Italian Ailments and Cold-air Habits

I do not typically re-post news articles here, but this one is particularly revealing of the Italian culture. My husband emailed me the essay below early last week, and reposting it to Facebook has produced plenty of comments.

It reminds me of my children's Italian preschool days. Peanut and Buddy never played outside in the winter months, their Italian teachers either refusing to spend the time outside themselves or believing it was not "healthy" for the children. It was probably both. 

A midday visit to school found the teachers swaddled in puffy jackets hovering around space heaters. Soft scarves were a hit as a teacher-Christmas gift one year.     

But there was difference between the Italians and 'foreigners.'

Buddy's American classmate Piper had an internal heating system. The toe-head girl rarely wore jackets - or scarves, winter boots, and ear-covering wool hats looking ready for the ski-slopes like the Italian children. This deeply troubled her Italian teachers. They'd ask her mother "Where's her jacket!?" while my friend confidently responded with a sly smile, "She's fine." And she was. My children would be only half as bundled as the Italian children, but compared to our bare-armed American friend, they escaped critique. All the concern was concentrated on little Piper and the shorts she smartly wore with cute tights.  

We commit wintry sins in other ways with our American habits. My landlord scolds me incessantly if - gosh forbidden - he catches my daughter with wet hair. Or no socks. It's why she suffers from asthma and body-convulsing coughs, he declares. 

I confess, I have adapated. I only rarely let the kids out of the bathroom without a little blow-drying. (Last night I almost cringed sending them to bed with wet heads, but it was too late and I was too tired.) Each year we buy a new pair of house slippers that I hound the children over incessantly. "Go get your slippers!" Where are your slippers?" "Why don't you have your slippers on?!?"

We inevitably show up at the 7am bus stop looking ready for a winter storm compared to our newly arrived American neighbors. I think she just made it out of her flip-flops a few weeks ago! (Ha! love ya' neighbor Lori!)   

I wear scarves indoors. I type with wool gloves missing their fingertips. This morning I duct-taped the soles of my favorite pair of fluffy house boots. My cold toes can't live without them. Our collection of jackets, scarves, boots and gloves has grown exponentially, one for each weather condition (rain/cold, rain only, freezing cold, light breeze). They have taken over the flight of stairs to my basement lining the wall like family photos.    

The fact is: there is no escaping the cold here. Humidity is higher in the winter than summer. The chilling air feels wet. Houses lack insulation and the dampness envelops you. Floors of tile are as cold as ice. There is no fluffy wall-to-wall carpet to greet your morning feet. Often my house is colder inside than out. Fires aren't just for effect. Oil and electricity is expensive. Heat is only run when at home and only in the rooms that are occupied. People here simply cannot afford American habits of short sleeves indoors, cranked-up heat and bare feet, whether they believe the cold air causes ailments or not.

My neck never aches -- maybe I have not been here long enough to take on Italian ailments, only a few of their habits. You should see my collection of scarves!

MAGAZINE

3 December 2011 Last updated at 12:04 GMT

How to avoid getting 'hit by air' in Italy

By Dany MitzmanBologna, Italy

Many Italians, it seems, are prone to a particularly wide range of winter illnesses, helped apparently by an in-depth knowledge of human anatomy.

More than a decade living in this country has led me to a shocking conclusion. Being Italian is bad for your health.

As winter draws in, those around me are suffering from a range of distinctly Italian ailments, that make our limited British colds and flus sound as bland as our food.

As I cycle around the medieval streets of my adoptive home town of Bologna, I smile to myself, marvelling at the fact that I am still wearing a light-weight jacket at this time of year.

No translation

My Italian counterparts are less fortunate.

They have their woolly scarves and quilted coats out and are rubbing their necks, complaining of my favourite mystery Italian malady "la cervicale".

"Soffro di cervicale (I suffer from cervicale)," they tell me, making it sound particularly serious.

Most people over the age of 30 seem to have the condition, but I am still at a loss as to what exactly it is and how to translate it.

I have looked it up in the dictionary and found "cervical" - an adjective referring to the cervical vertebrae, those little bones in the back of your neck - but as an ailment, there is simply no English translation. We do not have it!

The British also do not seem to have the sort of exceptional knowledge of their own anatomy which Italians have.

Benefits of ignorance

Soon after I moved here, I remember a friend telling me he was not feeling very well. "My liver hurts," he said.

I have since been assured by doctors that you cannot actually feel your liver, but what really struck me was the fact that he knew where his liver was.

We British, in contrast, are a nation staggeringly ignorant of our anatomy.

Italians can also tell you if the pain is in their stomach or intestine - and can even specify whether it is colic or colitis - but to us it is all just "tummy ache".

Yet although I should feel embarrassed about my inability to point out the exact location of my gall bladder, I am not.

Why? Because I think it makes me healthier.

After years of first-hand experience of the delicate Italian constitution, I have come up with a theory about why we British are so much sturdier. If you cannot name it, you cannot suffer from it. If you do not know where it is, it cannot hurt you.

Among my Italian friends I am considered something of an immuno-superhuman.

I can leave the gym sweaty to have my shower at home and not catch a chill en route. I can swim after eating and not get congestion or cramp. I can walk around with wet hair and not get "la cervicale".

I even brag about it. At restaurants I will say: "Let me sit in the draught. I'll be fine. I'm English."

'Mustn't grumble'

I ran my theory past a Sicilian psychoanalyst and he said I had a point.

For example, the British do not have a term for a "colpo d'aria". It literally translates as a "hit of air" and seems to be incredibly dangerous for Italians.

They can get one in their eye, their ear, their head or any part of their abdomen.

To avoid getting a colpo d'aria, until at least April, they must never go out without wearing a woollen vest, known as a "maglia della salute" (a shirt of health).

British mums hold their kids' jackets so they will not get hot and sweaty while they run around and play. In contrast, the parks here in Italy are filled with pint-sized, quilted Michelin men, zipped up to their noses to stop the air getting in and hitting them.

Italians are brought up to be afraid of these health risks, while our ignorance of their very existence makes us strong and fearless.

It is a question of etiquette too.

We are a nation that "mustn't grumble", trained from an early age that the only answer to "How are you?" is "Fine, thank you."

Our vocabulary reflects this. Whether we have had a cold or spent six weeks in intensive care, we will tell you we have been "a bit poorly".

'Change of season'

But last week I experienced a moment of panic. I woke up feeling weak and nauseous.

What if that cultural difference was actually contagious?

What if years in the country had changed my constitution and I too was suffering from another common Italian health hazard, "the change of season"?

I tried to convince myself that lack of sleep was to blame, but I was not certain.

Later that day, I bumped into a neighbour and confessed that I was feeling "a bit poorly".

"Ooh," she said, looking concerned. "I went to the doctor yesterday and he told me there's a 48-hour stomach flu going around."

Then her face brightened up. "But don't worry, you're English so it'll only last 24 hours for you!"

And suddenly - superhuman status restored - I felt a whole lot better.

Thanksgiving Reflections

An unexpected flood of emotions rolled over me today while cleaning up the kitchen sink. I had just rinsed, salted, rubbed and bagged the turkey. Covered in a speckled brine, it was now ready for an overnight rest. A little day at the spa for the 16-pounder? Poor once-a-thing. Last rites? I guess so. Tomorrow its roasted verdict will be sealed. 

In my mind popped my grandmother "Grantsie." Fresh baked pies lining her long kitchen counter, her famous chocolate meringue always a choice, white-topped and fluffy, slightly browned and sometimes weeping. Pecan pie would be there too, glazed chunky whole nut pieces, never chopped. And those mashed potatoes with gravy! I got fat on those one summer. Strange to remember Grantsie first since I don't recall ever sharing a Thanksgiving with her and my Gramps at their home. The 2-day car trip to their Indiana country house was too long for the short November break. I have fond food memories there, nonetheless, and today her quiet spirit and country cooking visited my Italian kitchen. 

I naturally then remembered Mommo, a kindred spirit of mine. She was the last of the grandparents I shared a Thanksgiving with. Her soft wobbly cheeks and smiling eyes greeted us with talcum powder hugs. Mommo always left her lipstick mark on our faces, which we self-consciously wiped away with the backs of our hands when she wasn't looking. Mommo oozed love. Everyone loved her, and her bangley plastic bracelets, always color-coordinated to her outfits. We undoubtedly spent every Thanksgiving with them, sometimes at their house, sometimes at ours, I seem to recall, but I have no idea what she cooked for the meal. (I am sure my mom could tell me.) One fact was certain: my grandfather "Poppy" would have a Scotch on the rocks in hand within minutes of arriving. As the day lulled by his drinks grew weaker with a splash of water. 

Mommo, Grantsie... my own mom. When did I become the mom setting the Thanksgiving table 5 days in advance and prepping whole turkeys? How did I end up living in Italy at 39 with 2 children and a Navy husband? 

I hung my purple washing gloves, wiped my hands across my pink-flowered apron, listened to the drone of MSNBC streaming from the States, and thought of Peanut's Brownie meeting today, and Buddy's new-found love of Nerf Guns.

There is no escaping that I'm a full-fledged adult, a parent, a wife, a mom.

I hope this doesn't sound like I wish it was wasn't so. I'm not looking for an escape. But sometimes I have these surprising moments where the reality of my life converges into this single, emotionally-charged and concentrated thought: I'm a grown-up. Not a kid anymore. Friend-filled Thanksgivings happen only if I will them to. Traditions have been mine for the creating. A food-filled day is mine for the making. Memories are shaped by my actions.

Next year there will not be the landlord's long Italian table in our basement surrounded by a collection of friends abroad. (For sure! Though we said this last year!) We won't be in the minority for having the day off. Our Butterball self-basting turkey will not have crossed the Atlantic to reach our military grocery store, a reverse pilgrimage. My sturdy rosemary bush and potted sage plant won't provide fresh herbs for me in California. I guess I'll have to plant new ones.

This Thanksgiving is borrowed time abroad. I thought we would be gone but we are not. Instead, we have one more year to add to the previous three, a chance to fully formalized our Italian traditions. A chance to once again impart on our memory bank the love of this country, our time overseas, and our "family" abroad - wonderful friends we are so thankful to be with tomorrow.

Will Buddy and Peanut remember mom's tribute to Italy pancetta-sage turkey? or famous mac-n-(Italian)cheese? Will they remember the ritual visit of our landlord wishing us Americani well each Thanksgiving? Will they reach back in their minds and decipher what friends were at what Italian Thanksgiving? Was Braden there in 2008 or 9? 

I hope they mine their memories in a need to remember. 

But if not, I know that come tomorrow, no matter what is remembered one day in their growing minds, we will once again share a labor of love -- a giant Thanksgiving feast - with dear friends that have enriched our lives abroad in ways that are beyond words. We'll toast Italy, each other, love and the blessed peace of our lives. I feel so grateful, so fortunate.  I hope this is the same for you! 

Happy Thanksgiving! 

(This is the best Turkey recipe- TIP: Cook it upside down (breast down) for 2 hours, then flip. Keeps it extra juicy.)

Sorrento: an Agreeable Acquaintance

Sorrento has evolved into a tradition for my family during the holiday season. Each year as we slink southernly along the Amalfi Coast my children will, once again, beg for a ride on the holiday train that embarks from Piazzo Tasso. I'm sure we will indulge them. Here, our Italian Christmas traditions do not include sitting on Santa's lap at the local mall; instead, we ride sparkly white trains through historic streets. Disposable plastic buds shoved in our freezing ears, we listen to the classic 1898 "O Sole Mio" Neopolitan song, and like the singer, we croon for a little bit of "my sun" on these chilly days.

  

Sorrento is simple. The central historic area is like a stage above the sea, a cliff-hugging playhouse sure to put on a pleasing show. Visitors either come from the Amalfi roads above and to the sides, or by boat below, the marina at sea-level. Either way, everyone meets in the middle. The Piazzo Tasso is a natural starting point. Orient yourself. In the wings you will find just as much of a performance as the main stage, so venture off the into the many bustling alleys that lead-off from Piazza Tasso.  

Remember, Sorrento is about strolling, sipping warm coffees at the tiny cafe tables, and shopping. Leave the guidebooks and tourist check-lists at home. Walk the many car-free streets, pick-up a bottle of the famous limoncello, maybe a new scarf or leather gloves, and sample the signature candy-coated almonds locals love (and serve at every wedding). There is a great candy store on the main pedestrian shopping alley on the corner, the pretty colored "Confetti" sign with a dancing folksy man and woman, will be easy to spot. It is an open store with bright lights and a smiley robust man behind the counter. Ask for a sample of his candies and he'll give you one while singing.

The city can easily be enjoyed in one day. Have a meal, but beware: finding good food in Sorrento is hit-and-miss. So-so meals are more the norm in Sorrento's restaurants where year-round tourism breeds mediocrity.  Ristorante L'Antica Trattoria on Via P.R.Giuliani, 33 is located in the main area and has repeatedly pleased visitors. (A friend just told me last week she had a fabulous meal here. Thanks N!).  The restaurant's abundant flowers and gorgeous ceramic planters always attract my camera's lens and though I have never eaten here myself, I have many photos of the restaurant's entrance. 

Just yesterday a reader wrote me stating that she and her husband were swinging through Sorrento on a cruise next week. (Hi Linda!) She sweetly offered to bring my anything I might be missing from the States. I'm often amazed at the kindness of strangers. In replying to her email I mentally revisited Sorrento.  It reminded me of the swing in feelings I've experience there. 

My affection for Sorrento has swelled and shrunk through the years. I am no longer a tourist undergoing a flash experience with the town, speedily shuffling in and out looking to categorize the city - good or bad - comparing her to a Rolladex of previously visited places. Instead, my relationship with Sorrento is fluid, genuine, malleable, and never a fairy tale. Each time I return, I approach her like an acquaintance I haven't seen in awhile, smiling with open arms, ready to catch-up, and glad to have yet another chance encounter together.

=============== 

Read more from previous reflections:

Sorrento's Travel Lessons

Sorrento's Siren

Sorrento Revisted

Sorrento at Christmas

Dreamy Italian Skies - Part II - Sorrento

Life in Naples, Italy @ www.LivingInTheBoot.com

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Now you can stop trying to remember that funny square and space that follows Living In The Boot. The ".com" domain finally became available, and now you can simply go to: www.LivingInTheBoot.com

Easier to share! Easier to type! Hope this helps. 

Wine From a Gas Pump; Cantina di Solopaca

Back into Cantina di Solopaca and fill 'er up! Damigiana bottles that is, not your car's gas tank. A country drive a few weeks ago with some girlfriends showed me what everyone in the American community has been buzzing about recently. In this concentrated world of ex-pats, waves of new must-see-things splash across the community. Eventually, we move-on to something else only to spead yet another wave of monkey-see, monkey-do.

 

But in the meantime, it's all about Solopaca. Not to be confused with the DOC designated wines that come from that area, I am instead refering to the co-opt of farmers around the town of Solopaca who collectively produce Campanian wines of all varieties. White falanghina, coda di volpe; red aglianico, barbera -- all ready for the pumping. Ancient grapes, modern technology.  

Have you ever been through a drive-through liquor store? My upper high-school years were infrequently spiced with a few daring drives through the "brew mart" on Cortez Road in our beach town. Someone always had a fake ID, and another was willing to do the driving. A bottle of Mad Dog 20-20 or a case of Mich Light was our mission. I guess we figured we could make a literal mad-dash if things didn't go our way, or ask for a 6-pack of coca-cola if we chickened out. The car was our security on wheels.

In Italy, drive-up wineries are relatively common. Let me bust a common myth now: the average Italian drinks cheap wine, most likely from vines grown in his own backyard - what we euphemistically call "landlord wine" - not the over-priced (but often worthy) "Super Tuscans" that rich wine collectors foam at the mouth for.

Here's a perfect example: in the less than 1 hour we were at Cantina di Solopaca buying and tasting wines and filling up new damigiana bottles, a handfull of locals arrived on this lazy Friday morning with large plastic jugs like the kind filled with Gatorade at your child's Saturday soccer match. Nothing fancy here. The jugs match the wine: simple, everyday "table" wine - vino di tavola. No pretense. Just an earnest pride for the grapes of their locality - they wouldn't drink it any other way.

  Cantina di Solopaca is in fact a conglomerate of local farmers who decided back in the 1960s to "work for the purpose of increasing and protecting the heritage of the area's wine "Solopaca" and progress(ing) economic and (the) social importance of agriculture." Co-opting helped stabilize grape prices, and eventually every farmer was convinced of joining. The grapes come in and "after careful selection are vinified by traditional ancient (methods and) refined by modern winemaking techniques." Today they harvest over 3,200 acres of vineyards for almost 4 million gallons of wine. That's a lot of jugs to fill. (Or bottles. They sell traditional bottled Campanian wines of all types.)   

 

 

We filled up the car -- with wine -- the "boot" (trunk for Aussies) full of small damigianas, wooden wine boxes and a few sparkling falanghina's we tasted and enjoyed that morning. The day was gorgeous, a crisp hint of fall whistling through the mottled autumnal leaves lining the winding rural roads of our journey. Mountains cupped our car as we raced from our children's school "literary parade" that morning to this quick outing - and then back for school bus drop-offs that afternoon. A road-side stop for sandwiches with the locals was the perfect answer to our rumbling bellies. These kinds of days remind me of the memorable adventures always available while living abroad, and how much return comes from being fueled, open and ready for a top-off of fun. 

Update on Tuesday, November 8, 2011 at 08:25PM by Panda

Hi! I had a reader ask if the demijohn bottles were available there. YES, they are. They have a stash of them on-site: clean, new, and in plastic baskets. They fill them up on request. I can't totally remember what we paid since the bill was for our small group, but I think it was 3 euro for the wine and 4 for the bottle, so like 7 total. If you provide your own bottle(s), you only pay for the wine. I bought the "Barbera" wine and thought it was decent quality for a simple table wine. We had a party a few weeks ago and it was a great wine to serve, looked pretty on the table when the green bottle shimmered in the candlelight, and people had fun pouring wine out of such a big jug. (I transferred some to my Slovenian wine jug but people went straight for the demijohn.) 

Also, see the pic below for the hours of operation:

Varcaturo Mercatino "Finds"

People are either flea market lovers or not, and I align myself with the former.  With a rare hour to kill today, I decided to explore the local mercatino (flea market) store less than a mile from mia casa.

The road winding around the corner and parallel to the highway was flooded. All of Italy was struck by continuous and violent thunderstorms Saturday through Sunday. Roads became raging rivers, people's basements and garages flooded, there was loss of life, and even the much-anticipated Napoli v. Juventus football (soccer) game was cancelled! When Italians cancel soccer games, you know the weather is bad. 

Today the water-logged debris is scattered about the streets, clogged on corners and curbs. Mini-mud slides have turned the roads into filthy dirt pits.

A big puddle and some front end-crashing potholes didn't dissuade me today. The usual parking lot "guard" was there, a squat smiley man whom I swear is the identical twin of Italian actor Chazz Palminteri. (Think good cop in The Usual Suspects and "Shorty" in season 3 of Modern Family.)

In southern Italy, there is a always an "attendant" that "watches" over your vehicle when you visit an establishment. Custom has it that you throw him a few coins on your way back to your car - though nervous newbies in Naples often tip them beforehand. I'm not sure it really makes a difference.

I haven't stopped by the mercatino in months - free time has been at a premium lately. They must have had a recent cleaning spree, items were nicely grouped and it felt less cluttered, which is hard to do for a place that has everything. 

One item immediately caught my eye: an old wooden rolling pin for 4 euro. I have been collecting them over the last few years here in Europe and have now amassed a *tiny* collection that I adore. I only actually use the one I bought (kinda creepy not knowing the origins of the others), but I delight in thinking about the old nonne (old grandmothers) that might have spent countless Sunday mornings rolling out dough for fresh pasta or crust for a torta (pie). The shapes of the rolling pins - some long and skinny others squatty like the mercatino guard - visually please me stacked in the corner of my baker's rack. 

The next 'find' was a cheery blue vintage kitchen scale by the Italian manufacturer Brandani. It is slightly off by one hair of a milligram, but it still works. The edges are touched by a bit of rust, but I love it. I am a sucker for kitchen items, especially unique to Europe and Italy. I snagged the scale for about 10 bucks. 

It ended up being a good mercatino day: easy on the wallet but heavy on the fun scale. Ahem, no pun intended! 

Need A Place to Stay in Dubrovnik?

Dubrovnik is a stunningly-set city on the Croatian coast. The Old Town is like a stone and orange-roofed finger that stretches into the azure waters. 

The core old city is surrounded by stone walls, and a walk across their tops is a tourist must. The views out across the ocean and inward towards the dense city are magnificent.

Dubrovnik's disadvantage is popularity.

No less than three cruise ships sat in the waters surrounding her each day of our visit. Hotel prices within the city walls are typically outrageous. If you are traveling with a family, finding a triple or quadruple room is nearly impossible. 

Our solution was an apartment. We found a place through Dubrovnik Apartment Source. When my first choice for an apartment was unavailable, Michelle at Apartment Source promptly offered another that was actually better suited for our family of 6 (grandparents happily in tow). 

Only a few steps from the city walls, and with intriguing views of Old Town, the "Grace" apartment was ideal for us. Sure, it had its quirks: don't flip off the switches by the bathroom doors or you will shut off your hot water. And it was a bit musty; not a surprise with an old, hillside stone cottage. My children were delighted by the fig and pomegranate trees in the front yard, and the friendly cat that would come by for a visit. We benefited from the spaciousness of the apartment and liked the old-world feel of stone walls and a few pieces of antique furniture. 

Either way, I would definitely recommend this company as a source for finding somewhere to stay in Dubrovnik. Their website was easy to navigate, all communications were prompt (within minutes!) and courteous. I have booked countless rooms and vacation homes-apartments in my time abroad, and yet I was still stunned by the ease of the process. A Paypal payment option was another advantage.

After booking, Michelle forwarded me restaurant and shopping information that proved helpful: their restaurant suggestions were spot-on and allowed us to cut-through the maze of tourist-trap establishments! Best of all, our rate was about 120 euro for all six! Wi-fi, parking, and view of Old Town included. 

"Grace" cottage center-right with grape-vine roof line

Front porch "oven"

"Buddy" right at home

Damigiana / Dimijohn - Latest 'find'

I'm maxed.

Really, I don't need many more damigiana bottles, especially since I probably won't be able to ship many back. Yeah, one greedy-American ruined it for the rest of us. (Why is there always one crazy who takes it too far and ruins it for everyone else?!?) I'll go low and spread the rumor: she had hundreds and was shipping them back in her household goods for resale back in the States. Now, there is limit to how many we can take back, so I hear.

I'm fine with it, really. But they should have limited her! (Or made her pay.)

OK... Did you read my previous blog about the damigiana / demijohn craze here in Napoli? 

These bottles are really just everyday items here in Italy used to store wine from season to season. So utilitarian in fact, that Italians toss them out like trash on the sides of the road or set them out for recycling if they happen to be environmentally inclined. (TIP - Glass "vetri" recycling containers or full-service recyling centers are good places to find them.)  

Somewhere along the line we turned them into house decor. Not so for the Italians. Many can't understand why we love them.

....There is something magical about their shape, and when the light hits them and reflects back across a white wall....

Reselling the used bottle is big business in a small-niche designer world. Pottery Barn had them going for hundreds of dollars, and a quick search pulls up antique green bottles selling for upwards of $195.00.  (I have no clue about this business so please do not take this as a recommendation.)

Lately, the mother of my Italian babysitters has been bringing me a few, and I love her for that: a sweet gesture. But when it comes to buying them - or spending hours scouring the streets in hopes of discovering a (DIRTY) one - I have put clear limits on myself: only unusual shapes or colors or wrapped in a wicker basket or marine rope.

I have always craved a tall skinny one - a "magnum" or champagne style bottle. Bingo! Got one for 25 euro (about 35-40 bucks) last week.

A day trip to Solopaca winery (more later) had the side benefit of a fantastic fennel sausage, potato, provola cheese sandwich at a road-side "food truck" and a vegetable lady with a few spare damigianas for sale. I guarantee she found them at the recycle container a tenth of a kilometer up the road, but I admire her enterprising spirit and keen ability to tap the market. (There must be Americans driving up and down this road regularly!)  

She's a beautiful jar, and just maybe the finale in my damagiana story. A good end, she would be.

Pizza Pilgrims - How Fun Would This Be?

Hi everyone - Just thought I'd pass along links and information about two crazy-fun brothers that have started out on a pilgrimage to discover all the best of pizza in Italy, and I'm sure a few other things along the way.

Here's the story -- their words... I'm hoping to get a-hold of these guys to learn more. Follow them on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/pizzapilgrims

=====================

Two Brothers embark on an epic Italian road trip in a Piaggio Ape three-wheeler van, to find inspiration for their new street food venture.

The brothers are flying to the southernmost point of the Italian mainland to collect their van and drive it back to the UK, travelling over 2000 miles across the length of Italy. Driving at a max speed of 40mph, the boys are quite literally taking the long way home. James and Thom are using this road trip to completely immerse themselves in Italian culture, history and traditions; eagerly absorbing as much of the local lifestyles and food humanly possible as research for their business.


More Information

Throughout the trip the brothers will have a television camera crew by their side capturing every mile of their journey. A television series is planned for broadcast in the New Year.
James and Thom are building an extensive social media campaign, which is due to go viral and become an online hit. The brothers will entertain their followers with a daily video blog, Facebook and Twitter updates which will enable the fans to get involved with the trip, make route suggestions and ultimately create a vibrant web based community.
Highlights of the trip include:

- Cooking with San Marzano tomatoes.
- Limoncello production on the island of Capri.
- Visiting the oldest pizzeria in Naples to learn from expert pizza chef.
- Milking buffalo to create buffalo mozzarella.
- Learning how make Pesto.
- Stuffing sausages with chilli peppers in Spilinga.
- Driving along the stunning Amalfi coast.
- Fishing for Eels in a lake outside of Rome.
- Participating in a village Donkey race.

James and Thom both have a passion for food that was instilled in them from growing up in a family of restaurateurs and wine merchants. James is the true foodie of the two, and has worked as a chef since he was 16, from his parents pub in Dorset to Marco Pierre White's The Mirabel in London. He gave up cooking after believing that he should grow up and get a real job and went off to university. He then moved to London and started working for BBC 6 music radio station and now works in commercial and pop promo production. However, at 25 he has decided that he wants to be his own boss and pursue his passion for food. Thom works in advertising and marketing and is desperate to get out of the rat-race and bring the world a better pizza. It is fair to say that he is currently more involved in eating pizza than cooking it, something he is hoping to rectify. However, having quit his job leaving his fiancé as the breadwinner and mortgage payer of the house he certainly has the most to lose from peddling pizzas for a living. Comparatively, he is probably the organized one, but being on his third mobile phone of the year that is probably a little of an overstatement.



Core Facts
1.      Journey of 2000 miles from Reggio di Calabria in Italy, back to London, driving at a max speed of 40mph.
2.      A full 8 part series will be completed about the trip in the New Year.
3.      A social media campaign will continuously track the progress the trip. The brothers will entertain their followers with a daily video blog, Facebook and Twitter updates which will enable the fans to get involved with the trip, make route suggestions and ultimately create a vibrant web based community.


Videos


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7Hn43xWqxM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1soc5XwRGI&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WBjGFyUulGQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFcq0sAvJhI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yh90z6gqRqY&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1se05f7-v4

I'm Still Here

I'm still here. We're still here, for that matter. I thought by now I'd be exiting the boot but she has decided to keep us around a little longer. At least until next spring. (April? May?)

How does this make me feel?

Fantastic! I'm thrilled by the chance to have more travel opportunities. I'm delighted to spend more time with my good friends here (another girl's trip?). I'm happy to keep getting COLA (no, not a fizzy drink). And I am relieved to not have to pack-up yet. That is just a delayed relief, but I'll take it.

I bought pickle relish the other day, and a new bottle of mustard! I opened up my spices from Istanbul. 

The kids are comfortably back in school and riding the bus. We're experiencing Italy in many of the same ways we have now for a few years. It was easier shifting my focus back than I anticipated. I had in some ways started "checking-out" in preparation for leaving Italy, all those "When we get back to the States" conversations I mentioned before. 

One thing has change, however: I'm taking a graduate writing class on-line. Just three weeks into it, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to learn, freshen my mind, and challenge myself a bit. What I do not like is the pressure to perform, and the *grades*! Oh my, I have never gotten over getting graded. Why do I dread them so much? 

My husband has reassured me that NO ONE will know them except me and my teacher, so who cares? I do. I always do. 

OH, you've heard it before: I miss you. I really do. And I'd like to say I'll be posting regularly, but I am still struggling to balance my schedule. We'll see, OK? 

Very soon we are headed off for a long trip. Longer than we have done before. Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Northern Italy... here we come. The cherry on the banana split: my mom and step-father are joining us. 

Until then, keep checking on me, if you haven't lost patience. You're on my mind daily, usually in the form of guilt. 

Also, so many of you have asked. Where are we headed next? SAN DIEGO! I wish we could stay abroad, but that was not an option this time around. We are excited about Southern California and the new challenges and adventures that await us there. But until then, we remain in Italy where la dolce vita!

P.S. For those of you looking to learn more information about moving to and living in Naples, please join the "Living Abroad in Naples Italy" group on Facebook.  

Driving Thoughts: Trash, Beauty and Naples, Italy

The kids and I were out running errands last week. We had just completed our Wednesday routine of early morning swim lessons followed by a few hours at Carney Park’s playground. It was hot, but the breeze under the shady eucalyptus trees was keeping us below exhaustion levels and my little black cooler with cold water quenched our desperate thirst.

My ceramics lessons had come to an end, the price of childcare combined with the cost of class too prohibitive. My last project – a giant “rustic” lamp – overlapped into summer unfinished. One day the kids accompanied me to a shortened class where I glazed the lamp. Not trusting two kids in a "china" shop, I set the two “bulls” up on the doorstep, lounging in the opened door with books, snacks and my son with his Leapster in hand.

This time we wouldn’t be staying. My lamp was now complete, fired for a second time, the glaze intact, hard, glossy and the dripping affect permanently captured. It liked it. My plan was to drive up to Monte di Procida, leave the kids parked in the car with open windows, and run in for a quick pick-up.

My mind was heavy with driving thoughts. We came through the ‘bumpy’ tunnel – a short, smog-filled tunnel that looks on the verge of collapsing. We Americans have nick-named it such because it is filled with speed bumps every 20 or so feet, to keep impatient beach-bound goers at a reasonable speed.  (But who just fly over them anyway.) Everytime I escape the tunnel, my eyes swing left towards the ocean and distant Ischia. It’s one of those “Wow, I live in a foreign land” moments. But not long afterwards on this particular day I was greeted by yet another reminder of where exactly in Italy I live; not quaint Tuscany and its villages of stone, but Naples.

Competing for parking spaces in the large lot was a giant, rotting pile of garbage, a mound like nothing Americans normally see. A third-world kind of heap. Spots for cars to park had become a secondary purpose now.  The contrast – a bright blue ocean, palm trees leaning into the cloudless sky, and then rubbish; literally tons of it.

I was tailing a young woman on a motorbike. Her sunned Mediterranean shoulders were as smooth as brown silk, flawless in their summer display. Underneath her helmet a long dark brown tail of hair, tinted with summer’s kisses, stretched down her back. It blew side-to-side in the wind, following the curves of the winding road as she confidently handled the bike. She appeared oblivious to the asphalt’s heat, to the relentless sun baking her shoulders, to the stench of rotting garbage. Instead, she was all youth, confident, spirited, and oblivious. I admired her ability to compartmentalize her drive.

A floating empty plastic bag flew by her back tire, like a possessed ghost, catching her back wheel then hauntingly flinging up and across the street, now dead on the ground. Along the tight roads lay white Styrofoam, crushed plastic bottles, abandoned candy wrappers, and a bright blue plastic sleeve with concave indentions like baby pools: the innards of a wood fruit container. Just last week I had bought a slat of perfectly sweet, luscious nectarines sitting in just such a sleeve. That lame piece of trash reminded me of their glossy blood red skin with undertones of deep yellow, firm and crisp with my first bite. Sweetness and freshness contrasted with trash.

By now I had lost the motorbike girl. Still on track, we continued through small commercial areas, tight streets with no shoulder, pausing to pass an African with a dirty baseball hat pushing a make-shift cart exploding with cheap goods from China, his taut black-as-onyx skin shiny with perspiration. I felt sorry for his way of life. 

There is a point on this route out to Monte di that always impresses me. Climbing up a steep hill the road opens up high above the tiled roofs and even with the normal urban haze, you can catch long views out in every direction, up the coast to Gaeta, down to the bay of Baia and across to the Cape of Miseno, inland to the lakes and northeast to the extinct volcano, its crater my children’s playground just this morning. The trash piles seemed far away.

In only minutes I spot a strip of unmanicured cracking sidewalk. Trash sprouts like weeds, so inherent and so indistinguishable from the vegetation. It’s like it belongs there, natural.

Most days, my trained eyes avoid looking down to "spy" trash. Other days, it obsesses me, like a train of cars slowing down to catch a glimpse at a fresh car wreck. I can’t shake it. The innocence of my children laughing in the back seat, momentarily oblivious, and yet outside their windows is a gorgeous place that is tainted, trashed by its own people. A man-made demise. The more I think about it, the madder I get.

I stop by ceramics class and do as planned. The kids are fine in the car only a few feet from the store. Inside I find my teacher Allesandra. We share a brief moment of kindness, a connected moment in this foreign land, a friend made despite the rubbish.  I leave realizing that I have forgotten about it all. Sheltered in the purpose of an errand and lost in the smile of a friend all seems OK, all is beautiful.

Back in the car we quickly leave the area. I decide to take the scenic way out of Monte di. On the descent down the winding "via Panoramica" – named so because it is just that, a winding drive with a great panoramic views of the water and land. I can hardly fault the restaurant I just passed for naming itself “Dream View.”

It’s a “dream view” as long as you keep your head high and your eyes leveled up and out, a survival trick that living in Naples will teach you.

Finding the beauty around here sometimes feels like going to the weekly markets in Naples. Everything looks good from a distance, flashy and intriguing. Pulls your attention immediately, my head turning like the men that gawk at the women of this area, snagged by all the glitz, tight clothes and high-altitude heels. If you look more closely, you will be disappointed in the quality. Most of it is just poorly made synthetic goods from China. And the people of this area – the market goers – cover themselves in it and fill their houses with it. Bought for only a few euros, these excuses for clothes and household goods will probably only last one or two uses. That seems to be the standard here.  All flash, all surface, but underneath there is nothing holding it together. Women and men constantly buying cheap goods, moving from one cheap version of what's fashionable to the next, season to season, still ahead of the rest of the world, but lacking so much in sustainability – all for the moment.

This approach applies to more than just shopping at the market. It’s a way of life.  In Naples as a whole there is no investment in the future, or for that fact, even the present. This garbage crisis that is all over the international news is real. There is no excuse. You can love this place with all your heart, but you cannot justify such bad behavior. Like a bad boyfriend you know you must condemn and leave, but yet you still adore the heck out of him on your way out the door. Some boyfriends are just too toxic. 

Before I know it, I’ve slowed to almost a halt. A practically dying miniscule Nissan is my nemesis. Packed with three old people, the car is like a clunky relic. The driver, a beefy old hairy man, is animated and deep in discussion, his gestures spilling out of the car, half his story being told out his window, his tanned arm extending in what could be a deadly position if another car passes. I’m not even sure how he is driving or who is holding the wheel. His gestures are so grand for such a tiny car. Hand movements in Southern Italy have a distinct and varied language of their own, and I am certain a local following this conversation could decipher it without ever hearing one spoken word.

I’ve finally lost the chatty car. Coming around near the Baia castle one sharp corner offers the façade of something formerly impressive. The iron gates are firmly closed still doing their job, but this building is the victim of graffiti. Southern Italian teenagers are hyper active with their cans of spray paint. Expressions of love, “Ti amo” so-and-so, elicit innocent images of youthful love, but there is nothing pretty about it splattered across buildings, the insides of subway trains and across marble monuments. It’s all about the immediacy, the instant gratification, the bravado. Nothing long-term here, except the faded colors tattooing places long after the love is gone. Are there any adult examples to convince them of longevity? 

Coming out of Baia nearing the bumpy tunnel once again, just pass the parking lot of trash, a watermelon truck is loaded with green globes, a few quarters cut open and displayed as visual enticement. The cardboard box flattened with a hand-painted message indicates these are going cheaply, get ‘em now! This farmer obviously has got a big load. I wonder about the quality of soil and water that nurtures these little red gems to maturity. 

This country man is invading the area to off-load his bounty. Normally, the local fruit stalls offer the neighborhood daily produce. These stores spill over onto the sidewalks with more goods outside than inside the cramped shops. It all teeters on madness - very half-hazard in appearance - but with a softness of familiarity. No doubt the slow walking old woman in the black skirt has shopped that particular fruit stall for years, though there is another one only a half block away. She won’t go near the watermelon truck. Her loyalty is secure.

The garbage piles don't seem to stop life. Everyone keeps going. 

I finally reach the tangenziale - the main multi-laned road cutting though the city - and pop out onto the highway without looking. There is no shoulder or long merge lane. It doesn't matter. I’ve adapted to local customs and like everyone (and everything) in Southern Italy, I just hit it going full-speed. I’ll deal with whatever greets me when I get there - an oncoming truck that forces you to ride the skinny shoulder or stop, or wide-open road, free for speed. No need to adjust until you must.

I hit the stretch home and stop looking for trash. I’m a bit mentally worn out, frankly. An old Hootie and the Blowfish CD still works and plays. It takes me somewhere else.

Time, you left me standing there
Like a tree growing all alone
The wind just stripped me bare
Stripped me bare
Time, the past has come and gone, gone
The future's far away
An hour only lasts for one second, one second

I’m back to contrasts. This Italian landscape is so different than my carefree days in Charleston, South Carolina when “Time” was only relevant on the radio. I used to visit the southern town rendezvousing with my love of that time. We’d spend countless hours on the clean beaches with a cooler of beer, lazy days that spread for hours, not much really going on, the focus more on what the night-out would offer; a hangover for certain.

My mind quickly shifts back to the littered landscape of now. I fly by an emergency lane pull-out. It’s busy collecting dead tires, bags of trash spilling open and limp cardboard boxes. The only “emergency” here is the crisis of this horrible trash epidemic that no repeat-Berlusconi pledge has solved.

Mentally, I’m out of here again. I remember. Later, after that Charleston love crumbled and became another (my husband), and when I worked instead of only played in the city, I became a fundraiser for the Coastal Conservation League. The group was a well-established and respected non-profit that took the earth-given beauty of an area seriously, and sought to preserve it indefinitely. We were (and they still are) about stewardship of the land, the buildings, the history, in all their purity. This was an organization that wanted to impress upon people the value of long-term, verse short-term, and of the gift of our landscapes and habitats – and our duty to preserve not destroy them. That the mighty buck and the latest highway or golf-course development is not what we should be all about. About NOT being all for the moment.

The irony was not lost on me at this moment, driving home from errands, my kids eating snacks in the backseat.

I live in a place with such amazing "bones." Breathtaking natural assets. For several thousands of years this place has fostered human development on the small and grand scales, from Greeks to Romans to a slew of warring tribes and greedy countries, to the peasant wanting to just survive with his grape vines and fig trees and clear ocean views. This soil has witnessed a transformation of humanity, fed it, graced it. Yet in the last 20 or so years - *just a blip in the timeline of humanity* - a group of inhabitants has caused – and continues to allow - such destruction, such disrespect for what has always been here, way before they even arrived.

I know that not every person from Campania is culpable, but enough are, and especially the treacherous and despicable mafia who have destroyed this area in more ways than one. I am saddened, and so I keep my eyes on the road, turn-up the music, and go back to Charleston in my mind. I too shall escape the obvious, if only for one second. 

Pastoral Elegance @ Tenuta San Francesco Winery

Nestled on the backside of the Amalfi Coast is something all-together unexpected. There is no holiday hype, obvious tourist agenda, or appealing water-side cafes with cute umbrellas. All that defines the Amalfi experience, like Positano or Sorrento, is left behind. No beautifully blinding ocean views fringed by teeming pods of tanned bodies in pastel colored "Positano" dresses footed with shiny sandals flitting from one beach boutique to the next. Instead a rustic other-world emerges, unexpected and welcoming, quietly sheltering historic treasures, rural habits and scenic peace.

 

Our mission one June Friday was to have an easy, intimate night of tasting local wines and eating homegrown “farm” food with a few close friends. Our destination was the small-producing winery (50,000 bottles) of Tenuta San Francesco, a family-owned and run winery housed in a restored 18^th century farmhouse surrounded by prephylloxera vines, some with impressive ages ranging close to 300 years-old.

As I told my husband before departing, on this night, if the wines were good enough to buy – and we anticipated liking at least one of their noteworthy Costa d’Amalfi DOC wines - we would, but the expedition was more about escaping Naples and squeezing in one more shared experience with good friends in the last days of living in Italy.

Our small group climbed up and out from the narrow crushing streets of Angri – a town that feels like its name – with Naples, Mt. Vesuvius, and the busy Bay at our backs. Our mini-bus zigzagged up, over and down into a valley. We literally left behind the chaos and smugly smiled at each other as we noted the litter-lined streets diminishing with each gained meter away from trash-plagued Naples. A certain level of peace bubbled up, effervescent and tingly, like the Banfi Prosecco we sipped from tiny bathroom cups in the back of the bus. Like I said, good times were on the agenda.

 

Instead of heading to Ravello we stayed left and followed the sign to Tramonti. A Google translation on the word turns up “sunsets” and we were definitely having one of those dreamy summer evenings of soft golden rays. But split the word and “tra monti” means "among mountains," and that we were, riding single-laned roads seemingly far but really not from urban crassness and blight.

Our unassuming guide, one of the owners of the Tenuta San Francesco winery, met us on his scooter with perfect timing at the town "corner" cafe, a rural crossroads with outdoor coffee hut. Pulling off his black helmet and greeting us with welcoming smiles, an upturned collar on his pastel colored polo, our host instructed us to follow suit; he had a few things to share before a visit to his winery.

 

Trying to balance the need for a bathroom after the long drive, and wanting to embrace what was unfolding before us, we joked a bit to take off the edge. A few swerving roads and minutes later, our minibus stopped and hugged a curve. Our little group unloaded in classic we-are-not-from-here form, a posse of curious folks descending down concrete stairs into a covered ravine beside a small meandering river. Tucked under the rocky overhang behind rusted iron gates sprawled a handmade presepe scene in classic Napolitano form. These little religious scenes can be found all along the Amalfi roads and are proud expressions of regional artistry and tradition.

The sun filtered through the sheltering foliage as we followed our guide deeper into the woods – and farther from anything resembling a bathroom unless you were a male. To our surprise, a stone church carved from the mountain with double arched glass windows materialized - the La Cappella rupestre di S. Michele, or The Stone Church. An ancient burial ground once resided here evidenced by plainly visible human bones and a collecting well where bodies were dropped. A flood washed away the 13^th century church, but parts still remain and are incorporated into the current church. The one-roomed building was hauntingly gothic with a primitive touch, like it sprouting naturally from the mountain. Barbaric ways were evidence, captured behind iron gates protecting fallen bones; beauty preserved; modern glass with raw stone, carved pillars swathed in warm lights, flowers left in reverence.

An old lady sat with a cane. A woman arrived with flowers. Before long the still-active church was humming with a rhythmic Catholic chant, their reverent voices followed us as we left and explored yet farther into the woods. Up a hill we visited the ruins of a several hundred year-old hillside tavern – a giant wine barrel still intact and visible through the crumbling walls - and the abandoned vineyards and gardens outside its doors, still producing grapes and herbs.

  

We were only a few hours into our trip and it was turning out to be far more interesting than just a night out drinking wine with friends. But a bathroom was in order! Off to the winery. 

The sun was hanging high on this just post-summer-solstice evening as we rounded a curve on our way to the farmhouse. On a corner overlooking the countryside a lone table uncharacteristically sat covered in delicate lacework with a basket of fresh flower petals. It struck us as strange, but our guide informed us that the flowers were positioned for throwing at a Madonna statue that would be paraded through the rural streets on this day of some Catholic (or local) celebration I can’t recall.

 

 

The wood “Tenuta San Francesco” winery sign finally greeted us. Once everyone was relieved, the group trickled down the slop on the heels of our guide into canopied vineyards, ducking underneath a long hill-side umbrella of weaved vines, green leaves and baby grapes blooming. The girth of the vines were beyond impressive, some of them gnarled with hundreds of years of production, collectively as thick as a human body. I had never quite seen them that giant; they resembled the trunks of hundred year-old olive trees, not grape vines.

The grapes growing here are traditional of Campania (the reds Aglianico and Piedirosso, the white Falanghina), and of the islands and Amalfi Coast (like the white biancolella), and a few that are only found in this exact mountain valley: the whites Pepella and Ginestra, and the red Tintore. We tried 4 of the 5 wines produced there, and though the noteworthy reds (4 Spine Tramonti Riserva, and E’Iss) were enjoyable – earthy, peppery and slightly hot on the mouth – the “Tramonti Bianco” was both E and my favorite: light-bodied, with undertones of subtle stone-fruit sweetness but with a bright sparkle or "zing" on the tongue.

We bought wine. 

 

 

A peasant-style meal of locally smoked mozzarella, homemade ricotta, cured meats, pasta fagioli, grilled sausages and green beans, and berry jams with sponge-style cake, tasted all the more delicious under the beamed roof of the rustic farm open to the hillside, and even more so served and cooked by the proud family. They always say wine tastes better in a setting like this. I would argue that everything is better in a setting like this. 

An evening mist drifted unassumingly in and slowly rolled across the valley dips. Somewhere a farmer started a fire, smoke channeling up into the sky. No one had cellphone coverage, and no one quite cared. With glass of wine after another, and glasses re-filled with our favorites, there wasn’t a care in the world. The night unfolded in that lovely manner that captures the best of everyone. We were all easily laughing, sharing stories. It was the kind of night that is undoubtedly tucked into the fond memories file; the kind of night that makes you thankful for good wine, good people, and Italy. 

 

Thank you AndiamoTrips for arranging. More pictures on sidebar.