sagra dei ceci

There are 20 regions in Italy. I'm happy to report that in two days we breezed through 7 of them, and stopped in a foreign country along the way. I'm not quite as happy to report that there was a whole 'lotta time spent in the car.

Our Italian road tripping was all in the name of the mighty cece; or as it's less elegantly referred to in english...the chickpea. Last weekend in the small Abruzzan hilltown of Navelli there was the Sagra dei Ceci, a multi-day celebration of the chickpea with an additional spotlight on saffron. Think children dressed in chickpea outfits, donkeys racing in dusty circles, and a menu focused on all things chickpea and saffron.

Getting there was a long haul taking nearly 12 hours. For a healthy chunk of that time we sat in beach traffic that crawled to a complete stop. But during moments of great excitement our car would begin to move, creeping alongside cars filled with beach balls and beach towels, and bored children antagonizing small dogs.

When we couldn't take another minute in the car we had a late lunch in another country. Really. We went to San Marino. It's a small republic in the mid/northwest of Italy that seems to exist solely for tourism and motorcycle racing. I'm not sure where they do the motorcycle racing that dominates their banners and billboards, but I sure didn't have a problem finding the tourists.

Before long we were driving through mountain tunnels cutting through the Abruzzan hills. One tunnel was over 10 kilometers long and it was a few kilometers into this tunnel that our driver felt the need to tell us about the time his car exploded into a wall of fire midway through New York's Holland Tunnel. A wall of fire you say? In a tunnel? Thanks a lot.

A childhood friend of our friend lives in Navelli so we had a very warm welcome from the start. And despite it being a very small town (population 625) we spent healthy amounts of time meeting the locals and eating chick peas with them. (After they'd spent all day cooking and preparing the food.)



We ate in a large piazza filled with plastic chairs and tables that slowly filled to capacity as nightfall came. Eventually, each table was heaped with plates of food and plastic tumblers of wine. All foods featured either chick peas or saffron or were some version of a local favorite. Chick pea soup. Chick pea pasta. Chick peas toasted in sugar. Saffron risotto. Pasta with saffron cream. Porchetta. And grilled lamb. And salsiccia after 6pm.



Children ran around and the band played late into the night. It was a street party at its best. And it's also the first place we've seen a scorpion in Italy. Come to think of it, it's the first time I've ever seen a scorpion outside of a cage. And you'd better believe we checked under the pillows that night before going to bed.



Part of Navelli is built into the hills and when you follow the rising and curving maze of pathways, you find homes damaged and deserted during World War II. Bombed out and never re-inhabited, their interiors are overgrown with grass and weeds. Crumbled staircases are carpeted by brush and rise to second floors defined by walls with gaping holes. And some floors have just tumbled away, leaving behind their skeletal supporting beams to bleach in the sun.

You find chickens pecking at the dirt and tall white geese stretching their necks in the dark shadows. But turn in another direction and you wander towards residences where life goes on, where there's the smell of roasted peppers on the breeze. And the locals and artists who keep this place alive peek out of their beaded curtains to check on the strangers.



All the while, staring back from the the crest of hills facing town are the remains of a burned forest. Like a donkey's ragged mane they stood black and scratchy against the blue sky. Only weeks ago the hills had gone up in flames. And the flames had poured down the hills and rushed the town. They were stopped, but not before damaging the forests where the festival was traditionally held. This year's Ceci Festival became not only a way for the town to come together but also an opportunity to raise money to restore what was lost.

Our Sunday lunch was too good to be true. We ate at the home of our hosts. There were eight of us around a long table, with a checked cloth laid between us. There was lasagna al forno made by Nonna (Grandma). And grilled eggplant in olive oil made by Nonna. And a soft chocolate cake made by Nonna. And I was sitting next to Nonna and she kept saying to me, with true desire in her voice, "Mangia! Mangia!" Eat! Eat!



And Nonno (Grandpa) was hard of hearing so people had to shout, "Nonno! Do you want mortadella?!" And of course he did. And when the fruit came, after the mortadella, it was the sweetest softest fruit I've ever had. It was laid out in colorful piles, with water still clinging to the skins. The peaches were bright apricot inside and the figs were so soft that they nearly poured out of their skins. And the watermelon was a delicious round of heavy wet fuschia.

Oh my, si mangia bene a Navelli.



After lunch we sat on kitchen chairs alongside the house as the wind rushed by. We were told that the wind comes up like that every afternoon. There was a tiny kitten tripping through the flower beds; its mother a sleek Siamese that couldn't care less. And when we tried to feed the chickens, they didn't want our watermelon rinds.

Nonno showed us his storeroom and the sacks of almonds collected from his daily walks. There were laundry lines hung with drying onions next to buckets of chicken feed. And pointing at the gnarled piles of firewood, we found out that Nonno cuts all of that timber himself.



Sunday afternoon's celebrations started with the town children dressing in traditional red and white garb, their costumes edged with dried chickpeas that had been delicately sewn into place. They carried baskets of chickpeas and waited with the rest of the town until a group of donkeys and their riders arrived in the piazza. We then followed the donkeys down through the town until we all arrived in a dusty field.



The Palio was held in a field where any remaining shrubs had been trampled by the crowds. Modeled after the world-famous horse race run in Sienna's main piazza, this was on a smaller and more humble scale. Several donkeys, coached by a rider and a guide both dressed in satiny renaissance ensembles, would run a three lap race. However, to say "run" implies an urgency not shared by the donkeys. For the most part they rambled their way along and ignored the imploring shoves and shouts of their riders. Use this link to view footage of the race: http://ilcentro.repubblica.it/multimedia/home/1079994

As shown in the video above, a winner was eventually found and the crowd was pleased. We then all made our way back to the main piazza to celebrate the winning donkey, the ceci beans, and the fact that summer in Italy is a fine thing.

The way back to Milan took 7 hours (7pm-2am) and featured not only a perfect view of the Big Dipper from the backseat, but a rest stop with a steely Doberman Pincher in addition to the usual overpriced gas. (Note: a tank of gas these days goes for about 60 euro = $89.)

But that 60 euro does get you a breeze-by tour of the big names of Italy: Rome, Florence, Bologna, Milano. We just kept following the highway signs from one big city to the next in the hopes that their lack of beaches would also mean a lack of returning-from-the-beach traffic. Unlike on the way there, we didn't even need a map.

All we needed was more of Nonna's grilled eggplant in olive oil. And guess what... she'd packed us some before we left and insisted we take it along. I guess the motto of Italian grandmas (Mangia! Mangia!) applies even in moving vehicles.

f is for ferie

It's that time of year in Milan. You'll find it impossible to buy the 14 euro cube of cheese you've innocently had your eye on. Or the 24 euro tub of gelato featuring a whopping two flavors. And just give up trying to order the 50 euro plate of goose salami.

It's not that Milan has been stricken by a wave of sensible and clearly-displayed pricing... We've dropped those hopes along with the idea that the customer is always right and the vague notion that the customer might warrant a blink of attention while shopping. Instead, I'll point at the calendar and remind you that the lack of over-priced goods available in Milan is simply due to the month of the year.



It is August and Milan is closed.

There are entire stretches of neighborhood where every shop is closed. They've been emptied of their inventory and shut behind metal gates and papered windows. There are small signs with drawings of palm trees and sail boats stuck to the windows. These signs all basically say, happy vacation and what the hell are you still doing in Milan?

It's true. Most all of Milan has gone. They've gone to the mountains or the sea and they've clogged the highways with their mass exodus. You can see their absence in apartment windows with all of the security shades drawn. And you can feel it walking along sidewalks empty of their usual rushers and dawdlers. And where, for the love of Milano, are the sidewalk scooters nipping at your heels?



The only remaining neighbors are the ones you wish would move away forever. The ones that sneak into your bedroom and torment you before dawn, yet always wait until well after you've drifted off to sleep. The mosquitoes are here. They haven't left. And despite the proximity of endless and what must be incredibly-alluring rice paddies surrounding Milan, they never will.

Despite the mosquitoes we've almost come to appreciate the surreal August quiet that strangles Milan. Today we even found a gelato. And maybe tomorrow there'll be an olive breadstick. But the thing we're really excited about... The thing we just can't wait for...

September. When the restaurants open again.

Biennale di Venezia

What draws someone through heavy black curtains into a tiny dark room to watch black and white video of people crawling through forest snow? Or better yet, looping footage of a naked woman perched in a tree mimicking the squawking of nearby birds? (Believe me, the initial intrigue of her nudity is quickly overwhelmed by the exuberance of her squawking.) I've seen these videos and I can tell you that the one thing they've taught me is that if I ever knew the value of video art, I've long since forgotten.

The convenient benefit to my (and our) lack of appreciation for this art medium is that it makes the Venice Biennale easier to attend. Once you realize you don't care about what's behind the curtains, you stop having to look behind them. This may sound like the lack of an open mind, but in reality when you have an already limited amount of time to focus on art, this technique gives you more time to focus on the art you just might like.

Easily the coolest and most economical attraction in Venice these days, the Venice Biennale is a sprawling showcase of contemporary art that's really amazing. There is just so - much - art. The exposition is organized in two major zones of Venice: the Giardini della Biennale and the Arsenale; and both are interesting places in their own right.



The Giardini della Biennale is basically the grounds for a World's Fair. Gravel paths and promenades arrive at diverse buildings in every style, each built by a specific country and housing that country's official art exhibit. For example, the United States' building is straight off the grounds of Thomas Jefferson's Monticello and features the art of Felix Gonzalez-Toress. What's most compelling about this work is it's interactivity; one piece is a carpet of black candies that is replenished daily, replacing the pieces removed by the passing audience.



The Arsenale is a colossal shipyard in the midst of Venice's sprawling waterside. The building you walk through never seems to end and the art is everywhere. This part of the exhibition is as intriguing for its structure as for the art on display -- rails from the previous transport systems and cisterns once filled with flammable liquids share the space with contemporary arts biggest names. For a split second on entering the Chinese pavilion, you don't know what is art and what is structure. I'm hardly the person to ask about what this means to contemporary art.

We took in the exhibition over a weekend - one day devoted to the Giardini and another to the Arsenale. At 15 euro for admission to both I'd say this ticket is one of the best buys in Venice, if not all of Italy. The Biennale closes on November 21 and if I had the time I'd truly consider going back for more.



Most Powerful Moment: Eric Duyckaerts, Belgium
(AKA: Most Likely To Injure Small Children)

The most compelling moment of the entire exposition was one split-second in the Belgian exhibit. We were inside the curving confusion of a glass and mirror maze. Each turn you took confused your position not only by simple geography but because the mirrors and glass created virtual copies of you and everyone else in the room.

It was very difficult to know where anyone was, and where the glass stopped and real space began. This confusion is best enjoyed at a slow, wandering pace. The only person who didn't know this was the very small boy who became so excited by the reflections and light that he ran straight for the exhibit - and straight into a glass wall. You heard the contact before you saw him standing there, confused and in pain. His joy and excitement had been crushed in one upsetting instant and in that moment every piece of lofty art fell right back down to what human feeling really means.



Reason To Start A Fanclub: Sophie Calle, France

Forget croissants and the Eiffel tower and head straight for Sophie Calle. This French artist caught us both by surprise and we couldn't help gravitating to the witty and smart simplicity of what she's up to. Her showcase piece, entitled "Take Care of Yourself," was a sprawling examination of a break-up email she'd received from a lover. But - and here's where she trumps the expected alone-in-this-world artist pathos - this exhibit showcases the perspectives of 100+ women who she asked for their own analysis of the message. Each woman responded in her own way; one grammatically diagrammed the sentences, another turned it into textured Braille, while still another responded with a comic monologue delivered while chopping onions. This is multi-media at its best and sheds so much light on the email that in the end it matters far less than the conversations about it. We bought it hook, line and sinker. And we also bought the book.



Best Left For The Experts: Various Video Artists

As previously mentioned. Even if you call your video piece "Fun Palace" we're not going in. I promise.



Strongest Motivation To Move Quickly: Nordic countries (Finland, Norway, Sweden)

A long tall wall in this exhibit is blanketed with never-ending yellow and black dart boards. Like a stationary storm of bumble bees the wall seems to pulsate and throb. And every few seconds a dart pierces the surface. And then another. And another. Until the dart-thrower has no darts left in hand.

At this point the individual must decide to brave the firing wall, and quickly get close enough to retrieve a handful of darts. Except that the darts are hard to find in the excess of pattern and this is not the place to dawdle while other dazed art-lovers, wanting to be a part of this great moment in the history of art, hurl more darts at the wall.

So run, quick to the dartboard wall. Notice that there are a great many darts resting high on the boards, where they aren't easily reached. Decide that you can reach them if you just jump high enough. Jump. Reach. Grab one. Jump. Reach. Again. Then quick, run back to where it's safe. Where the hipsters in all black and designer tennis shoes can't take out their espresso-fueled angst on you by missing the wall of dartboards, and instead, lodging a dart in you.



Lose Your Husband Here: Padiglione Italia

The Italian pavilion is a very large space. By function, it has to be. It has to provide enough emptiness and open space to display a great many pieces of wild and wooly art without having the pieces turn on each other. Yes, yes, I know; the art needs to breath, the open areas need to mirror the energetic ones. Ok, great. But wouldn't the appreciation of the art be increased if people didn't lose the folks they came with? Or better yet, shouldn't the folks we came with not wander off? Any ideas there, Stefano? In the meantime I guess I can just hang out with the Italian hipsters... Maybe they know what I should like about video art.



Best Coffee Break Background: Paula Trope (BRA)

Think of that one crazy neighbor in town who has a backyard filled with an obsessive collection of some single object. There are piles of this object colonizing and suffocating every available space with pockets of brave weeds and grass growing up through the voids. Now imagine if those piles were of bricks and concrete blocks painted to look like the vivid buildings of a sprawling Latin American city. Drop these piles into the center of the Giardini della Biennale and put some chairs and tables nearby. This, my friends, is the best place in all of Venice for an espresso. (And far easier than climbing over the crazy neighbor's fence.)

sono io

When glaciers crack it sounds like thunder bursting and then rolling across the sky. This sound is even more dramatic if you've paused for a lunch break of cheese (Toma) and salame (Ungherese) and suddenly wonder just how far you are from that glacier. On Saturday we quickly concluded we were at a safe distance but weren't quite so sure about the guy laying shirtless along the edge of the glacial lake.

We had hiked to a mountain ridge over which you could see glaciers hugging the rocky peaks. The route there was overrun with mountain flowers clustered in vibrant swaths. We crossed more than one creek running with the melted water of glaciers we would soon see. And there were cavorting topless children of both genders. Thankfully, as I've mentioned in previous posts, Italians seem a tough group to burn.



At our glacial vista we got to talking with some of the other lingering hikers and met a group of Sicilian trekking club members who were traveling through as part of a longer trip. While surprised by the briefness of our weekend visit they began to understand our time restriction when we explained that, unlike our Italian brethren, Americans aren't off for the entire month of August... Should we find some vacation time to swing through Sicily, though, we've been invited to hike Etna. These are the same guys who, later over dinner at our shared hotel, would inform us that their hike across the actual glacier resulted in the un-icing of a pick ax from the 1940's. Serious hikers, yes.



Neither Stefano nor I had never been this close to a glacier before and we were in awe of the blue ice imperceptibly dragging its way down the mountainside. And each time it cracked, our interest only heightened. However, the aforementioned topless children, by now covered with fleece and wool, would hardly cast a glance. Apparently, 7 year olds who spend their weekends in the Alps are a little less in awe of all the fuss than the city folks. (They even bring Nintendo Gameboys to fill in when nature can't quite pull its entertainment weight.)

On the way back down we took a small detour to rest our feet in one of the cold creeks snaking its way down from the glacier. The water was cold and clear and a small party of butterflies took up shop on our scattered shoes and socks. It's become our usual refrain, but I have to say again - it's hard to believe these places are so relatively close to Milan. We were in Val Gressoney - one of the mountain valleys in Aosta - and in sum total it took us about four hours to get there (two trains and a bus) from Milan's Central Station.



The towns in this valley could well pass for Swiss hamlets. There are the telltale chalets, and the bell towers rising in front of snowy peaks. But there's also a non-stop wave of Italians with babies and dogs. And if they don't have one, they have two of the other. We felt a little deficient in both categories and so rebuffed our outsider status by indulging in gelato. And then, not one half hour later, we dug into pastries and espresso while, I kid you not, we were surrounded by babies and dogs. Thank goodness for the man eating an entire fondue pot of melted chocolate by himself.



The following day, before beginning our trek home, we took a series of cable cars up and over mountains to what looked like a martian landscape. Reddish and rocky, it was cold and the air was thin. The cable car operator told us it was a uniquely clear day out and that we could see Switzerland from our vantage point. We're a little less well-versed in mountain geography but the clarity of our view ended only behind several gigantic and distant mountain ranges in all directions.

On our way back down to a refugio lunch of savory crepes and cold Cokes, we shared a cable car with two ladies. It was cold up there and so I sniffled. And then - ok - maybe I sniffled again. At this point one of the ladies turned to her friend and, in Italian, told her to take a Kleenex. The woman, quietly, told her friend that it wasn't her who was doing the sniffling. Non sono io, she said. It was a great moment to know Italian. Sono io, I said. "It's me."



There was laughter and a Kleenex was foisted upon me. Then attentions turned to the roving fleet of cows whose bells were sighing on the grassy meadows below our cable car. The same lady who provided the Kleenex told her friend that she could never stand to be around those bells all day. That it would drive her crazy. Just as I was thinking about how much I loved the music of those bells.

Again, I guess it's all about perspective. And our perspective is one that we like to keep changing. Climbing up to the glaciers. Putting our feet in the creeks. Waiting for the butterflies to take off, rather than shooing them away.

colazione americana

Muffins were being eaten with forks and knives, and people didn't quite know where to put the syrup, but I can assure you - no one left hungry.

Feeding breakfast to our friends, in our favorite bar, came out of a conversation we had over aperitivo with the bar owner back in June. We had been talking about food and the question of what is truly American food came up. We decided that American breakfast was a uniquely-fashioned meal and that maybe it was one of the best examples of real American food. And so the breakfast event was born - why not invite friends to the bar, take over the kitchen, and share some waffles with the crowd? Not to mention the perfectly-made American coffee (and orange juice) offered by our Italian hosts.



Up to their elbows in waffles, our Italian friends had questions like, "Do Americans really eat all of this for breakfast?" while the Americans asked, "Where did you find the bacon?" An enlightening morning for all, no? We explained to the Italians that eating all of these things at once was really more of a weekend activity while the Americans were relieved to find out that smoked pancetta doubles as bacon when fried in a pan.

Small sidenote on bacon procurement: When Stefano went to the store to buy the bacon (ie: smoked pancetta) he ordered a quantity that was large enough to feed 20 people. The butcher looked at him as if he were crazy and asked if he really meant to order a far smaller amount. No, Stefano insisted, I want that previously-unheard-of gigantic quantity. When the butcher asked if he wanted one large slab, Stefano insisted he wanted it thinly sliced. Met with a confused stare Stefano explained that he was feeding a large group for breakfast. Only then did the butcher chime in with, "Oh, right, you people eat this for breakfast."

Yes, "us people" eat it for breakfast. And when you make scrambled eggs in the bacon pan, everyone - including "you Italians" - asks for seconds. Do not doubt the power of bacon.



Stefano was the main architect of the breakfast and started crafting the meal the day before. He not only braved the Italian supermarket battleground to acquire the ingredients, but also made three dozen muffins and a large bucket of batter. (Thanks also to our allies in the US who mailed crucial ingredients not easily found on this side of the Atlantic.)

On the day of the breakfast we went to the bar several hours early to familiarize ourselves with the kitchen and to start making the piles of waffles (original and chocolate chip), pancakes (original and blueberry), scrambled eggs and bacon. The only casualty of the morning was the hash browns which despite last minute resuscitation attempts by our friend, the owner of the bar and our right-hand man all morning, went down in a smoky haze. Alas. Even culinary experts can't save hash browns gone wrong.



It was a great morning and it felt a bit like home with the busy kitchen, everyone rushing about to be ready in time, and a lack of pot holders at the ready. There was the profumo of waffles, the sizzle of bacon, and the chatter of friends. Only this time the chatter was in Italian and English. And there was a dog at the table.



But in Italy there's always a dog at the table. This time it was the waffles that were special.

o é per l'opera

Earlier in the week we walked over to La Scala to see the second opera in our subscription and began the night by pinching ourselves. We often do this; the pinching ourselves routine. Living in Italy, in general, kind of lends itself to it. You'll be walking along and stop in your tracks, woozy at the realization of the luck of your situation. And seeing an opera at the "real" La Scala in Milan only brings on more pinching.

For several years we had a subscription to the Lyric Opera of Chicago where we sat several stories above the stage, the performers were the size of Barbie dolls off in the distance, and inevitably one of us would nod off -- but we loved it. It's only when you come to La Scala that you realize it has its stand-alone reputation for a reason. A rather intangible reason, but one you feel as soon as you enter the space.

Maybe it's proximity. La Scala, by comparison to the Lyric, feels nothing short of intimate. Embracing the main floor is a horseshoe of balconies and our seats are on the second balcony from the top. A golden glow blankets the whole auditorium and the red seats give the space a fireplace warmth. We sit in the first of two rows on the left side of the stage, our seats facing the other side of the horseshoe rather than the stage itself.



To see the stage we lean forward and peer over the edge and to our left. It's like a little kid trying to see what's on the kitchen table except you can't throw yourself too far over the edge or the person seated next to you will elbow you in the ribs because you're blocking their already tenuous view. Stefano likes to note that during his brief stint selling tickets at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra he had to make very clear when a seat had any sort of obstructed view of the stage. At La Scala, you find out about the obstruction only once you show up. We found an obstruction of about 20%. As in: we can't see 20% of the stage, ever. And don't even ask about the people sitting behind us.

Having mentioned the difficulties involved in spectating a La Scala performance I can only say that it's well worth it. In fact, these are the most enjoyable performances I've ever seen. We've been to Madama Butterfly (Puccini) in February and now La Traviata (Verdi) this past week and I have never felt so connected with the performers, the music, and the story.

That being said, understanding exactly what's going on in the opera is not as important as you'd think. At La Scala each seat has it's own small subtitle screen which displays the libretto in real time in either English or Italian. Sometimes we choose Italian and it's fascinating to realize that these operas are being performed in a language we (sort of) know. But as you might imagine, it's hard to lean entirely over the edge of the balcony, and at the same time read a small subtitle screen located near your knees. Somethin's gotta give.



The most confusing moment for us at La Traviata had nothing to do with the narrative. As a story, La Traviata is about as direct a melodrama as possible: couple falls in love, couple runs away together, evil father does evil deed, couple parts, the truth comes out, fatal illness strikes, couple comes back together, she dies in his arms. No confusion there. Rather, after a long aria by the main character, which ended with her falling to the ground, one lone individual shouted a short but confident "boo." Quickly after, there was a mix of light applause and general noise but it was the "boo" that still hung in the room. And we weren't entirely sure what he had found so appalling.

The reputation of La Scala's audience as difficult and critical is valid. In fact, earlier this year they literally booed someone off the stage and his understudy took over for the rest of the engagement. (To be a bit of a gossip I'll let you know that the woman who was boo'd at our performance just so happens to be married to the performer who walked off the stage never to return - and rumor is that the crowd hasn't forgiven either of them for it.) During a performance there are often shouts of brava/bravo, but then there are also the whistles, which are very negative in Italy, and boo's. It's kind of freeing to be in the midst of a crowd that feels it has a right to shout at the stage - be it positive or negative. At La Scala, the performers don't get credit just for showing up; there is no guarantee of respectful applause awaiting them. It's really quite primal.

But that's part of the glorious wilds of La Scala I guess. The whistles and boo's, the bravo's and brava's, being as much a part of the performance as the libretto. These are the things you learn only once you come inside. Only once you squeeze yourself into that tiny seat, lean yourself over the balcony's edge and twist your body towards the partially-obscured stage.

And the peak of excitement? The most pinch-yourself worthy moment of all? It's quite possibly feeling free enough to scream your very first "Brava!" at the stage. (I'm happy to report I've not felt free enough to "boo.")

where the bikes are

On Saturday we ventured back into what is quickly becoming one of our very favorite regions of Italy: Emilia Romagna. It took about two and a half hours to get to Ferrara from Milan and once we were there the time flew by as fast as the bicycles.

And bicycles are, in fact, one of the great parts of this region. Because it's so flat and because traffic has been restricted to control pollution in this historic UNESCO World Heritage Site, the residents find that a bicycle can be their best friend.

The only time of day when the city center isn't teeming with cyclists is during the lunchtime hour. And then the city isn't teeming with anyone. Let me warn you now, Ferrara seems to like its lunch breaks long. Most stores were closed from 12:30 to 4:00pm which is a languid lunch even by Italian standards.



Before lunch we stopped in a bike repair shop and spoke to the owner at length. Surrounded by tangled rounds of inner tube and thin silvery spokes, he informed us that Ferrara is second only to Amsterdam in the number of bicycles filling the city. I don't know if you've been to Amsterdam but I have and I can tell you it's a pretty big place with lots of room for bikes. Ferrara, however ... not so big. And it shows. You can't take a step in any direction without running into something bicycle-related.



And it's glorious. You've never seen so many beautiful old bikes. So many old people on bikes. Signs saying "don't park your bike here," and people parked against their bikes.



And once you start eating in Ferrara - which for us happened nearly immediately - you realize it's a good thing so many people are pedaling around all day. The food is amazing but it's not what one might term "light." At lunch, the restaurant owner, in acknowledgement of the fact that heaving plates of mashed potatoes covered in traditional stew might not be on order for a 95 degree day, offered to serve us an amended half portion. We accepted. It was, however, too late to change my full order of polenta with funghi -- oh, the perils of dining in Italy.



Aside from eating and biking there are some very pretty churches to see and also a late fourteenth century castle, surrounded by a moat, standing smack in the center of town. You can also visit Casa Romei, the home of a nobleman finished in mid-1400. As you walk through the two-storied structure with its frescoed walls and intricate wooden ceilings it's easy to forget this was all built well before Columbus set sail.

And speaking of travel, we were talking with the owner of the bike shop about his favorite places in Italy. He recommended his honeymoon destination, Umbria, saying that it was the most beautiful region of Italy he had ever seen. Other than that, he said, he didn't know where we should go. He had never been south of Rome.

We neglected to ask if that's because he only travels by bike.

quattro luglio

Fourth of July outside of the United States tends to leave you feeling a little less... something.

I don't know where to point the finger. The lack of colorful explosions punching across evening's inky blackness? The void left in late morning when there's no parade to cheer? And what about all of that red, white and blue? There's something delightfully Mayberry about everyone on the block waking up early to hang the flag out front in the breeze... These delicious chunks of Americana are only found in America.

Instead, we're back where parts of America began. Where many of our ancestors started and what they left behind when they came.

And in some special places... where they've returned.

The man who hosted our Fourth of July in the Dolomites went to the United States over fifty years ago at age fourteen. He went to school no more than a block from where my mother lived - and at the same time. He worked for a knife sharpener nights, weekends, and many years until he opened his own shop. And then, after becoming an American citizen and a successful business man, he returned to Italy where he continues to be both.

He also holds a Fourth of July party every year in a wonderful mountain town. There are many Americans there. And Australians. And the English. There is great food. Much toasting with homemade grappa. And many stories about America.

It's a special celebration in a special place. And it's strange. Because for every Fourth of July in America, for every parade I shook a small flag at, and for every fireworks display I stood below... I'd never felt quite as American as I felt on this Fourth of July.

That party in the mountains felt patriotic in a way that a parade never could. Because instead of walking down Main Street with a flag and the steady tip-tap of the high school band's snare drum, these people boarded slow-moving ships to cross the Atlantic and waited for the waves to push them towards their future.

When these people say "Happy Fourth of July," they mean it. And that sounds good when you're a long way from home.

Even without the parade.

hiking + eating

Cogne is nestled in a valley worthy of Heidi and her mountain-loving brethren. Think alpine meadow teeming with equal parts wild flowers and wild grasses. Big blue sky and snow-covered mountains. Folks sunbathing topless and thong-ed. Yep, the last one stood out for us too. But I assure you, certain members of our party were not complaining. In fact, this person's pace noticeably slowed to better take in the view.

The hiking paths within easy reach of Cogne (and well past the scantily clad sun seekers) are nothing short of magnificent. They are the shockingly beautiful scenes that taunt you from tourist brochures and nature magazines. This area is part of the Gran Paradiso National Park - a park that is well-loved by Italians. We didn't run into any Americans although promptly upon our return to Milan we found out that a highschool friend was in the Park at the very same time, hiking her way through her honeymoon.



You might know Stefano and I like to hike as well and we recently purchased one hiking pole each. While not considering ourselves expert hikers we might go so far as consider ourselves somewhat physically fit. So why, you might ask, would we need hiking poles?

"Need" is a strong word but after enough times passing pole-possessing hikers looking like king/queen of the world - while feeling pretty exhausted yourself - you too might turn to these magical tools. (The same logic does not apply to the black socks + sandles combo nor the scarily popular plaid hiking pants.)

I think the overall vote on the poles was a hearty thumbs up. I don't know what nature thinks of us sticking poles into it every two feet but we sure felt like it gave us more support along the way.



However, there isn't enough support in the world to make our first hike easy. Stefano calculated the elevation change and found that we hiked 3500 feet up in under three hours. That's like climbing more than two Sears Towers without the benefit of stairs. Then turn around and go back down. You will quickly learn that gravity is not your friend.

The gleaming light in the middle of our hike was the refuge where we had our lunch. This was the first refuge we've ever been to; a refuge being a lodge in the middle of nowhere, reached only by foot, that is filled with beautiful hearty plates of food.

I'd like to now make the grand and sweeping statement that the best hikes in the world are followed by the best food - and that this is one of the most satisfying pairings that can be found on our planet. If somehow I'm the first person to mention this, it's only because everyone else is too busy hiking and eating.



Our perfect convergence of hiking and eating took place at the Rifugio Vittorio Sella. This refuge has been there at 2584 meters since 1860 and when it finally came into our view, it was as if the sad and lonely island castaway suddenly saw a cruise ship coming right for him. We couldn't have been any happier.

Inside the refuge on the wood-paneled walls were framed posters identifying poisonous mushrooms and technicolor wildflowers. Families and couples took their places at the thick wooden benches and tables. It seemed hot and steamy inside at first - we realized later this was only because we were sweating so much from our hike.



Once the food was put in front of us, we were transported into a magical and delicious place. I had something called soup but it really was a luxurious combination of cheese and bread and butter... in a soup bowl. Stefano had a steaming bowl of minestrone that was thick and hearty but yielded easily to a spoon.

For our second course we each had mountains of soft polenta topped with rich saucy stews -- porcini mushroom for me and a local beef variety for Stefano. And to finish, a sweet cakey blueberry torte. The icing on the cake? A bird clock nearly identical to those of various family members back in the US which occasionally broke into mechanical song during our meal.



I cannot over emphasize how welcome this meal was. After climbing what felt like straight-up for three hours we had the opportunity to stop in the middle of it all, and eat something so good - surrounded by scenery so pretty - that there was no doubt it had all been quite worth it. When we left, after having cooled down during our meal, we realized how very high we actually were - it was freezing outside. Although that didn't stop big lumpy marmots from goofing around nearby.

The walk back down was just as difficult as the walk up although there was the added fear of succumbing to gravity and exploring the scenery far more closely than one might otherwise prefer. We did take a breather to lay on a shady rock and watch a glider circle above, drafting on air currents with an early moon hanging in the background.



Our second hike was supposed to be easier than the first as it started with a cable car ride up a mountain, instead of a climb. The hike turned out to be suprisingly challenging yet there were at least three children with us in the cable car on the way up. While discussing our aches and pains along the path we realized these young kids must be doing the same path. (Note: not only are Italians magically immune to sunburn and mosquitoes, but apparently their children are super heroes as well.)

On this path it seemed we only went up, or along thin steep ridges. And when we went down it was either along stretches that were so steep that some of us (me) went down on our rear ends - all the while trying not to think of the fearless kids who would be scampering past shortly. I won't even go into our "hikes" down the ski slopes. (Who knew a wide swath of steep land - perfect for zipping down on skis and gathering momentum - would be a great place for scenic walking?)



We did have an excellent picnic on a slide of rocks that had come to a standstill long ago. The view was stunning and the lardo was herbed. Oh yes, herbed lardo is a local specialty and it's scarily marvelous. We had long thin slices of lardo curled on fresh ciabatta rolls and ate spiced olives, salami, and hunks of Toma cheese. All were acquired in the local delis in Cogne and at a very reasonable price. Hell, when we got back down into town we even had a few crème puffs as well.



Like I said, hiking and food are made for each other. Especially when the food is this good and the scenery this stunning. Every angle of the Alps is different, and every town has its charm. And often, these places are even more charming from the likes of 3600 feet up -- especially after a steaming bowl of cheese, bread and butter.