The Time Between

Can an Ex-Pat Truly Return?


Rome, March 2005
I’m in trastevere, that acquired-taste of a Roman neighborhood that is a challenge every moment of every day, beginning with the first step outside on an early spring morning--- and a stumble over one of the gaps created by millions of missing cobbles. The spaces between the intact cobbles are stuffed with cigarette butts, bits of plastic, odure of every description, and brave blades of new grass. All I want is to make it to the Ombre Rosse, the Red Shadows café, for a cappuccino, so I walk carefully, one eye tracking danger on the ground. For months, I have dreamed of a daily stroll to this café where I can, for ten days at least, feel like I am back in Italian life.

A complete set of car and house keys is resting on an iron trash receptacle as I pass through the Piazza Santa Maria. I picture someone retracing steps far into the night to no avail. Finally, a taxi or a long walk home. The steps around the fountain are momentarily empty of young people and dogs. Later on this afternoon, I’ll go for a drink with friends who live at Number 9 on the piazza---I have a little surge of well-being about it.

The outdoor area at the café is almost deserted, deep in cool shade. As I wait for my coffee, a sleepy man ties up his black dog to a stack of chairs and goes inside, yawning. He’s obviously a regular, exactly what I want to be, one of those People of Trastevere who seldom cross the river and belong to the special group of quirky, neighborhood individualists. The thought does cross my mind that I am way too old to be this simplistically romantic. After all, I’ve lived in Italy already. Five years all together. No good reason to justify nonsense.

The cappuccino is good. The pace of foot traffic picks up as the sun spills over into the lane. Across the way, a shape emerges from a pile of cartons, a voice calling out, “Massimo, un cappuccino per Don Giovanni.” The man, bearded and in a grimy overcoat, shuffles over, making huffling sounds. Avoiding eye contact, I feel the beginning of annoyance, a buried residue from twenty years in the Haight Ashbury.

“Massimo, un cappuccino per Don Giovanni, un cappuccino per Don Giovanni, un capucc---,” is repeated until the guy from the café comes out with a plastic cup, shaking his head and laughing. “Don Giovanni” makes a deal of stretching his aching back before graciously accepting his free coffee. After another persusal of who’s who in the outdoor area, he gets on with his apparent first job of the day, guarding the black dog tied up outside. There is sitting, petting, talking---conversation with the pooch and with everyone else who walks by. Several people stop to chat, calling him Gianni. Everyone is affectionate.

Eventually, the sleepy guy comes out, thanks Gianni for watching his dog, has a few words and strolls off. An old memory bobs up; I flash on one particular homeless man that hung out for years in my old neighborhood, Cole Valley, who was “our” guy, named Johnny. This Gianni goes with this vicinanza, one of the “special group of quirky, neighborhood individualists” who come with the territory.

In my room at the Hotel Cisterna in trastevere, the windows are open, with a balmy end-of-March breeze, voices of people clearing out a garden below, hammering on metal, a dog or two yapping, and traffic---always traffic. It’s mid-morning and the aroma of frying garlic is beginning to waft through the air. Lunch is a mere three hours away. This is my last week of a month-long journey away from my current home in Santa Fe. I spent a few nights near Piazza Navona after arriving in Rome, a week in Taormina with friends, nine days in Paris---and now a final ten days in trastevere. I feel surprisingly neutral about leaving next week, a first for me.

In the past, my heart would ache for days before I had to leave Italy, even when I lived here and knew I would return to a home I had made. Something might happen, something might stop me from coming back; the horror of that thought would keep me awake at night.

The original plan for this trip was to take time to find an affordable apartment in either Rome or Paris. After two years back in the U.S. and the depressing election results, I’ve been wanting out---again. This time I have a house I can exchange or rent out, maybe even for just three or six months a year, so I could, theoretically, spend extended time again in Europe. By the time my departure date rolled around, however, I realized that the present (and on-going) exchange rate made the whole idea ridiculous from a financial standpoint. My previous five years of living in Italy had been in a cushy bubble of strong dollars and no hint of a 9/11. After the disaster, I still held out another year before I moved back, in early 2003.

So, the last few weeks have been, more or less, a holiday, spending lots of weak dollars, and thinking “what if.” What if there were no George Bush to screw up our world, what if the dollar regained strength, what if the economy rebounded? These things will probably correct themselves with time, I can tell myself and, with a sigh, order another vino bianco.

However, now that my return to the U.S. is nearing, other issues are lounging with me in charming cafes, whispering like little annoying homeless spirits in my ear. Would I, could I, ever be as happy again as when I first moved to Italy in 1998? To make the move once more and not feel the ecstasy---how awful would that be? To be a renter again in Italy (or France), once more under the thumb of a landlord with an inexplicable agenda. To face yet again my phobic loathing of any contact whatsoever with foreign medical or dental facilities. The little spirits are multiplying, it seems. Mi lasci in pace...

Perhaps most importantly, has too much time passed since I lived here? Although Italy and Italians seem familiar and wonderful as usual, I feel different. I’m more interested now than before in having a sense of belonging. A country I am from, where I live because I am part of it, not just as an explorer, an adventurer, a student of its culture. Of course this is a by-product of getting older, I can tell myself with complete confidence. Encore di vino, per favore.

Outside the window, a little church bell is ringing, anticipating noon by three minutes. I’m starting to think about lunch, seriously. A short walk will result in a plate of delicious risotto---that’s an immutable fact, not a vaporous thought. And as far as ecstasy goes, all I have to do is think about my recent nine days in Paris. I haven’t lived there yet. Plenty of ecstasy to be had in Paris for a couple of years, I’m sure.

Travel Notes on Taormina
This was my second visit to this beautiful cliffside town in eastern Sicily. My strong advice for those going is: stay in town. We were ensconced in a roomy villa near the shore, way below Taormina. For me, the inconvenience loomed large, although it didn’t seem to affect the others in our house group. I would so have preferred to be located on or near Corso Umberto 1st, the charming main drag, from which pretty side streets wind either up or down the mountainside.

The Pasticceria Etna, C. Umberto 112, has the best cannoli I ever had. Euro 1.70 each, deep, dark crunchy shell, creamy, airy filling. There’s a cool internet café, Netpoint, on Via Jallia Bassia 34, near the Messina gate, 3 Euros per hour. I liked the Mocambo Bar in the gorgeous Piazza 9 Aprile; great views and people-watching from the outdoor area. A glass of house wine is 3 Euros.

In general, the restaurant food I had was good and a little cheaper than, say, Rome. I don’t have any particular place to recommend from those at which we dined. There is a lot of good wine to be had.


Travel Notes on Paris
Well, there goes my heart. Paris is such a magnificent and bouyant city. Although it was March, the weather was very fine, with emerging flowers and trees in blossom. Everybody seemed so happy to have the sun on their faces.

For nine nights, I stayed at a hotel in the Latin Quarter, near Notre Dame, a way too-busy area, but---fun, in a way. Next time in Paris, if I stay in a hotel rather than an apartment, I would book waaay ahead at the Comfort Inn Mouffetard, located on, in my opinion, the most wonderful street in Paris.

Rue Mouffetard, in the 5th arrondissement, is a street famous for its age, character, specialty food shops and wonderful open market. On my own, and with Martha, a friend from Florence, I walked the length of the “Mouff” several times, with leisurely stop-offs for coffee, lunch, browsing.

At the lower end of Rue Mouffetard, the fun begins around the square St. Medard, where there are several cafes where one can fortify one’s self before the hike up the hill. A fountain in the center starts its cheerful spray at 10 a.m. on the dot. The produce markets are scattered in front of the pretty church of St. Medard on the north side of the place. Everything---fruit, vegetables, flowers---looks wonderful and fresh. At No.128 Rue Mouffetard, I bought the best roasted chicken (half) of my life, part of which was deliciously consumed on a bench in the little park along the side of the church.

Up the street, there are a number of open-fronted cheese stores with cases proudly displaying lumps of mold-covered bacterial substance that made me, for one, realize that I am in serious need of an education in cheese. Just another reason for a future extended stay in Paris.Intermingled with the cheeses are shops for meat, poultry, charcuterie, fish and so on, all looking first-rate.

Strolling up the hill, one can stop off at numerous old, old bistros for coffee, wine or a meal, and of course, there are examples of ethnic eating---Turkish, Egyptian, et cetera. The shops for jewelry, arts and crafts and housewares are way too attractive, along with numerous bookstores. At No.89 Rue Mouffetard, I found “Sous Le Soleil,” a charming boutique for lovely things from Provence. My granddaughter Miranda, who is currently into twirling, will enjoy the two sun dresses I couldn’t resist; they have ruffle-ly full skirts and are made with the colorful provence fabrics.

Eventually you reach the Place de la Contrescarpe, another delightful square with a fountain in the center. On weekends (at least) this place and the whole of Rue Mouffetard is a pedestrian-only zone---so nice. My favorite bistro on the square turned out to be “La Contrescarpe,” officially located at No. 57 Rue Lacepede. Inside, the place is old and comfy, with book-lined walls, various-sized glass-topped tables and leather easy-chairs, plus scattered potted palms. Outside, the terrace area is tops for people-watching with the fountain as a backdrop. Here, a kir costs 4 Euros, a glass of house white is 3.50 Euros and a verre de Bordeaux is 5 Euros.

For one lunch, eaten inside at “La Contrescarpe” in leather-bound comfort, I had the 14 Euro fixed menu, from which I chose the Tartare Avocat, a wonderful combo of sliced smoked salmon making a nest, with chunks of dressed, and spanking fresh, avocado nestled inside. My main course was a great, tasty braised chicken quarter laid on top of a plate-full of puffed-up roasted potatos that had just the right hint of garlic. My friend had a bowl of “La Contrescarpe” onion soup (7 Euros), which she liked very much, but she couldn’t keep her fork out of my potatoes. On another occasion, we had the duck confit and the Parisian salad---both very good.

Above the Place de la Contrescarpe, at 56 Rue Mouffetard, is the Comfort Inn. It’s in a typical old building with perhaps five stories, and it’s just about the only place to stay directly on this famous street. The place is apparently nearly always completely booked.

Impressions: March 20 – March 28, 2005:
In Paris, person can sit down and have a meal at any time of the day or night; that’s the function of the brasserie, and sometimes the bistro. Food is expensive, with today’s weak dollars, but fresh and delicious in almost all cases. The coffee is to die for; the aroma alone is worth a trip to Paris. There are also many, many wonderful opportunities for take-out food, already cooked or oven-ready.

There are lots of parks, large and small, and children’s play areas, especially along the sides of churches; dogs aren’t allowed in these public areas. People sit in the parks, talking and reading books.

In the 5th, at least, bookstores are everywhere. At Shakespeare & Company, No.37 rue de la Bucherie, there is a small shelf of used books for 5 Euros. When you purchase a book, the clerk stamps the inside front page with the store’s logo and the words “Kilometer Zero Paris.”

The sidewalks are clean and well-paved, with no dog litter as in the past. Little green
trash baskets ring every park and place. There is a huge number and variety of city vehicles that roam about day and night, cleaning streets, sucking up dog poop and emptying trash.

Smoking, at present, is still permitted inside restaurants, bars, bistros, brasseries and cafes. Ashtrays are provided. At outdoor tables, smoking also occurs, but there are no ashtrays; they are “not permitted.” Surprisingly, American Spirit cigarettes, manufactured in Santa Fe, are available at some tobacco shops. I was told that a smoking ban (inside) will take effect in about six months.

The “Matisse: Une Seconde Vie” exhibit at the Palais du Luxembourg was great, and well-managed, featuring a significant number of the artist’s later collages and about a dozen paintings. As old Henri once said, “Sans passion, il n’y a pas d’art,” and he sure had passion. Admission is 10 Euros; the show ends on July 17. The area outside the entrance had two pretty cafes set up, one inside a tent and one in the open air. Leave it to the French to grasp that great art goes well with a café-crème or une verre de vin blanc.

My friend and I tried two Paris restaurants that are reviewed on Slow Travel. The first, Les Fetes Galantes, was a tiny, intimate place, sort of like a hippy living room from the sixties. Maybe six tables at most, so reservations are necessary. I made an error ordering a “soup” that was essentially a liquid bowl of fois gras. Sooo rich I couldn’t finish it. Then, I had sweetbreads, lovely, tender, delicious; this is a dish I haven’t had in at least twenty years, so I couldn’t resist. Martha had a salad and the duck confit, both of which were very good. The fixed-price menus were average for Paris, the dish presentations were arty, especially dessert. We had a bottle of nicely-chilled Graves for 16 Euros that was totally delicious. Les Fetes Galantes, No.17 rue de l’Ecole Polytechnique, phone 01 43 26 10 40.

The other Slow Travel reviewed restaurant was Le Vieux Bistro, at No. 14 rue Cloitre Notre-Dame, on the north side of the cathedral. We had an OK, and expensive, lunch there one day. The green salads were excellent, le boeuf bourguignon---well, I wouldn’t go down that road again. Just too heavy for lunch, and not all that interesting a version of the classic dish, with a too-prevelant flavor of smoked bacon, very few onions and no discernable mushrooms. The place was cute inside, though, and I liked my broiled orange slices for dessert.

Near my hotel, I became fond of Le St. Severin, a bistro across from the church and on the street of the same name. One night, I had a fantastic plate of three loin lamb chops, broiled-crusty but nicely rare, along with excellent pommes frites, for Euro 10.50. A quarter-liter of house wine is 6 Euros. A tasty salade nicoise is Euro 9.10. The waiters at Le St. Severin are especially nice and remembered me after my first visit. The outdoor sitting area is more peaceful and less tourist-flooded than on the other nearby streets.

Final thoughts: Paris seems such a liveable city, with at least a few people in charge who do some creative thinking. Unlike Rome, the Paris infrastructure is, apparently, in good shape. Things work. I hope to spend a lot more time there in my life.

Travel Notes on Rome & Trastevere
Arriving in trastevere after nine days in Paris was like finding one’s self suddenly in a version of Bosnia. It took several precious days to get back into the hang of the neighborhood, where I’ve happily stayed twice before, in two different apartments. I had planned to do the same this time, but some iffy personal circumstances occurred that caused me to cancel the vacation rental I had reserved.

So, this time I stayed at the Hotel Cisterna, which is just a minute’s walk from the neighborhood’s main piazza, Santa Maria in Trastevere. The ancient street the hotel is on is a total mess, with grafitti everywhere, trash, and actual garbage strewn around the cute little old “cisterna” fountain at the corner. The hotel itself I liked.

Most of my ten days in trastevere were spent lounging unashamedly in caffes, especially Caffe di Marzio on the main piazza. Spent a lotta euros there. I talked to friends on my loaner cell-phone. I saw friends who live in Rome for drinks, lunches and dinners. I wandered around and made a couple of watercolors. I spent time in my hotel room writing. The death watch for il Papa was in full swing on TV from the moment I arrived in Rome.

On my first night, after schlepping messily from Fumicino by train and taxi to the hotel, and arriving after dark, I went out in search of, well, I didn’t even know what. I wandered over to via della Scala, found Pizzeria Gianni, a slice place, where I carried off two fetti and a bottle of chilled white frascati. Gianni had opened the wine and provided a couple of plastic cups, so I climbed up some of the steps of the church (della Scala) and quaffed a lot of the wine. A large stream of humanity went by, looking for a fun end to the day after Easter (pasquetta). I slept really well that first night.

One morning, I trekked over to a launderette recommended by the hotel, with two bulging bags of dirty clothes. For 4.80 Euros, I handed it over and was told to come back in two hours. After a quick cappuccino, my morning was made glorious by a visit to the church of San Francesco a Ripa, just down the street from the laundromat. I tiptoed into the empty church, down the left aisle to the end chapel. There she was, the Ludovica Albertoni, Bernini’s greatest work, in my humble opinion. I spent a happy forty-five minutes with her, leaving when a small group of other admirers came.

I had decided that I would attempt to use the bus system in Rome on this visit, having never done so in the past. Actually, it was pretty easy to figure out where any given bus was going by studying the sign for each route at the bus stop, Rome map in hand. My biggest success was actually gettting to the main Banca D’Italia building from trastevere on one bus. A short walk up via XX Settembre was necessary, so I stopped on the way and said hello again to Santa Teresa, Bernini’s other greatest work at the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Teresa looked good, but the Ludovica has more soul.

My mission at the Banca was to exchange a 500,000 lira bill into Euros, an unfortunate necessity with the current exchange rate. A few weeks before, at home in Santa Fe, I had found the souvenir lira bill tucked into my passport, along with 250 Euros. Once up the escalator to the first floor, I found a row of bank clerks whose job it is to redeem the old, wonderful lira for the mechanical-looking Euro. There was, of course, a full-page form to fill out with my vital information. With an unexpected qualm of regret, I forked over my cinque cento bill, large in size, gorgeously purple and blue in color, with Raphael’s portrait on it (for god’s sake), and received 272 boring Euros and some centissimi. A really elderly man at the next window was handed a ten Euro note and a couple of ones for whatever he had found in a pants pocket or an old shoe. He seemed grateful; I felt sad.

The bus ride back went through the piazza Barberini, past Bernini’s little bee fountain and the Triton sculpture in the center, cheering me up immensely. That night, April 1st, I went to dinner with a friend from San Francisco who was in Rome (plus Italy and Europe) for the first time. Two friends from Rieti drove into the city to join us, resplendent in their professional clothes. This was the night of the Ultimate April Fool’s Day joke.

Kathi and I arrived at the ristorante-pizzeria La Tana de Noantri at around eight, after sharing a bottle of falanghina at Café di Marzio. We expected Paola and Sirio to arrive momentarily. The restaurant was completely empty. Are we that early? we wondered. I asked one of the six waiters who were hovering over us, and he said that maybe people were not coming tonight because the Pope was near death. We murmured sympathically. My Rieti friends showed up, other diners did too; things got merry and I forgot about the Pope.

After lots more wine, some great food and conversation, we rose happily from the table. The young, rotund waiter from the start of our evening came up to us with the news that il Papa was dead. He had tears in his eyes; I had lots of wine in my system. I hugged him and said “coraggio.” Back in the main piazza---it was about ten-thirty by then---we had coffee and brandy at the Marzio. We talked about the dead Pope while a scattering of people strolled around the piazza. An hour afterward, back in my room at the Hotel Cisterna, I found CNN still immersed in the death-watch. He wasn’t dead after all!

The next morning, I learned that Italian television had erroneously (perhaps) announced that the heart had stopped Friday night; then, later, that the heart had started up again. I pretty much lost interest in the whole thing around that point in my stay in Rome. A few nights later, after the real death, I had dinner again at La Tana de Noantri, with new friends from the Slow Travel Get-Together. The chubby waiter and I eyed each other sheepishly and exchanged “mi dispiace”s.

As for the restaurant mentioned above, it’s one of my old reliables in trastevere. I especially like to go when it’s warm enough to sit outside in their terrace area across the lane. There’s a wonderful old two-story palazzo, incredibly crusty, on one side of the tented dining area. I actually celebrated my 60th birthday there on a warm May evening, with a number of friends. Imagine my surprise that night when the check came and I found out that the Italian custom is apparently for the Birthday Person to treat all the others. Yes, that was a memorable night. Anyway, the restaurant has excellent fritto misto and fiori di zucca, plus good versions of most Roman favorites. Inside, the lighting is unatmospherically bright; I always thought how my parents (who lived until their late eighties) would have appreciated the wattage during perusal of the menu. La Tana de Noantri, Via della Paglia 1-2-3, just off the piazza S. Maria in Trastevere.

A few Pope Notes: On a random bus ride, I wound up at the Vatican, and saw the crowds gathering for word of the imminent death, with scores of TV vans parked in a clump, anchor-people and cameras on top of the vehicles, broadcasting to the world. My friend Kathi and her sister actually got into the viewing line on Monday, when the body was taken from the residence into the basilica. They shuffled along from two o’clock until midnight, when they finally passed the bier. Then, they walked back to their hotel at Piazza di Spagna. On Tuesday, I was almost trampled by thousands of people running down Corso Vittorio Emanuele II from the bus terminal toward the Vatican. By that time, the line was several kilometers long. I didn’t go into the centro again, nor anywhere near the Vatican. The city was plastered with repeating posters featuring an image of John Paul II, hands clasped over his head, and the word, “Grazie.” Rows and rows of the same poster---very surreal.

On my last night in Rome, Wednesday April 6th, my trastevere friends drove me over to visit a mutual friend who lives in Parioli, a posh neighborhood far from the earthy trastevere. Lots of streets were in the process of being blocked off, in preparation for the funeral on Friday. My friend Floriana had prepared a delicious dinner---champagne and tidbits to start, a fabulous pasta with peperoncini, broccoli, panna and amazing tiny roasted croutons, then crudities, fruit and twenty kinds of cheese. After that, there was gelato, which I had to forego, regretfully.

My friends were all upbeat about the on-going regional election results, which were showing a turn toward the leftist coalition; eventually this could translate into tough times for Berlusconi. They gloated over his uncomfortable “press conference,” where he actually had to, for once, squirm through some difficult questions. All during dinner, helicopters came, went and hovered overhead. Floriana said, matter-of-factly, “Bush is here in the neighborhood, sleeping at the American Embassy.”

We had a lovely, twisty-turny ride back to trastevere in the Roman night, past the Colosseum, the Forum, Caracalla---each ground-lit and beautiful. The past, the present, the future, all in one night.

Loving Paris

Paris: March 21 - 28

I'll have to expand on this part of my trip later on. But the nine days in Paris were nearly perfect. I learned how to ride the buses, saving my bad back from extra strain. I spent a lot of time around Rue Mouffetard, the neighborhood I would want to live in should I ever live in Paris. The Matisse exhibit was very good, inspiring as usual with HM, my favorite painter. Saint Chapelle---once more, wow. The food, excellent, the wine, delicious, the people---friendly and fun. I like the little parks everywhere, the clean(ish), even surfaced streets, the diagonals creating vistas everywhere, thank you Haussemann.

I'm going back, often. My friend Martha was a delightful companion for five of the Paris days; she too was happy just wandering and sampling cuisine ordinaire. Thanks, Martha, I miss you already... Thanks again to Pauline for phoning just before I left for Rome to hear about my Paris experience.

Merci for Le Difference

Paris: Sunday, March 20

Oh it was sweet waking up this morning not in Sicily. Even with my guarded little view of an interior Parisian courtyard, I could tell the day was sunny and clear. I shot into yesterday’s clothes, loving my tasteful little double room at the Hotel du Levant all the while, and went down to breakfast. My, my, the coffee, the croissants, the Butter. How great to be back in a country where the people don’t fear butter. And no silly rules about smoking, aside from the basic, civilized ones. Outside, the morning was perfect; a slowly waking city, bells ringing for Palm Sunday, the aroma of coffee, bread, and freshly washed streets from last night’s showers. A scrubbed Notre Dame just up the street, towers shining; I found a nice fat used book to read at Shakespeare & Co for 5 Euros, wine for my mini-frigo, a box of smelly cheese, a small baguette. I spent an hour at the internet café across the street, answering emails; it was still before nine o’clock when I logged off.

After a nap and another wander around the Latin Quarter, I came back to my room, where I noticed a strange and somewhat bathroomy odor. Hmmm…I had removed the tablet of annoying air freshener in le bain, wrapped it in a double layer of Saran Wrap and stowed it in an empty cupboard, so what was it? Of course, it was the Camembert. Man, that is some aromatic foodstuff.

Now it’s the end of my first full day in Paris, with a lovely week to go before I return to Rome. Looking forward to the Matisse exhibit at the Palais du Luxembourg, the arrival of my dear friend Martha King from Firenze, and more of the world’s greatest croissants. Thanks to Pauline for phoning me the minute I got to Paris and the ensuing long, long conversation. Lovely. And to Cheryl for checking in this morning to say that her little apartment in Civita is delightful and she’s having a peaceful time. And to Martha, who is going to bring me a new phone card for my borrowed cellular so that it will continue to think it’s in Italy.

Catch up with you later…

J'Accuse Siracusa

Siracusa: Wednesday, March 16

Things were going good today. We piled into the Alfa with a self-satisfied perkiness born of days of good eating, sleeping and dishing. Shannon stayed behind to find sausage.
Amazingly, we found parking close to the Archeological Museum in Siracusa, a city that turned out to be only and hour and a half away from our nest, at least with the expert and swift driving of Colleen. I spent a leisurely time in amazement at the vastness of the collection of artifacts on display; the Museo Archeologico Regionale "Paolo Orsi" seems a totally serious, world-class collection of the shards of humanity from 4,000 B.C. onward. Lingering to draw some of the designs that seemed to me to be an inspiration for baroque art (for instance, a Doric frieze with two volutes emerging from a palmetto, elegantly S-curved, from the Villa Minerva), I hung back while Cheryl, Lisa and Colleen headed for the neapolis and what remained of the outdoor glory of the distant past, namely two amphitheaters and a mysterious tall cave.
A bit later, cell-to-cell, I heard that Colleen had had a nasty stumble over at the ancient site and was now headed for the nearby hospital with a damaged left hand. Shortly after, we three non-damaged amice hung out in the waiting room while our friend’s broken ring finger was being splinted. We were all feeling shaky, in sympathy with our wounded buddy, the most competant of us all, who was now amongst the panoply of the mighty fallen at Siracusa. Shannon was kept in the loop with cell-phone updates. We had a second surge of anxiety when she asked, "Well, should I still make dinner?" OH GOD YES, we blasted back. How could she even think of such a cruel scenerio?
On the ride home from Siracusa, with Collen relaxing in the back, hand pillowed on folded jackets, we appreciated Cheryl’s driving expertise, despite a couple of wrong turns that took us out into a major agricultural area, on minor roads lined with the legendary prostitutes awaiting after-work customers. A free-wheeling discussion ensued.
Growing closer, the phenomenal mass of Etna, snow-covered, radiating alpenglow from the setting sun. Smoke feathered upward from the peak. Home was minutes away. Safety.
Shannon fulfilled her earlier promise with a spread that occupied all of us for the rest of the evening: toasted rustic bread, a well-seasoned bowl of minced pomodorini, roasted heads of garlic, fresh baby mozzarella dressed with basil and olive oil, lots of vino. Later, more wine, pasta tossed with a sicilian pesto, a lovely salad AND the promised salsicci braised with onions in red wine. Then, unbelievably, cake and mandorla (the fortified almond wine that tastes sooo good when you are here.)
Colleen took her wounded wing upstairs to bed, thoroughly versed on the communal pain-killer possibilities for the morrow and beyond. She allowed as how she didn’t need anything more for tonight. Who amongst us, did?

The Ides I'd Rather Have

Taormina and the Gorge: Tuesday, March 15

Today I recovered my stick-shift skills by driving from our haven on the sea inland to the Gola della’Alcantara, a gorge slicing through mountains west of Taormina. Milky blue water far below rushed through a rocky pass covered with green and wildflowers. And the ride over wasn’t too shabby either, winding through valleys dusted with yellow, pink and orange blossoms, plus citrus hanging heavy on thousands of trees.
Later, we met for lunch at a recommended trattoria in Taormina---again, another triumph of local, inexpensive cuisine. While the others stayed to wander the Teatro Greco, I returned to our villa and, blaziated, doing I now know not what. Had a lapse in Paradise, the Gods forgive me.

Home Alone with The Landlady

Taormina: Monday, March 14

Today I stayed behind while my three villa-mates went off to Catania to explore the town (which, fyi, produces more annual trash per capita than any other city in Italy) and to eventually pick up Lisa at the airport. We agreed that we would go out to dinner together later in Giardino Naxos. It was sweet hanging around on my own; I had coffee, some bread with jam, ran some clothes through the washer, read my book…
The day was sunny and hazy, not all that warm, but not windy, so I was happy. I watched the light change on Isola Bella and the blue and silky sea. At lunchtime, the usual delicious smells wafted up from the dark well in the kitchen, compliments of the landlady. Since I was simply noshing until dinner, I closed the doors to the kitchen and tried to ignore the aromas. Later, as I re-entered the kitchen, I jumped at the sound of a giant sneeze emmanating from below. Right below. Oh, well, I thought, she can’t help where she has to sneeze.
Mid-afternoon, I relaxed reading on my bed, ground-floor, my window on the "garden" open wide. The landlady suddenly appeared, right at the window, headed---where? I greeted her, she greeted me, through the bars. "Tutto bene?" "Si, va bene." She disappeared around a corner. I shut the window, drew the curtain and took a deep nap.
Late afternoon, rising refreshed, I headed upstairs with my book to hang on the big upper deck, where the view was wider and the traffic sounds a bit fainter. Eased into a set-up near one of the bedroom windows, where the sill acted as a shelf for my glass, I cracked open my book. There was a repetative, soft whistling sound, at first kind of sweet, then a bit annoying; I decided it was a bird somewhere near-by, probably in a cage, a cockatoo.
The plot of my book thickened and I was deeply drawn in, although dimly I heard someone calling out faintly---something. Hmmm, the bird has a repetoire. Suddenly, the landlady burst out the door onto the terrace. I jumped big this time, and actually screamed a bit. She had entered the place and come up the stairs without my hearing her, or giving my permission. Dashing into Cheryl’s front bedroom, she began rummaging around in a cupboard filled with papers, files, clutter---muttering to herself. I sat on the bed watching. Whatever she wanted wasn’t there; she moved to the locked glass door that Cheryl and I had previously peeked through to see an enormous amount of crammed stuff. Opening it, the landlady poked around and poked around, finally finding "it," which looked like a remote control with a cord and plug. She started down the stairs to the first floor; I asked her to lock the outside door on her way out. "No, no," she said. She had come up the spiral staircase in the kitchen, from her dark well below. Comforting to know that, in addition to aromas, sneezes, conversations, the woman herself could blast up anytime from below.
The Greeters returned with Lisa, who was exceptionally perky. We all caught up in the kitchen, with the background whistling of the landlady’s birdy. Lisa thanked Shannon for getting the gig together so that all she had to do was leave a contact phone number and get on an airplane. We all concurred, happily.
Later, we all (five) piled into the roomy Alfa and headed out for dinner. After weeks of research, recommendations and lists, we wound up dining at a seaside place in Giardino Naxos mainly because we found a parking spot out front. The food was great, fresh and reasonable; I made a fool of myself over a heaping plate of risotto di mare, which was the best I ever tasted, a phrase that has nearly become out mantra this week. Someone else may Out me about my personal take-away philosophy involving heavy-duty zip-locks. But I stand by my philosophy, ‘til death or the return of the lira.

Sunday in the Piazza with Tennessee

Taormina: March 13

While Colleen, Cheryl and Shannon wandered the town, I found the perfect seat at the Caffe Mocambo and made a little watercolor of the piazza XX Aprile in the satiny sunlight of Sunday afternoon. The local strolling families were relaxed, happy for the sun on their faces. So was I.
On such an afternoon, it was easy to see why Tennessee and the Others found this town, this piazza, to be so simpatico nearly fifty years ago. A wonderful place for an interlude, perhaps to hide out, perhaps to create, perhaps just to spend money.
Later, we gathered at a little wine bar on a winding lane that dipped below Corso Umberto. A Shannon find; ask her the name. Along with Etna vino, both white and red, we had a delightful plate of antipasti and enjoyed the visual details of a well-put-together establishment that seemed newly born. Eventually, we rode the Egg down to our spacious and eclectic haven to hang in the salone and have a speaker-phone call with our beloved Pauline, back in Santa Fe. The fifth member of our party, Lisa, will arrive domani.

C is for Catania

Sicily: Saturday, March 12

My emotions were a whirling dervish as I prepared to leave the Portoghesi, especially when I signed for the bill, but also because a lot of memories had surfaced during the three days of my blissful re-entry into Italy. In the past decade, a number of major times were had at this particular hotel, including several spritely parties, an affair, an impromptu performance art event, and so on.
But now it was time to go to Taormina, by way of Catania. Cheryl and I found each other at the Catania airport without incident and quickly wound up gazing thoughtfully at our rental car, a small Citroen. I planned to drive since she had just arrived from California and looked a little spacy. Only thing. I couldn’t figure out the three pedals on the floor---what was that middle one again? It’s been several years since I drove a stick. Suddenly Cheryl was alert. She decided to drive us to Taormina, and, I’ll testify here and now, she did a great job.
Colleen and Shannon were on the roadside, waving us into our parking area above the sea. Our rental home, directly on the busy road, looked a little rough-hewn, constructed out of the ubiquitous cinder-block that seems to be the signature material of modern Sicily. Up the stairs and inside, we found ourselves in a generously-roomy two story dwelling with five bedrooms, four baths, various sitting areas, a big kitchen and a glorious upper terrace overlooking the Ionian Sea and Isola Bella. Shall I say we were pleased?
Our goal was to keep Cheryl up until at least nine-thirty; to that purpose we headed up to Taormina town on the "Eggs On A String," a four-car cable system that zips straight up the mountain to a spot near the Messina gate. We had a satisfying dinner at Bella Blue, a combo ristorante, bar, disco and all-round meet-up spot. A complimentary round of mandorle (almond wine) served over ice chips was a refreshing finale.
We slept well.

Rome Is Out There

I barely left my high perch today. Realizing that tomorrow is a travel day, I stayed in the hotel. After all, it is only two steps to the breakfast room from my door, so I managed that. And to hang on the terrace while Paola and her friend cleaned my rooms. Thank the Great Spirit, more toilet paper was installed. Things were down to napkins found in the bottom of my purse, and little packets of mercy tissue left by last night's guests as they filed out the door.

There was just the right amount of food left over in the mini-frigo to make a lunch and a dinner. Water and wine, great food, toilet paper, a clean room, a sunny terrace---who needs to go anywhere? All right, I know Rome is out there, but I'm coming back in two weeks for a long session. The day involved phone calls to friends in Italy, a nap, figuring out the connection to AOL, writing, confirming my shuttle pick-up in the morning---and finally, at sunset, a call from Shannon and Colleen.

While Cheryl was even then winging over the Atlantic, Colleen and Shannon told me about their day in Cefalu, and how at that moment they were sitting on a tiny balcony, sharing a bottle of very good wine, watching an interesting sunset over the sea. I took my cell phone out onto the terrace, where the light was still glowing on various ochre walls and my snippet of the dome of San Pietro was a purple silhouette against a pink sky.

Ultimately, I cancelled a dinner engagement for tonight, feeling the tug of a still-real jet-lag. I bow to the change of time zones, to my weary self. The body is tired, the mind is in a Bernini style ecstasy. And that's pretty impressive.

The Neighborhood Goddesses

Rome: Thursday, March 10

This was my first full day back in Rome---another sunny giorno with a vivid sky and cream-puff clouds. In the shade, a serious coolness, a reminder that spring is still an infant. Today I slept until after noon, missing breakfast (nothing special at the Portoghesi) and housekeeping, which led to a later toilet paper crisis.

Walking around was hard; my spine was still in bed, trying to recover from airports and long flights. But it was good to reacquaint with some of the neighborhood goddesses---Navona, Rotunda, Pietra. These beauties still have the power to enchant and communicate.

Late in the day, I once again visited Volpetti's shop of magic food. This time was to create a roof-top spread for expected visitors. Two kinds of proscuitto, a wedge of middle-aged Pecorino, a runny and sweet lump of Gorgonzola, some bubbly-crusted bread, fresh green olives, three kinds of suppli and a big slice of veggie frittata.There, I thought, that should do it. Back on the terrace, I awaited company. The sun faded into a star show in the cold, clear air.

Wine and water showed up, carried by five enthusiastic women traveling slow in Rome and a few other choice destinations. We ate, we ran down to the hotel desk where the good cork-screw was, for several opening sessions. White wines of Frascati, the Veneto, Campania Greca, and other places. Reds from Toscana, Puglia, Umbria. My old friend Floriana was also in attendance, in fine Roman form, sharing her native's eye view of all things Italian. We saw Orion overhead in the heart of Rome. Images were captured on digital devices and everyone snuggled deep into their coats, scarves and hats, wanting to extend this time of gathering.

The evening ended as I knew it would, with my brain on overdrive from the good talk and ambience of the Roman night. Eventually, sleep came, my happy rescuer.

The Embrace of Morpheus

Rome: Wednesday, March 9

I am in Rome, lounging in my suite at the Hotel Portoghesi. In some ways, I can't believe I pulled it off---the concept, the funding, the planning, the lists, the coordination---all to give me a month in Europe after a two year hiatis.

Proud of myself? I am.

The casualty of this adventure, so far, is me. I ache like never before. I'm tired, so tired, from endless walking through terminals, and three days and two nights without sleep. I have a nasty rash in a strange place, from sitting on airplanes for over twelve hours.

But my mind is singing the Italy song. The sun on ancient bricks, on ochre walls with shadows of trees and vines; the well-remembered Roman cobbles, intricate patterns, missing stones creating the need for attention when walking.

As soon as I arrived at the hotel, having greeted Amadeo, the desk-clerk who has been here forever ("Si, madame, I remember you." Heavy sigh.), I shot down the street for my first coffee back in Italy, sitting outside in the sun. (Yes, there is sun!) Then, a stop at Volpetti's on via Scrofa, followed by a wine purchase at Vinaio on via Portoghesi. Finally, up to the top floor of the hotel to the Torre suite that I love so much. The rooms are really nothing special, but the terrace has gotten even better.

Within five minutes, my friend Mauro phoned to say he would be right over with the loaner cell-phone---oh yay! His buddy Paolo provides the ride, on a scooter; today there is a strike of buses and metro. We sit on the terrace, sipping tiny glasses of delicious and inexpensive white wine, catching up with our lives after two years.

Mauro and Paolo take their leave and I nibble on spinach and eggplant, a piece of frittata, a few morsels of roasted chicken from Volpetti's, followed by an easy two hour nap. Feeling pretty good, I decide to walk in the direction of Piazza Navona to find reading matter for my 'real' bedtime, soon to come. After three minutes, my body is screaming with aches and fatigue. Nevertheless, I manage to not become a traffic victim, to buy the IHT and sit in the enormous, important piazza for a few moments while the oncoming mist and drizzle usher in the dusk. Bernini's work still shines in the fountains there, surrounded by worshipers.

Now safely in my tower habitat, I feel the wave of Morpheus pulling me under, and I am ready to sleep for a long time and wake again to a very old place.

Tales from La Terrazza: part one

Tales from La Terrazza, Part One December 27, 1998

The Escape:
For nearly two years, I planned and finally executed my departure from San Francisco to a new adventure. My move was made last June---the Haight Ashbury to Sorrento. Why Sorrento? Well, previous to the move, my Italian friends were all in the center and north of Italy, where I usually traveled and hung out. They were mortified when I decided to live in Sorrento. "It's the mezzogiorno!" they said disparagingly. "No one will come to visit you," they said with pity.

Nonetheless, I had found the Sorrentina Peninsula to be simpatica for me; I loved the lush vegetation, the sea, the balmy climate. I also decided that I wanted to live in an urban setting, not in a casale in the countryside of--say-- toscana or umbria, although I looked at places there. Sorrento is definitely not rural. As many of you know, it's actually chock-full of people, cars, scooters, touristy stuff, etc. I was kind of used to that from living in the center of San Francisco for twenty years, so...

I used the internet to find the Sorrento home page. From that resource I found a fax number and sent a request for a listing of long-term rentals. Within six days, I received in the mail (!) a list of 25 names and phone numbers. This was a good sign, I thought---the mail works down there. I asked a very kind friend in Italy to make the phone calls. She telephoned each person on the list with my criteria in mind: six month to one year rental, furnished, up to $1,000 a month including utilities, comfortable enough for one person, a parking space, OK for having a cat---with a fantastic view terrace. My friend came up with two Sorrento area possiblities and I flew to Italy in February to look at them. I rented the second one. Oh yes.

My apartment is a shabbily charming affair; three little (but very tall) white rooms with big windows, plus a bathroom hardly bigger than the bath mat on the floor. It is in La Terrazza, an old, grandly-faded villa that is a pastiche of yellow and white stripes, three orders of pilasters and wedding cake folderol decoration, balconies and pergolas, sitting on the cliff overlooking the Bay of Naples and Vesuvio. Specifically, it's in the center of Sorrento above the Marina Piccola.

The bedroom window and the terrace door of my little apartment open onto a view that still makes my heart take a leap each morning. Outside of my door is a raised terrace about 25 by 25 feet with white marble eagles and urns perched on the stone balustrades. Wide stairs lead down to the grand, immense, huge, white-tiled, fantastic cliff terrace of the original villa. My particular apartment’s official entrance is an ornate gate under an arbor of jasmine at the far end. There is a three-story tall umbrella pine in the center, with (I swear) nightingales living in it. I hear the birds at night, at least in the summer. Allora, this is a terrace of one’s dreams.

The Story of the Villa As I Currently Think I Grasp It:
La Terrazza was built by a very rich man just before the start of the 20th century, after his yacht sailed one day into the south side of the bay of Naples. He was impressed with the then-rustic beauty of the area and bought an old farm with orchards on the cliff. Supposedly the small original dwelling was incorporated into the new villa. The “Baron” returned to Sorrento for many winter seasons, joined by friends who also built grand villas. His German-Russian family line eventually joined with an old, noble Neapolitan clan whose descendents still co-own the property.

For about thirty years, beginning sometime during the years of the Great War, La Terrazza was turned into another of the grand hotels on the cliffs of Sorrento. The villa passed down to my landlord’s grandfather, who ended the “Hotel” adventure and spent the rest of his life and fortune maintaining the property as a single residence. After his death in the 1970s, the villa was divided in its plan and there are, today, ten condominiums in La Terrazza, all owned by various members of the old Naples family. None of the family owners live here except my landlord, a young guy who has adored the villa since he was a kid visiting grandpapa.

In Good Company:
If you have seen "Tales of the City", a BBC/PBS mini-series (and book by Amisted Maupin) about a particular (and peculiar) fictional apartment house in San Francisco, you may be able to better relate to the next part of this story. Almost all of the apartments at La Terrazza are rented, very long-term, to Italian people who I am just getting to know. One mutual avocation among the tennants is to call the police on my landlord everytime he constructs, repairs, installs, or otherwise tries to change anything on the exterior, i.e. anything they can see from their windows, balconies, loggias or terrazze. One day last week, the town police were here twice to inspect a suspected activity. Reports were filed. Life goes on.

I do have two American neighbors, a dynamite retired couple, who have lived here for eight years. They live two floors below me in a vast, vaulted apartment that is actually part of the cliff and used to be the laundry-drying rooms of the villa. They have a poodle that bounces four feet up into the air when he is about to go out. There is a mysterious woman who lives on the top floor, the whole top floor, with a kind of sea-watching tower as part of it. There is a family one floor below me with two teen-age daughters who play Chopin sonatas on the baby grand located in their glass conservatory off the west end of the front of the house. Their handsome and well turned-out Dad has a different Mercedes every day when he zooms in through the (electrically-controlled) main gates. There is a woman who lives just above me who stealthily goes onto the grand terrace every morning and feeds the seven wild cats who live --get this-- down below the terrace in the villa's extremely spooky stone tunnel and stairs that go to the beach far below. Best of all is the family in the apartment next door, on the other side of my kitchen and bedroom walls. Lots of vibrant conversations coming through those walls. Dad is a lot like Cosmo, the father in the film “Moonstruck”. They have been very curious and warm about my presence here at La Terrazza.

So, what am I doing here?
Aside from the minute-to-minute, totally distracting excitement of the to-doings at La Terrazza, I am painting watercolors. From the terrace, of the terrace, above the terrace, through the door to the terrace. Like Matisse (ha!) from his hotel room in Nice, I’m prepared to spend ten years here until I get this view completely explored. I am accumulating some great interior props to include in my paintings --a white glazed Greek-ish ewer with a curved handle, and an outrageous old curlicue wrought-iron terrace chair. A headless marble cherub that was formerly on the terrazza. Plus tall, palm-like plants in large ceramic pots I brought back from a drive down to Sicily. My cat arrived here in September, so she is now a part of the prop collection. (My God, they sleep a lot, cats.)

Now that it’s cold, I’m spending a bit of time keeping my little fireplace going with the firewood delivered through the connection with my favorite pizza-ristorante, the Aurora. Although there are old steam radiators in all three rooms of my apartment, they aren’t connected to anything whatsoever, a fact I didn’t discover until November. The fireplace and a small electric heater I bought are it as far as heat goes this winter. I walk a couple of blocks to shop for food, wine, etc every morning. Sometimes, when the bay is calm, I take a morning hyrofoil over to Napoli and explore one more Great Thing. Other times, I take the Circumvesuviana train, which also stops at the unforgettable Pompei site. Since I have been here, I have also explored Capri, the Amalfi coast and the Greek temples at Paestum. Lots yet to do and see. A lifetime's worth.

At the moment, Sorrento is back in the hands of the locals --just a trickle of visitors wandering around. The elegant yet fusty old Hotel Excelsior Vittoria (a major feature of my view) seems pretty quiet. Natale 1998 was wonderful in town, with lots of lights and great nativity displays. The sound of bagpipes rolled through the streets as players practiced the (one) traditional Christmas tune. There is on-going testing of massive firecracker arsenals for the up-coming New Year’s Eve. There is the hint of nighttime music from the Foreigners’ Club next door, now thankfully behind closed doors in the winter. There are windless, very still nights, with the chill from the bay rising up in the darkness and Napoli glittering across the black. I also have wood-fire warmth and the comfort of my favorite music, sometimes blended with the sound of my next-door neighbors having a normal, loving, high-decibel conversation. Somehow, it’s all lovely, still lovely.

Happy New Year!

Go Ahead, Vote! Send Nancy Back to Italy!

Welcome to my world.

I returned from Italy early in 2003, after a five-year adventure.
Now, it's four days until the election.
I'm assuaging my anxiety with the thought that I can return there to live.
Perhaps this time in Rome.

So feel free, Americans---a vote for Bush is a vote for Nancy to once again help support the Italian economy.
It's a dandy two-fer.

In this blog, I plan to write about my previous time in Italy, living in Sorrento and Florence.
How I got hooked on the country in the first place.
Why I moved back to the U.S. How it's been being back.
The process of deciding about leaving again.

Meanwhile, in this life, I write in the mornings in my little house on the prairie. My desk is in a room with big windows facing an open space of grasses rimmed by a skyline of mountains. Around noon, the sun swings over to this side of the house and begins to flow inside. It's all most pleasant. And quiet. Today it's sunny and windy.


My March Trip Obsession:

A good friend is going to have an important birthday next March. She has invited some of her Italy-lover friends to join her in Taormina for what promises to be a very sweet seven days. A villa with a sunny terrace overlooking the Ionian sea, good food and wine, plus Mt. Etna. I'm deeply thrilled to be included. Hoping for decent weather in Sicily.

With my usual grandiosity, I've already expanded my March trip to Italy to four weeks, extending into April. In addition to Taormina, which I love, I'm going to spend time in the two places I've missed most since my return---Sorrento and Rome. I lived in Sorrento for over two years. And I've wandered and stayed in Rome many times.

Thanks to the generosity of my old landlord, I'll have a week in the very apartment where it all began, 'Il Pino,' my home for the first year in Italy. I'm trying not to think about how cold it was in the winter, including March, with a frigid sea wind howling through the old doors and windows. But I can't imagine going to Sorrento without staying at La Terrazza. I love this impossibly ornate and crumbling villa perched on the cliff over the bay of Naples. I was Andrea's test case, his first tennant.

My enchantment during that year was tempered by the frequent clashes we had over plumbing, heat, privacy, construction, parties and even dead cats. But we had many good times, adventures and laughs and we have stayed friends. I learned what I know about the Napolitano character mostly from Andrea. I learned how to tell the police that Andrea was not 'in casa,' while he hid in my kitchen. (He was often busted by other condo-occupants for his illegal construction activities and non-approved parties on the grand terrace.) I learned that lying is part of life, a kindness, really, to others. Why make people unhappy? I learned that paying too much for something is the worst example of one's foolishness and a sure way to lose the respect of others. I learned a lot.

Anyone interested can read 'Tales from La Terrazza,' some pieces written while living in the villa, by clicking on the titles. Also, Andrea's apartments at La Terrazza can be viewed (and rented) by going to http://www.villaterrazza.it/

The March trip is shaping up well. I'm flying into Rome where I'll stay for three days before heading to Taormina. For old time's sake, I've reserved the La Torre suite at the Hotel Portoghesi. This is my favorite room in my favorite hotel. I like the hotel partly because of the location near Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. It's no longer cheap, the rooms aren't fabulous, guest services pretty nonexistant, but I love the roof terrace and have had actual parties up there with friends, food and wine. Once we even projected images onto a medieval tower across the street, stopping traffic. They blocked off half the terrace when they made the suite, so now you get your own private outdoor area, which is very cute. If you lean over the parapet and look up Via d'Orso, you can see the dome of San Pietro.

Anyway, I can relax at the Portoghesi for three nights and welcome myself back to Rome at my own pace. Maybe see a few friends. I can taste the fiori di zucca at La Carbonara already; the best I've ever had.

The following Saturday, I'm flying Air-One from FCO to Catania, picking up a car and whoever else shows up mid-afternoon, and driving to the villa in Taormina. Actually the villa is a couple of kilometers outside of town, on a hill above the beachy resort area. Looking forward to wandering the town more fully than last time, which was only a couple of days. But must revisit the amphitheater, the Wonder Bar and the restaurant Bella Blu---where, after dinner, they serve you glasses of mandorle (almond wine) suffused with crushed ice.

After the Birthday Girl Bash, I'll head up the Calabrian coast and the Amalfi Drive to Sorrento. Take two or three days. In Sorrento, I'm hoping to see some of my old friends, especially the little group I called LaCreme. They are Brits who married handsome Sorrento men a couple of decades ago, now have teenagers and a lot of savvy stories, especially about Italian in-laws. They are hilarious women. After they got over my living in Sorrento without a husband ('Why on earth, my dear, would you do it?"), I was included in many pizza-nights-out at their favorite joints. God, we had fun.

I also look forward once again to the annual Easter festivities, which includes a big town-to-town parade of Romans (some on horseback), Israelites carrying the torah, fruit-laden pagan maidens and god knows who else, all escorting a live, near-naked Jesus who is dragging his cross and who winds up getting installed on it in one of Sorrento's finest piazzas. The same piazza, in fact, where my Italian kitty, Cosima, was abandoned as a kitten and rescued by my friend Barbara Palumbo.

After the week in Sorrento, I'll drive up the coast toward Rome, stopping off at Sperlonga, perhaps, for a night. Some years back, I rented an adorable apartment there for ten days; it had a balcony overlooking a mile of golden beach with the grotto of Tiberius at the end. I painted and wandered the moorish alleys of the old town, ate the fresh-daily mozzarella di bufala.

Once I drop my rental car at FCO, I'll have a van pick-up to take me to trastevere, where I've rented an apartment. After spending days on the internet, looking for the perfect place, I wound up 'finding' the one known as Dean's Apartment; it's mentioned and reviewed numerous times on SlowTrav. Duh. Well, I have it for the last week of my Italy visit. Again, I look forward to hanging with friends, maybe meeting some Slow Travelers.

Staying in trastevere again---I've had rentals there before---will give me a chance to see how I feel about living there. Perhaps even look for a place with a six-month/one year lease. When I decided to leave Sorrento, I thought about living in trastevere, and did a house exchange with friends to see how it might be. I loved the neighborhood, but had a nagging idea that I would wind up just staying across the river and rarely going into the center again---sort of like Brooklyn and Manhattan.

Later on that year, I stopped off again in Florence and thought, 'right size, nice pace, art everywhere' and found an apartment around the corner from Santa Croce. Life was good there, until 9/11 and afterward. It was fun during the winter months to go to the supermarket and drop by the Accademia afterward, cradling grocery bags while communing with David. A friend and I had season opera tickets, my cats had, in my second Florence apartment, a walled garden with a willow tree in it. (See the SlowTrav Cat's Pages.) More of Florence later---remind me to write about the stroller and its many uses.