covered with it. Estelle gave me her scarf to sop up the oil but every time I’d look at my hands or arms, more seemed to appear. It was like I was receiving the stigmata of colorless, odorless body oil, right there in the middle of Gino’s 100^th birthday mass. And it was starting to freak me out.

Gino in church with daughter Franca and grandchildren,
Anarita & Paolo. This is about when my bra started leaking. 

Don Luigi congratulates Gino, as a young admirer looks on.

The second or third time I wiped the oil clean only to see more appear, I realized, with horror, what had occurred. In order to better fill out the tight fitting blouse I had on under my jacket—I planned to doff the jacket at the after-mass party—I’d inserted two “helpers”—soft, liquid filled bra inserts that add a little oomph to one’s profile. And one of them had burst. In church. In the middle of my husband’s grandfather’s 100^th birthday mass. I looked down in quiet mortification at a huge dark stain covering the left side of my viscose jacket. So every time I brushed my arm or hand against my jacket, I picked up more oil from the leaky bra insert. Seriously. (Normally I would not use such an auspicious occasion as Gino’s big day to talk about myself, but exploding bra inserts don’t just happen every day, or in the middle of one’s husband’s revered grandfather’s 100^th birthday mass.)

As discretely as I could with a squirmy baby (who is also Gino’s great-granddaughter) in my arms, I ducked out of church and raced home to change. I figure if anyone asked, at least I could blame my exit on her. I completed my outfit change in record time, and made it back to the church to hear our priest, Don Luigi, read the record of Gino’s baptism in 1913, and his marriage in 1937 to his young bride, Zita, who died in 2001. Don Luigi, who recites the same funeral mass every time someone dies and merely changes the name of the deceased, really outdid himself this time, and delivered a eulogy that was personal, touching and tender.

Feted with roses, plaques and scrolls.

We drove to the Sala Aurora, our town assembly hall, where the band again played for Gino upon his entry. Our mayor, our pro loco, or cultural committee, and several other municipal organizations presented Gino with plaques, scrolls, and sashes, all as he sat in a chair, monarch-style. And for that day at least, he really was the King of Allerona. (My friend Susan Morgan, who is one of Nonno Gino’s biggest fans, wrote this loving account of his party.)

Gino lasted until about 9 pm, when he was too tired of eating, drinking, singing and being kissed to continue for much longer. I took the baby home around the same time, but the party went on until 11 pm or so until the last of the revelers, my husband included, adjourned to the bar. When he came in around 1 am, he was animated and his speech a little slurred. “You’re drunk!” I said, more surprised than outraged. “No I’m not!”  Paolo protested. “Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk, but it’s not every day that my grandfather turns 100. Everyone was buying me drinks.” I guess since they couldn't buy Gino drinks, Paolo was a good substitute. 

Singing with the fellas.

If it seems I glossed over the big party, that’s because for me, and I think perhaps for Gino, the after-party was the best part. Since the fireworks we’d planned for the 27^th got rained out, Franca and her crew decided to invite everyone down to her rustico, or garage, to eat leftovers and watch fireworks the next night. Our friend Isabella drove through town with a loudspeaker, and announced to all within earshot to come to Franca’s at 9 pm.

And come they did. Just as it was getting dark, cars started pulling up, and other groups arrived on foot for a snack and pyrotechnics. There were far fewer people than the night before, so the affair took on a cozy intimacy as people talked, mingled and drank in the cool night air. Gino was brought outside and sat down, again in monarch style, to watch his fireworks show, which he gazed up at with awe. It was a fitting cap to a weekend of festivities.

Coming out to watch his fireworks.

I’d wish Gino another 100 years if I thought he wanted it. But I know that he doesn't. He is tired, and we can see him winding down. He reached his milestone. He’s buried his wife, two of his three brothers, most of his friends and even his son-in-law. He doesn't need money or gifts, and I don’t believe that he longs for more time. But we sure hope he’ll stick around a little while longer. At least for a few more birthdays...

Gazing up at his fireworks show. 

Some Cool Archaeological Site or Something: Long-Awaited Surprises at Sutri

It took me nearly 8 years, but I finally got to Sutri. I first drove through this enigmatic Etruscan town in 2005, en route to Rome from an archaeological dig near Ravenna. My friend and I had opted to take the back roads, both for the scenery and in order to avoid the autostrada, which I wasn’t feeling brave enough to tackle. (Note: I conquered that fear on my next trip to Italy.) We gaped in awe when we saw Sutri’s rock-cut tombs just a few yards from the Cassia, or provincial road, but alas, we had no time to stop.

Aren't those tombs enticing?

The second time I saw Sutri was also in a car, this time traveling north from Rome. We had live fish in the car for Paolo’s aquarium so again, no time to stop.

Then when my niece announced she was coming to visit and hinted that she’d like to “see some cool archaeological site or something,” I decided Sutri would be it.

Except the February day we set out to make the 2 hour drive from Allerona, past Orvieto and south past Viterbo to get to Sutri, the weather was not cooperating. I knew that Paolo, who toils as a muratore (stonemason) all week long, would have been perfectly happy staying home and watching an endless loop of soccer matches all day long. But I was determined we were going to see “some cool archaeological site or something,” damn it, and I insisted we hit the road.

A short time after we passed Orvieto on the Cassia, which more or less follows the ancient Roman road built by Cassius Longuius in 107 BCE, which followed an even more ancient Etruscan road, the snow started. The car shimmied along the road as the snow piled up in neighboring fields. “We should go home,” said Paolo. “Or go the archaeological museum in Orvieto.”

Niche tomb, with traces of plaster & paint

“We’re almost there!” I implored. “Plus I’ve waited 5 years to see Sutri.” (Math never being my strong suit, I only realized when I sat down to write that it had actually been 8 years.) He grumbled, predicted that we would be rained or snowed out, and kept driving.

It was nearly 1 pm when we arrived, hungry, at the town of Sutri. We ducked into a bar close to the archaeological site, and grabbed a few panini. “The park closes at 2 pm,” the bar owner admonished. “Hurry up or you won’t see the church.” Not another church, I thought. Italians and their churches. Geez.

As it turns out, this wasn’t just any old church.

The “modern”—and that’s a relative term in Italy—town of Sutri sits on a tufa, or volcanic stone bluff above the ruins of ancient Sutri, or Sutrium, as it was known to the Romans. Sutri was an Etruscan town associated with Veii, the first of the so-called Etruscan cities to fall to the Romans. Its history dates back until at least the 7^th century BCE. After the Romans conquered Veii in 396 BCE, Sutri became Romanized, though it would still take a century or so of conflict before it was securely in the hands of the Romans. In the ensuing centuries, Sutri has been a retirement home for Roman legionnaires, a hangout for Charlemagne, a vacation home of stressed-out popes, and an important way-station along the Via Francigena, the pilgrims’ route from Canterbury to Rome.

The result today is an archaeological site that spans several centuries and cultures. Most notable, and the feature that caught my eye lo those many years ago, is the extensive Etruscan necropolis, or cemetery, carved into the tufa cliffside. The tombs are closed off by a not very imposing wooden fence. We asked the guide if we could look in any of them and her reply was, “Well, there’s a risk of trees and boulders falling off the cliff” (and landing on top of curious tourists) “but you can go in if you want.” So falling rocks be damned, in we went.

Roman amphitheater carved from solid rock

Though the individual tombs have been raided, gutted, enlarged and combined over the years, to use as animal stables or magazzinos (storage buildings), their mystery and appeal is still very much present. Some are slab tombs, where the deceased was laid directly on the stone bed, and others are niche tombs, where cinerary urns containing the ashes of the dead were placed into holes cut into the tombs walls. A few of the tombs still have plastered walls, and in some, slight traces of fresco are visible.

Adjacent to the necropolis is a Roman amphitheater thought to date from the 1^st century CE and quite possibly built upon an earlier Etruscan form. But this isn’t an amphitheater built from the ground up—rather, it’s built from the ground down. The rock cut amphitheater is carved out of a single giant slab of tufa, sort of a giant punchbowl scooped out in a long, laborious process that was no doubt carried out by slaves.

More of the amphitheatre

But the real surprise of Sutri is that church the barkeep told us about as I rolled my jaded eyes. It can only be seen with a guide, who led us to the end of the necropolis and unlocked a door set into the rock face. Inside are some of the most stunning frescoes I’ve ever seen. 

The church of Santa Maria Del Parto is contained entirely inside the tufa bluff, where the moisture and constant cool temperatures have kept the vividly colored frescoes, which date to the 13^th-15^th centuries, stunningly intact. The church is built into a tomb structure, which in turn was built in what used to be a mithraeum dating at least to Etruscan times. A mithraeum was a place of worship to the bull god Mithras, and if Santa Maria del Parto was indeed a mithraeum, many a bull was sacrificed inside. The site of the altar to Mithras is now the altar of the church.

There's a church inside that
hunk of rock

It’s easy to toss around words like breathtaking, stunning and fascinating when one is writing about travel or archaeology. But truly, they all apply to Santa Maria del Parto. Even Paolo said to me quietly, as we gazed at the vibrant frescoes just a nose-length from us whispered to me, “This was worth the drive.”

Fortune smiled upon us that day in Sutri, and the skies cleared long enough for us to enjoy our visit without an umbrella. (One nice thing about living in and writing from Italy, you can write things like “fortune smiled upon us” without sounding like a pretentious asshole. At least, I think you can.) And I’m happy to say that Sutri was well worth the 8 year wait. But my recommendation is that if you’re ever on the Cassia headed to or from Rome, don’t just drive by—take the time to explore this extraordinarily “cool archaeological site.”

Scroll down for more photos!

Interior of church, looking towards mithraeum
photo by Suzie Dundas

Mural, ca 13-15th C
photo by Suzie Dundas

Mural detail, photo by Suzie Dundas

Even this cat got to Sutri before I did.
photo by Suzie Dundas

"Just park inside the tomb," the guide told us.
This happens all the time in Italy.

The Down Side of Picking Up and Leaving Home

I think I’m a bit of a fickle blogger. Though less so with my paid writing, with my personal writing, I really have to be all in on a topic or I just can’t get it off the ground. That’s often the reason (or my rationalization, hmm…) that I have such long delays between blog posts—if I can’t muster the enthusiasm for the topic, I can’t fake it.

That’s why I’ve started—but not finished—three or more different blog posts, about clothes shopping in Italy—but I felt like I was grousing too much, about a great archaeological site near Viterbo—and that one I will finish!, and about male bonding, Italian style—that one was shaping up pretty well.

And then, my dad up and died.

It was the moment I knew I’d have to face, and I knew how much harder it would be after I moved abroad. When my sister and I waved goodbye to my parents as they stood in front of their assisted living facility in Florida, my pared-down possessions, including my beloved dog, Daisy, loaded in a rental car for Phase 1 of my emigration to Italy, I knew that my parents’ deaths would be part of my experience as an expatriate. And I knew those deaths, though imminent no matter where I lived, would be all the more painful when I was so far away.

And I wasn’t wrong about that.

A World War II veteran and a lifelong Democrat,
my dad at an Obama rally, 2008.

My sister called me about three weeks ago to say that my 90 year old father, who’d been slipping in mental acuity and physical health for the past year, was in the hospital with a massive infection of unknown origin. We stayed in constant contact and debated whether I should fly to Florida or whether I should wait and see what happened. Keep in mind that flying from Italy to Rome on short notice would require extra cash that we didn’t have laying around. On top of that, and even more troubling, is that I’d have to leave my 15 month old daughter, Naomi, at home with Paolo. Not that she wouldn’t be in good hands with Paolo and his family, but it’s a tender age for one’s mommy to up and leave for a week or more.

But when my sister called to tell me he’d been diagnosed with sepsis, a blood-borne infection that is more often than not fatal in the elderly, I thought for sure I needed to get on a plane. But then, he rallied. He could pick up the phone in his hospital room when I called, and he was mostly lucid when we spoke. I reminded him that the three of us already had our plane tickets to come visit in May, and told him he needed to stick around so we could drink a glass of wine or two together. “I’ll see you then,” he told me. Days later, when I made him make the same promise, he told me, “I’m looking forward to it.”

Another week passed, and there were mixed messages from the hospital staff about when he would be released, whether he’d have to go to a nursing facility for rehab, whether he’d come directly home to the ALF with my mom, whether he’d have to maintain a catheter, etc. But all signs seemed to point to him getting better, and getting out of the hospital. My sister was providing regular updates, and on a Sunday morning two weeks ago, she called to say he would probably be released to rehab that same day.

My parents in 2010 at Heathrow Airport,
en route to Italy for the second time.

Later that same Sunday, my sister’s number came up again on the caller ID. Except it was my brother-in-law on the other end of the phone, relaying a message that my sister just couldn’t bring herself to tell me. The hospital doctor had called to tell her that they’d given my dad a chest x-ray prior to releasing him, and found an extensive infection in his lungs. He was no longer responding to antibiotics, and his body was starting to shut down. Their recommendation was to stop all meds other than pain relief, and to transfer him to Hospice.

Hospice, where people go to die. This really was it.

My sister and I had a brief, tearful conversation, and then I started looking for plane tickets. I found one for the next morning, Monday, but I’d have to leave the house at the crack of dawn—earlier than that, actually—to get the train to Rome to get another train to Rome’s Fiumicino airport, to catch the first of three planes I’d need to take to get to Florida. I had to kiss my sleeping baby goodbye—that was the hardest part of leaving—knowing that I wouldn’t be there when she woke up and that she would be looking and calling for me.  I stoked her hair as she slept, and I’m pretty sure that most of my tears landed on her blanket, instead of her cheek.

At my wedding, 2009. Photo by Phillippe Diederich.

When I arrived at my destination Monday night, after 16+ hours of flying and a 7 hour time change, I saw my sister waiting just outside the security checkpoint. I tried to read her face to determine if my dad was still alive, or if I’d arrived too late. The last she’d seen him, she said, he was groggy, but still alive. I wasn’t too late. It was nearly 11 pm, but we decided to stop by the hospital anyway, just in case he was gone by morning.  He was sedated, and didn’t stir when we entered the room and spoke to and embraced him. But he was still alive.

The next day, he was in and out of consciousness, but shook his head yes when I asked if he knew who I was. We joked about how he might like some pretzels and beer, and he muttered, “beer.” Other than my mother’s name, which he repeated several times that evening as she held his hand, “beer” would turn out to be one of his last words. I think he would be pleased with that.

A little more than 48 hours later, he was gone. He passed away peacefully at Hospice. All three of his children and his wife of 63 years were with him in the hours before he died. I hope he knew so.

Meeting his newest grandchild for the
first time, 2012.

I write this not because my father’s passing is any more painful or significant than the loss of anyone else’s beloved parent. I’m lucky that he lived as long as he did, and that I got to know him for 46 years. I’m lucky that he got to visit Italy three times, including to walk me down the aisle when I married my husband, and to hold his baby granddaughter two years later. And I’m lucky that I got there before he died, to talk to him and hold his hand and kiss him goodbye.

His loss has made me reflect on the less “glamorous” aspects of life as an expatriate, far from friends and family. I had to follow my heart to move to Italy and roll the dice with Paolo. My parents waved me on and urged me to drive away that day, with my dog and few important possessions in the car with me. I took the same leap that many have taken before me when they’ve moved abroad. But nothing really prepares you for the hole in your heart for the things you leave behind, no matter how much you anticipate the pain.

I know everyone “of a certain age” who lives abroad has felt the same fear and foreboding that I’ve felt these last four years in Italy. And now that those chickens have come home to roost, and one of my parents is gone and the other is so far away. Our lives and lifestyles—at least as they’re imagined by others—may be envied by many. But we don’t leave behind one world and embark on a great adventure living abroad without the daily knowledge that we’ve left a piece of our hearts—and ourselves, behind.

My dad couldn’t stick around to drink that glass of wine with me in May. And for that I will always mourn.  But I’ll raise a glass in his honor anyway, and maybe I’ll drink the whole damn bottle. I’m so sorry you won't be there to share it with me, Daddy.

Back home in Italy, where I belong.

A Day in the Life: Reciprocity in an Umbrian Hill Town

I had a remarkable couple of days last week. Not because anything particularly huge or important happened to me, but because of a series of events that, while normal to the people who live in Allerona, were, once I thought about them, really quite remarkable when seen through a stranger’s eyes.

It started last Thursday. I had to go to the hospital in Orvieto for a routine doctor’s visit. But let me preface that by saying that lately, going to Orvieto—or rather, getting to Orvieto, is anything but routine for me. Since October, I've not driven farther than Allerona Scalo, about 7 kilometers from our house. I am without an Italian driver’s license, and though my US license has not expired, I can no longer drive legally in Italy. 

This would totally be me if I get stopped again
by the carabinieri. Image courtesy of castelvetranonews.it.

Upon establishing residency in Italy, I had one year to get my Italian driver’s license. I still haven’t done it, and I can’t squeak by anymore. The process of studying for and getting my license, not to mention my case of winter cabin fever that’s the stuff of Edgar Allan Poe, are the subjects of another blog post, which I will write. After I've passed the Italian driver’s test. Which I will do. Soon.

But back to my story. I had to get to Orvieto Hospital for an 11 am appointment. I asked my mother-in-law, Franca, to ask my sister-in-law, Anarita (they live on separate floors of the same house) if by chance, she had Thursday off and if so, did she by chance need to go to Orvieto?

It turns out that Anarita did have the day off, and did want to go grocery shopping in Orvieto. Perfect. She and Franca could drop me at the hospital, do their shopping and come back to get me.

Since it’s difficult for me to get to Orvieto, I decided to take advantage of the free ride and make a hair appointment as well. My hair would take hours to color and highlight, but Diana, Paolo’s cousin, would pick me up from the salon in the late afternoon, since she had to go to Orvieto anyway. Everything was falling into place nicely.

Oh, and my baby? No worries. Margarita, our morning babysitter, would stay late until Franca and Anarita passed by our house, after they’d dropped me at the salon. They’d pick up Naomi and take her to Franca’s where she’d stay until I could come get her after my hair was done.

Your Italian family will take you where you need to go.
Image courtesy of www.howretro.com.

The plan seemed golden, and started off well. I exited the elevator at the hospital to find Franca and Anarita waiting at the bar (yes, our hospital has a bar, but it’s a coffee bar) to take me up to my salon in Orvieto Centro. Except I couldn't reach Diana to reconfirm that she’d pick me up at the salon. I called her mother, Graziella (they live on separate floors of the same house—are you sensing a pattern here?), and she told me that Diana had been unexpectedly called into work and could not pick me up at the salon.

I kept my appointment, as Anarita assured me they’d find some way and someone to pick me up. Paolo called me around 2 pm from Franca’s, where he’d gone for lunch, to say that his brother-in-law Giancarlo (Anarita’s husband) would come get me. When should he leave for the 20 minute trip to Orvieto? I asked the hairdresser, and we agreed that I’d be done by 3:15 or 3:20 at the latest. Except that at 3:05, it was clear that we’d need more time for my hair. I called Anarita’s house, but Giancarlo had just left for Orvieto. Damn, I thought, he’s going to be annoyed at having to wait.

Just don't complain about the method
of transportation.

3:20 came and went, as did 3:30, 3:40 and its cousins. Finally, at 4 pm, as I was paying my bill, my phone rang. It was Cecilia, Anarita and Giancarlo’s oldest daughter (and Paolo’s niece and Franca’s granddaughter). Oh no, I thought. They’re waiting in the car and wondering where the hell I am. But no. Instead, Giancarlo had called his home, because he didn’t have my number, to tell his wife, Anarita, to call me to tell me that he was parked in front of a church a hundred yards or so from the salon. Since Anarita couldn't find my phone number, she had Cecilia call to tell me this. I trotted to Giancarlo’s waiting car and upon entering, apologized repeatedly. No worries; he didn't mind waiting.

The next morning, Friday, I had to go to the doctor’s office. On this day, there were six people in the waiting room ahead of me, including Antonella, Paolo’s mother’s first cousin, who lives in the house next to Franca and is married to Peppe, who is a longtime friend and coworker of Paolo’s.  Antonella’s father is Zio Mario, the 96 year-old “little” brother of Franca’s father and Paolo’s grandfather, our beloved Nonno Gino. You still with me?

Antonella had arrived early and was the first one in and out of Marco’s office. She was going to the grocer in town; did I need anything? Trash bags, I said. I was in urgent need of trash bags.

Meanwhile, Paolo’s cousin Diana sent me a text that she was going to stop by the house around 9 am to show me photos from her recent vacation. I texted her back that I wouldn't be there at 9, because I was waiting to see the doctor. She texted back, asking if, since I was at the doctor’s anyway, I would get prescriptions for her Nonna Rosina (who is the mother of Graziella). No problem, I texted her, but which ones did she need? No reply. Finally, as it was close to my turn to go in, I phoned Graziella. She needs all of them, Graziella said, “especially the one for depression!”

They will come clean your house.

Nonna Rosina is 94. She has dressed in black since her husband died decades ago. She never leaves the house except to hang laundry out on the front terrace. She won’t hold Naomi because country lore is that old people’s breath is bad for babies. Seriously? Antidepressants? I have to wonder how those are working out for her…

By the time Antonella returned with my garbage bags and change, I’d forgotten that I’d asked her to buy them for me. Finally it was my turn to see Marco, and I got the prescriptions I needed, plus a stack for Diana’s Nonna Rosina.  (We do have the equivalent of HIPPA laws in Italy, but I guess Marco figures I have little need for high blood pressure and diabetes meds, or anti-depressants.)

Carmine, the pharmacist next door to the doctor, filled some prescriptions and had to order others to be delivered later that afternoon. I had a few euros with me, which covered the cost of mine, but I didn't have the €10 needed to pay for Rosina’s. No problem, said Carmine, pay me later. He also told me to remind Franca that some of her prescriptions would be in that afternoon.

They will babysit your children.

I took the prescriptions to Graziella, who pulled €10 out of her purse to pay me. Not me, I said, you need to pay Carmine. But she didn't want to walk all the way up to the town piazza, where the pharmacy is located, as it was a cold day and a steep climb from her house.  Franca has to go anyway, I told her, just tell her to pay him €10 and give her the money later. Problem solved. Oh, and yes, Graziella would come to my house later that afternoon to babysit, because Franca was not available for her regular afternoon Naomi-care.

Like I said, just a normal couple of days in Allerona. For as much as I’m already well aware of—and indebted to—my new family’s willingness to help one another, I’m still blown away by it from time to time. No one thinks that doing for others is a big deal, or an imposition. They know that when the time comes, others will do for them, too. It’s a way of life and a way of thinking that I hadn't had much experience with prior to moving to Italy. Maybe that was partly my own fault, but I think it has more to do with cultural difference than inherent selfishness. 

They'll even let you adopt their cool nonno...

It’s easy to get fed up with the pettiness and banality of life in a small Italian town, especially if you haven't driven more than 7 kilometers out of town in four months. So it’s a very good thing for this straniera that normal, ordinary, remarkable days like these happen to me every so often. 

The Falo – Allerona’s Party of the Year

There are some murky traditions in little Italian towns like Allerona. Some have their origins in pagan times, when prayers and sacrifices were made to the gods of the harvest. These have mostly been Christianized, but one doesn’t need to look too deep to see their pantheistic roots.

The guys start hauling wood in the cold early morning air.
This calls for wine and bacon.

Then, there are those traditions that started more recently, with a bunch of guys who like to drink wine, play with matches and remember a dear friend.

I’m talking about the Falo, our annual town bonfire. It’s one of the few non-religious parties we throw here in Allerona. There are no processions or masses or benedictions—there’s just a big bonfire, a bunch of people, a lot of wine, and of course, pork. Other than the Feast of the 7 Fishes, I don’t think Italians can have a proper party without consuming a lot of pork.

Paolo and a group of his friends founded—or rather, refounded—the Falo four years ago, as a way to remember their friend Stefano, who had died the year before. Paolo recalls similar holiday bonfires when he was a little boy, but the tradition had died away well before he reached adulthood, until the guys brought it back in tribute to Stefano. The first year, the bonfire was held in the piazza della chiesa…our town’s most important piazza, surrounded by houses on three sides and the church on the fourth. That was a big hit with the people in attendance, but there were legitimate concerns that it would a) smoke out the neighbors b) catch someone’s house on fire or—and this was the most credible risk—c) crack the paving stones of the piazza with its immense heat. Mostly, those not in attendances were annoyed with the noise levels of those in attendance, and said solidly, “Never again.”

You know what a tough job like this calls for?
Mmm, bacon...

So the next year—the year I arrived in Allerona, the Falo got moved to the campo sportivo, which is our town soccer field. Though it lacks the intimacy of the piazza, it allows for a bigger bonfire, reduces the risk of revelers dying from smoke inhalation and doesn’t scare our town priest, Don Luigi, that the church is going to burn to the ground. Plus, there are no neighbors to piss off.

Paolo and his friends keep several appointments in the run-up to the Falo, all of which, naturally, involve drinking wine and eating lots of pork products. 
One early morning in early February, they meet at their friend Fabio’s house (see, there are real live Italians named Fabio, not just proboscidean Italian-American models) and have breakfast, which consists of wine, bread, and grilled ventresca (thick-sliced bacon) and sausages. 

Lots of small fires are lit to cook the bacon.

Then they set out to find wood. With several trucks and tractors, they scour the “white roads”—the unpaved dirt tracks that delve deep into our forests—for fallen trees. These they gather up and transport back to Fabio’s, who has plenty of open space, and neighbors disinclined to call Code Enforcement. The trees are cut into logs and stacked in his yard, where they will stay and dry out until autumn.  This year, because Fabio’s dad several years ago planted rows of pine trees way too close together, they cut several of these mature trees as well, as they were choking each other out.

Sometime in November, another breakfast with an identical menu is held at Fabio’s. This time, the guys load all the wood onto trucks, and transport it to the campo sportivo, where it will sit, covered, for several weeks.

That big 'un in the back is the main event
everyone is waiting for.

Both of these breakfast events sound simple enough…tuck into a hearty breakfast and then get to work. But much like the vendemmia, all work and no play is just not the Italian style. So the guys drink, dawdle, play cards, or play “Morra,” a hand-game where each player throws out a number between one and five with his fingers, while simultaneously shouting the total he thinks his and his opponents hand will add up to. I don’t know why they have to shout, or how they keep the numbers straight in their heads, especially since with their free hand they are keeping a running tally of the rounds they’ve won. (See video above for a Morra demonstration, with a wine assist...)

Paolo usually comes back from these breakfast missions around 11 am, hoarse from playing Morra, reeking just a little bit from the cigarette or two he bummed from a friend, a bit dehydrated and not very hungry for lunch.

And so it begins..

A week or so before the Falo, the guys set off on their third and final pre-bonfire mission: to stack the wood for the fire. This is done in an evening and yes, there is wine and grilled pork products involved. Paolo comes home and inevitably reports to me how this year’s bonfire is bigger than ever, and he’s always right.

The Falo always takes place December 23, unless it gets rained out. Townspeople start gathering around 7 pm, when a series of small cooking fires is lit at the campo. A couple of the guys have already gone to the store to stock up on sausages, ventresca and loaves of bread. People usually bring something to share, like a wheel of cheese or a platter or tozzetti—the biscotti like cookies that everyone eats around Christmastime. There is a cardboard box with a slot at the top for offerte or donations of 2, 5 or 10 euro to cover the cost of the food. Someone brings a stereo system. There’s always lots of wine, and it’s always several people’s home brew, and there are always whispered debates about whose homemade wine is good and whose is schifo (gross) or troppo dolce (too sweet).

Getting warmer now...

Around 9 pm, the big bonfire gets lit. And by big, I mean ginormous—it’s about 3 stories tall. It’s quickly consumed by flames, and the effect is nothing short of mesmerizing. Though the heat soon drives us all several meters back from the fire, children, adults, seniors, men and women alike are all hypnotized by the undulating flames licking the sky, the crackling wood and the intense heat radiating on our faces.

A pyramid-shaped piece of wood tops the Falo every year, and once it falls—always into the infernal center of the structure—it signals the turning point for the fire. Though it may burn for several more hours, the pinnacle falling means that those who are tired can go home—they’ve seen the best of the show—and the rest of us can go back to eating, talking, and dancing.

Lots of people, Paolo and me included—at least when I’m not pregnant or breastfeeding—leave the Falo a little tipsy and not quite walking in a straight line. No one has far to go to get home. We leave our coats outside where the smoke can air out of them, and still wake up in the morning with our hair, skin and bed-sheets smelling of wood smoke. 

Can't...stop...looking at the flames...

But that’s okay. The Falo happens only once a year, and it’s always a good party. I’m sure Paolo’s friend Stefano would have enjoyed it immensely. And next year, like the guys always say, it will be even bigger.

Scroll down for a short video of the 2010 Falo, complete 

with dancing.