Fields of Grain

"...is there anywhere in the world as full of beauty as Italy?”
― Natalia Sanmartín Fenollera

If you follow or know me at all, you know that there are very few places that I'd rather be than Italy. I love it to a fault, and that will never change, I'm afraid.  It makes me so happy to be here and to be able to share its beauty and wonder with others.

After I arrived the other day, I said hello to Lilli at the bar, walked to the mercato to grab a few items, and lay down to rest a few minutes. I woke up about four hours later (7:30 pm), took my medicine, and went back to bed. Somewhere around 11:30 yesterday morning, I finally got out of bed. After I got ready, I had my cappucino with Lilli and then walked around town for a few hours. I was thrilled to see the Due Torre were still in the same place, but I figured since they've been there for hundreds of years, that wasn't going to change any time soon.

This morning, I couldn't sleep, so I got up very early and went back to Piazza Maggiore, the main piazza in town.  I noticed that people were lining hundreds of ceramic plates on the piazza (above and below). I watched for some time and then headed to the Saturday mercato in another piazza close by. It's pretty chilly here (66-degree high today), so I needed to buy a few pairs of socks so I don't freeze over the next two weeks.

I walked back through the piazza and noticed that all of the plates were laid out and upside down (below). The whole thing intrigued me, and I figured it had something to do with hunger since I saw people wearing jackets that had sayings about fighting hunger.

As I rounded the top of the piazza, I noticed boxes (below) that asked, "Where will you be October 17? World Day of Power.... Fight Hunger in Kilolo with Us."  The sign goes on to urge people to choose a plate and plant a field of grain fighting against hunger in Africa.

Kilolo, as I found out once I got home and googled it, is a town in Tanzania. From what I could tell, it is a dichotomy—a resort for the rich and famous, yet a neglected area for those in need. Hunger is rampant among its natives. 

I walked back later in the afternoon and noticed that many of the plates were now right-side up, and balloons held down by seed packets adorned them. As I watched, more and more people (and their children) turned over a plate and put balloons and seed packets on them. (Plant a field of grain....Get it?) At the same time, a guy with a mic kept thanking everyone for fighting hunger in Africa.

By the last time I passed through the piazza (around 5), there were dancing balloons all over the place (below).

You are, perhaps, wondering why I'm making any kind of deal about this since there are drives like this in the US all the time. I know it's nothing unusual, but the thing I found interesting was what was going on just around the corner at the exact same time. (If you look at the fourth photo, I'm talking about what is just behind me about 50 yards away.)  I'll tell you about it tomorrow, but suffice to say that it is the kind of crazy thing that happens here that makes me so comfortable.

By the way, the word for hunger in Italian is "fame" (fah-may).  It's Latin root is the same as famished in English.  (I'm geeking out on you here...)

A domani.....

Adventure Times Something

 “Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” 

~ JK Rowling

Let me be honest from the onset:  I love to travel (I bet you didn't know that.), and a lot of my whining is just getting the little agitations off my chest.  To tell the truth, life would be quite boring if everything were perfect, wouldn't it?

As you might remember, this week, Aer Lingus upgraded me to business class for the overseas portion of the trip. It didn't come without cost, but the cost was minimal, and I was more than willing to pay it since my body is still recovering from my fall last week.  All I could think of was the fact that I could stretch out and lie flat during the overseas portion of the flight.

 Mike was a bit more concerned with what I was going to eat.  In addition to the new 7:10 AM departure time, I also am still having a problem chewing.  Mike packed me a few mini donuts that I could gum, but he was worried that I wouldn't find anything during the stopover in Chicago.

Well, enter the perks of business class with Aer Lingus! Included was the business class lounge (for several airlines) and a "help yourself to anything you want" allowance.  Included were a bar full of breakfast items (that included hot soup) and coffee, cappuccino, latte, and espresso; two refrigerators stocked with drinks (soft, white wine, and beer), sandwiches, salads, yogurt, pudding, cheeses; a bar stocked with about 20 liquors, wine, ice, cheese, crackers, peanuts, and more; and magazines and newspapers from around the globe.  Wifi was free, too, and the seats were comfortable. 

 My layover was about three hours—a little more than two by the time I traveled from Terminal 1 to Terminal 5.  While there's a tram, one still has to walk a distance to get to it. If I had used my head and brought my wheeled-backpack instead of what I had to carry, it would have been a lot easier. BUT! Was I thinking?  No.  I thought I should have as much space as possible.

(Note to myself for the next trip anywhere:  Use the wheeled backpack and save your shoulders, arms, back, and neck.)

At any rate, being in the lounge was great for several reasons, not the least of which was people watching. If you look at the photo below, you'll see an older woman on the left, and a gal in blue shirt getting something out of the cabinet.  They're both concierges in the lounge, and I swear that if someone took one pack of cookies or peanuts from a bowl, they immediately replaced it.  There was another person who stocked the refrigerators, and when someone took a beer or sandwich, he immediately put another one in its place. When a passenger put dirty cups or dishes in the bin,  one of the concierges grabbed them and took them away within two or three minutes.

If you look at the photo above again you'll see navy blue and tan luggage at the table next to mine. They belong to a lady and man from Texas who were sitting there. The entire time they were there, the woman was on her cell phone talking to someone in Texas. Simultaneously, she was eating a sandwich (salami), drinking wine, and talking to her husband who was eating a turkey sandwich, eat Doritos, drinking wine, and snorting replies to her.

The seats alone (with the Bailey's, of course) made the whole thing worth it for me.  Apparently, Chicago O'Hare hasn't figured out that their long-haul overseas flights are pretty booked, and there are not many seats at the gate. When the people in the lounge announced that our flight was boarding, we walked to the gate and found about 100 other passengers sitting on the floor or standing against the wall since there weren't enough seats for them to sit on.

The business class seats on Aer Lingus are a little different than on British Airways, the only other plane on which I've flown business. My pod (above) had a side table (You can see my computer and other crap on it.), a storage compartment, a pull-down table, a TV screen (See photo below of seats across from me.), and a seat that not only reclines fully but also has massage capability.  The blanket that they give you is actually a comforter, and the pillow is larger than the normal airline pillow.

As soon as we boarded, the flight attendants took our jackets, hung them up, and brought us champagne, dinner menu, and a wifi code.  After we took off, they did bar service—anything we wanted, so I took more champagne—and gave us sushi which I didn't want.  Aer Lingus touts its business class dining saying that its chefs are world-reknown and the great food comes to us on trays covered with linen and on "real china."  The three entree choices that we had were beef stew braised in Irish whiskey with peppers and potatoes, cider-braised chicken with rice and peas, and salmon with something or other.  Gumming chicken is easier than gumming beef, and fish doesn't pass my lips, so chicken it was.

 Looks tasty, doesn't it? (See photo below.)  No offense, but when the flight attendant put it in front of me, I thought Riley had been in the Aer Lingus kitchen and given them what he'd had for supper the night before. The stew, which the guy across from me had, looked like a huge hunk of molten dark chocolate on chunks of something (You thought I was going to say something else, didn't you?  Admit it.). I think I got the better deal.  I closed my eyes and took a bite of mine, and it wasn't as bad as it looked. I probably enjoyed the rice and peas the most since I couldn't eat the salad.

If there is one thing I can complain about, it's Aer Lingus's lack of video offerings.  I think that, in total, they had about 40 movies (all pretty old ones) and some TV stuff.  Air Emirates, which I flew in May and July, has more than 2000 selections in coach. During dinner, I watched the Bourne Supremacy for, as Mike laughed, the 100th time, and then went to sleep.

The flight over the Atlantic was only about seven hours, and I'm not sure how much I really slept, but when I woke up, it was already close to 3:30 AM in Ireland.  They gave us a breakfast snack and coffee (again on real china and linen), and as they cleared service, the coast of Ireland came into view (below).

Dublin Airport is a charming little place (compared to Las Vegas, Chicago, JFK, Heathrow), and the connection and all were easy. What amazed me was the fact that every restaurant and shop that I passed on my way from one terminal to the next was open. Open at 4:30 in the morning.

 I stopped in one little shop for Coke Zero, and as I was leaving, an American guy said to me, "Don't forget your passport."  He pointed to an American passport and boarding pass that were on the counter.

"They're not mine," I assured him.

"Are you sure? They're right where you are," he continued. 

I stink-eyed him, opened the zipper on my purse, and flashed my passport at him.  "I'm quite sure," I said and softened.  "Thanks for your concern."

As I walked to my gate (305A), I noticed an older woman following me. She was quite confused.  There are three gates at 305—the main one, and gates A and B.  The main one is upstairs, and A and B are down two flights of stairs.  The little lady hauled her baggage down the steps and into the A waiting room after me.

"Is this the gate for Naples?" she (American) asked me and the other woman (Irish) in there.

"No," we both said.  "Milan."

"Are you sure?" the lady asked. "I'm sure my gate is 305A. That's what the sign said."

"This is the gate for Milan," the Irish lady said.

"I'm sure it said Naples was here," the American woman said as she started to open her purse.

"I think you read the wrong line," I said. "Milan was just above Naples. If you want to go upstairs and check, I'll watch your luggage." American woman was pulling everything out of her purse at this point.

"Oh, my GOD," she screamed.  "I lost my passport and boarding pass."  She was frantic.

"Did you go into a little store down the main hall?" I asked her.  She nodded while she tore through her now-empty purse.  "It's still there on the counter," I told her.

She stuffed everything in her purse haphazardly and hurried back up the stairs, dragging the luggage up a stair at a time while she swore loudly.  The Irish lady shook her head. I shrugged my shoulders.

And I silently thanked heaven that I was awake enough to not have done the same thing.

Tomorrow: Back in Italy

In Memory of Mom—1921-2005

Aunt Vera (L) at 3 and Mom (R) at 18 mos.

"The hardest part is not talking to someone you used to talk everyday." ~ Sum Nan

Some day in the ext two days is the 10th anniversary of my mother's passing. I really do not know the exact date  Every once in a long while, I'll look up the date on the internet, but I promptly forget it again. I am trying in someway to protect myself from acknowledging the day. It's too painful.

Mom was the eighth of eleven children, the youngest girl, and the weakest child.   Prior to Mom's birth in 1921, my grandparents lost three of their young children to scarlet fever, TB, the flu.  My grandfather, like all unskilled laborers, worked twelve-hour shifts in horrible conditions to earn less than $2 per day — barely enough to feed and house his growing family. The deaths of his three young children, increased debt, long hours working under miserable conditions and a still-growing family stressed my grandfather, and he started spending some of his meager pay on liquor. Grams, however, was more concerned with the welfare of her children, and she met my grandfather at the mill gate on paydays in order to get at least some money before he spent it all on booze.  She also baked and sold bread to neighbors in order to have money to buy necessities for the children.

Mom, age 12, with cousin Joe

 Growing up under those conditions was not easy, and my mother, who was a sickly and sensitive child, was especially affected.  She suffered several bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis as a baby and child, and ended up graduating from high school a little late due to her health problems.  She was engaged two or three times before she met my father.  Her first boyfriend died during World War II.   The next guy broke off their engagement because Mom was always babysitting or playing with her older sisters’ children.  The third guy was electrocuted on the job.  The man she eventually married, my father, was an abusive drunk.  

The difficult childhood. The broken engagements. The lost boyfriends. The rotten husband. Her sensitive nature. They all contributed to her chronic depression.

Mom with Uncle Joe (Aunt Vera's husband) and someone

 I'll tell you a secret:  My mother drove me absolutely bat crazy.  It took me years to realize how all of those conditions combined to form the woman who was my mother.  For years I was angry that she didn’t have the strength to leave my father; to protect my brother and me from his wrath; to be happy when his death loosened the noose he was around our collective neck.  I became more understanding and sympathetic over time, but a bit of anger still bubbled beneath the surface every time she complained or grumbled—which she did a lot. 

Aunt Marge (L) at 28 and Mom (R) at 17

I don't want to go into our relationship here because it is far too complicated to cover in this short blog. Suffice to say that I eventually realized how my father had so squashed Mom's self-confidence and identity that she was unable to recover and became a bitter, sad, and scared woman. Knowing how emotionally fragile she was, I fought to keep my emotions in check when talking to her on the phone or when she was visiting us. In private, I took my frustrations out on pillows and mattresses.

Mom on her wedding day with Betty (my cousin)

 One September evening in 2005, the phone started ringing just as I walked through our house door.  I knew it was my mother because we usually talked at the same time every evening. Tired from having worked almost 12 hours that day, I considered letting it go to voicemail. On the last ring, I picked up the phone and talked to my mother for ten or twelve minutes.  She sounded exhausted, and she told me she still had that horrible pain in the back of her head.  "Did you tell the doctor yesterday?" I asked her. She didn't directly answer the question but assured me he had doubled the amount of Paxil she was taking.  After we hung up, I stomped around the house and said some not-so-nice things about that doctor.

Mom with Mike (18 mos) and me (age 4)

Mom, on the other hand, walked her dog, Oscar, after our conversation. Her neighbors watched her bend down and pet him just before they walked back up the driveway to her house.  She sat down to watch television and while reading a magazine, fell asleep.  With her head resting in an unnatural position on her shoulder, she passed quietly and gently from this world sometime during the night. 

Mike broke the news to me over the phone as I started my workday.  “There’s no easy way to tell you this.  Chris, your mother passed away.”  He told me that the neighbors found her early that morning, a frantic Oscar keeping guard at her feet . . . that my brother tried to call me for over two hours . . . that my cell phone had been off . . . that everything was going to be okay.

My husband's words plunged me into a sadness the depths of which I never knew existed.  I felt guilty that I didn’t want to listen to her.  I felt grateful that I answered that phone that last night.  I felt selfish for my gratitude.  I felt anger that she dared to die so suddenly, that she gave me no warning.   I felt guilty for being angry.  I grieved for more time with her.  I felt lost and orphaned.  I ran wildly in circles enveloped by a haze of shock and fear, anger and grief. 

Jason with Mom (1985)

My cousin, Loree, talked to me for a long time after we buried Mom.  Aunt Ann, Loree's mother and one of my mom's older sisters, had passed away 18 months before. Loree has always had the ability to calm me at times.

"I know it's hard," she said that afternoon, "but I like to think that they're all together again with Grandma, and they're young and beautiful and playing together."  It's a wonderful image to consider.

Mom and Goofy.... Our favorite photo because she's smiling

It's been ten years, and I still miss talking to her on the phone. There are still times that I think, "Oh, I have to call Mom and tell her XXXXX." When I realize I can't call her, I look up and think, "You already know it though, don't you?"  It's been ten years, and I still miss her greatly even though she drove me bat crazy.  It's been ten years, and I still feel guilty that she didn't know how much I loved her. 

I hope she knows now.

I Love This Bar, Part IV

A sweet little guy visited the bar one morning.

 “The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the 

ability to love as unconditionally as a dog.”

―MK Clinton

The world's worst kept secret is that I love dogs.  Love. Dogs.  I can barely remember the short time that I didn't have a dog of my own. What I do remember from that time is that my Aunt Ann and Uncle Frank had a standard dachshund, Nero, so named because they were Italian, and he was a black dog: Nero is the Italian word for black.  I finally got my own dog when I was in first grade, and not many days have gone by when one has not shared the house with me.

My friend, Kathy G (who was a member of the second group), said I am a dog magnet (below).  Tré true, although it might be better said that the little pookies are magnets for me. I can approach anyone who has a dog and start a conversation with him/her because I know we have at least one thing in common.

Moi being a magnet with a cute beagle whose name I don't remember.

"What is your dog's name?" I usually ask.  They tell me, and I continue. "I miss my dog, Riley, who is at home in the United States."

"You should bring him with you," many of the people tell me.


"It's too difficult," I always have to tell them, and it is.  Don't think I haven't tried to figure out a way to bring him with me.  I make do, though, loving on the dogs around me.  (Don't tell Riles. He is quite the jealous little baby.)  Meet some of my Bolognese quadruped friends.

Welsh Terriers rock! Liam in front of Bar Santo Stefano.

Liam
Liam (above) is a little Welsh Terrier whose owners frequent Bar Santo Stefano daily.  Like another Welsh Terrier who shall remain nameless, Liam is more interested in food than people.

"What do ya have in your hand for me?" he'd ask. I'd show him my empty paw, and he'd turn his attention elsewhere.

Zina
Zina (above the two photos below) is the resident dog at Vittoria's dress shop next to Bar Santo Stefano.  Zina and Vittoria open the shop every morning after they arrive on their scooter. Vittoria wears a helmet, but Zina doesn't like things on her head. 

Zina is about nine years old, so she likes to take it easy most of the day. She'll sleep on her chair (below), and she'll follow Vittoria around.  Over the last two summers, she's gotten to know me and will come to the door if I walk by.  She's also started bringing me her toy so I can play.  I'm sure she doesn't want me to be bored while I'm around her.  :-)

 “I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; 

they give unconditional love. For me, they are the role 

model for being alive.” —Gilda Radner

Ulisse 
Ulisse (Ulysses) walked by the bar one morning when Mike and I were sitting outside.

"What kind of dog is that?" I called to the owner.

"Cane corso," he told me.  A cane corso is an ancient Italian breed, an Italian mastiff, if you will. You can probably tell by the size of his head that Ulisse is a HUGE dog. I can verify that he is not only big (He sat on my foot.) but also a docile soul.  He's more likely to lick you to death than bite you.  While we were talking to him and his owner, a lady at the table next to us ran into the bar as she was terrified of Ulisse.

"He loves everyone," the owner told me.

"Some people are just afraid of dogs," I told him.  He shrugged.

OliverIf I remember correctly, this Bernese Mountain Dog puppy's name was Oliver. We saw him and his owner in a piazza one afternoon while the owner was trying to teach Oliver to 'STAY.' Having the attention span of a gnat, Oliver was having nothing to do with it. 

 "If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when 

I die I want to go where they went." —Will Rogers

Fox
Fox (pronounced 'fauxxx) is one of my terrier buddies. I met him and his owner, Giansomething (Sorry, I forget), last year, and I see them a lot since they live around the corner from my apartment.  Fox, like Riley, is six years old.  He's also very food-motivated which should come as no surprise to anyone.

One morning last month, Mike and I were walking down Strada Maggiore, the main street in town, and we heard a dog barking.  Because of how the buildings line the street and how the porticoes enhance sounds, the barking reverberated all over the place.  Suddenly, I saw Giansomething riding his bike with a barking Fox in the basket.  Giansomething pulled over to the side of the street to calm down Fox.

"Fox!" I greeted them.  "How's it going, Pooky?"  Giansomething picked Fox up and set him on the sidewalk so we could talk.

"He never barks when we walk," Giansomething said, "but put him on the bike., and he becomes a loudmouth."

Sure enough, as soon as Giansomething put Fox back in the basket, Fox started barking again. We could hear him for five minutes as we walked in the opposite direction.

Artoo
Artoo is another of my old friends. Mike and I met him when we came to Bologna the first time.  An older dog, he's very food=motivated, and he loves to play frisbee.  At age 14, he has sight and hearing problems, but he can somehow find the frisbee when someone throws it for him.  He's also not lost his sense of smell and knows when food is in the general neighborhood.

???
This poochie is 19 years old, and her owner joins the morning ladies some days.  I can't remember the dog's name because they aren't there a lot of the times I am.  (Sorry, Pooky!) Except for being a little sight-impaired, she's in relatively good health.  She, like Zina, follows her owner everywhere.


Next time: A few observations....

I Love This Bar, Part III

 

"A rose is arose is a rose is a rose."  

~ Gertrude Stein

And a bar is a bar is a bar is a bar.  Supposedly.  Some may make a cappuccino more to your liking than others, and some may serve a better prosecco or frullato or brioche. Some may have more comfortable seating or lighting. Others may have hours or a location  The big difference comes in the people who run and work the bar and the people who frequent it.  Think about it... How often did you wish you had a bar like Cheers that you could frequent?

As I mentioned previously, when Cesar and Lilli closed the bar for a few days last year, I went to the other bars in the area.  The big difference in the bars was the atmosphere created by the people who owned them. Let me introduce you to the people who make Bar Santo Stefano a warm and welcoming spot in Bologna.

Cesar

 As I mentioned a few days ago, Cesar is a native of Barcelona.  He originally was working for his father and lived in a number of places including China (where he met Lilli).  He eventually moved to Piacenza, Italy, and worked in a bar there before he and Lilli decided to buy their own bar.  Cesar speaks Spanish, Catalan, Italian, English, French, and some Chinese, so he's probably got you covered if you go into the bar and can't speak Italian.   

Last summer, I relied a little too much on my Spanish when talking with Cesar.  At one point, one of my Italian instructors told me I should change bars and find someone who spoke only Italian.  Almost the exact same day, Cesar told me he was going to talk only in Italian to me.

 

  Lilli

A native of China, Lilli has lived in Italy for 20+ years.  Her parents spend six months in Piacenza and six months in China, but they visit Bologna at times.  Lilli speaks Chinese and Italian, of course, and she's learning English.

One thing I'll tell you about my two good friends is that they work long and hard hours.  Cesar opens between 6:30 and 7:00, and Lilli joins him mid-morning.  After the rush, he goes home to rest and comes back later in the afternoon.  They close between 7 and 9 pm, and after they lock the door, they clean everything.

Giovanni

After Cesar and Lilli, Giovanni was one of the first people I met in Bologna last year.  He owns a farm a short distance from town, but his home there was destroyed in the earthquake in 2012.  Currently, he lives in Bologna and travels to the farm to check on things.  Giovanni has a heart of gold, and this year he gave Mike and me a list of towns we should visit near Bologna.  Because of him, we discovered Faenza and the ceramic museum and Reggio Emilia.

Last summer, Giovanni bought me wine one evening. My Italian was pretty choppy last year, and my part of the conversation was a series of lurching words.  Bless him, but he stood and talked to me without grimacing at my mistakes.  I was happy I could actually communicate better this year.  (PS Giovanni gave me the white rose in my hair in honor of our leaving.)

Vittoria

Vittoria owns the dress shop that is next to Bar Santo Stefano.  She is another friend from last summer, and I enjoy talking to her.  She is, like me, a dog lover.  If you look closely, you can see Zina, her little dog, on the chair behind us.

Le Donne
Gianna, Rosanna, Patrizia, Lea, and Carla are a group of women who meet at the bar most mornings. Some of them are there every morning, and others come and go.  They always ask me about my day, what I've done, what I'm going to do, etc.  I just love these ladies.

Gianlucca
Gianlucca is the brother of one of the morning gals, and like them, I just met him this year.  He is extremely nice, and we've had a number of good conversations.  Like the others, he helps me with the Italian.  Believe it or not, he's a black belt in the martial arts and has taught and competed in them.   The morning before Mike and I left Bologna, Gianlucca and I had a long talk about politics (below).

These are only some of the people I've come to love in Bologna.  Tomorrow I'll introduce you to some of the others (below) who also make my days...

I Love This Bar, Part II

Cesar & Lilli

" I love this bar

It's my kind of place

Just walkin' through the front door

Puts a big smile on my face

It ain't too far, come as you are

I love this bar..."  ~ Toby Keith & Steve Emerick

I mentioned yesterday that Bar Santo Stefano is a 15-second walk from the apartment I rent when I'm in Bologna.  In all honesty, there are four bars that are all within a 30-second walk from the apartment, and even more within a two-minute walk. Walk five minutes in any direction, and you'll find more bars. They are all over the place.  I've not seen two right next to each other, but I have seen them across the street and a few doors away from each other.

At any rate, not long after I arrived in Bologna last year, Cesar and Lilli closed Bar SS for a few days so that they could clean, paint, and refresh the place. During that time, I visited most of the bars in the Santo Stefano area. While one can get some food at Italian bars, they are not restaurants,. As I mentioned yesterday, they are not really coffee shops, nor are they bars in the sense of American bars. They are a hybrid combining the best of both worlds—a place to go for liquid refreshment of any kind.

Bar Santo Stefano's espresso machine & coffee grinder (on the right)

The centerpiece of the bar is the espresso machine (above).  You won't find coffee pots in the bars as caffe in Italy is different from coffee as we know it.  Caffe in Italy is espresso (below), and Italians joke that caffe americano is "dirty water."  Adding a "little" sugar to espresso is okay, but cream? Wimpy.

(Side note:  I have to admit that I have a problem drinking coffee for a few weeks after I return to the States from time in Italy.  I miss the strong, smooth espressos.)

By the way, cappuccino at one bar is not the same as cappuccino at another bar.  The coffee makes a difference, and I'll admit that most of it is pretty good no matter where you go, but the way the barista makes the cappuccino makes a big difference.  I've had some that contained so much milk that there was little foam and the espresso was too weak. I prefer a good amount of foam and a little milk so that the taste of the espresso comes through.

Italian coffee = espresso

By the way, decaf coffee is not an option in Italy.  If you need decaffeinated coffee, you order "caffe d'orzo."

"What," I asked Cesar last month, "is orzo?"  I had heard a few people order it, and while it looked like coffee to me, he used a different machine to make it (below).

"It's made with a grain," he told me.  A coffee-like beverage made from barley, orzo has a long history in Italy.  Originally made by peasants who could not afford coffee, it has grown in popularity among people who cannot tolerate caffeine.  I've never tried it, but I understand that the taste is smooth and a bit bitter, and it takes some getting used to.  Since I have no problem with caffeine (unless I *don't* have it early in the day), I won't be trying orzo anytime soon.

Instant orzo machine

I think I may have mentioned this before, but Italians don't drink cappuccino after 10 am because, according to what I've read, it's hard to digest warm milk.  I don't know if I believe that, and when I'm home, I make a cappuccino every afternoon.  When I'm in Italy, I tend to stick to the cultural norm and drink espresso after 10.

One afternoon when the heat and humidity had the best of us,  Mike decided to try a frullato—a fruit and/or vegetable drink.  Frullati are similar to smoothies except that they usually don't contain milk or yogurt products and use natural juice and ice cubes as the base.  Cesar and Lilli keep all sorts of fresh fruit and vegetables (below), and instead of having a limited number of frullati on their menu, they allow customers to choose what they want in their drinks.  Mike chose cherries, strawberries, oranges, and pineapple.  It was so good that I tried one the next evening—pineapple, lime, cherries, apricots, and oranges.

Cantaloupe, lemons, apples, oranges, pomegranates, bananas, pineapples, limes, kiwi, cherries, apricots, pears, strawberries, and more

In the time that we've been home, I've tried to make frullati using frozen and fresh fruit. Unfortunately, the frozen fruit makes the drink too thick.  I don't quite mind that, but Mike prefers it to be more liquid, so I've defrosted his fruit before I make his.  When I go back to Bologna, I'll have to have Lilli and Cesar show me how much fruit they use so I can make mine a little better.

 

Moi with a cherry, apricot, pineapple, and orange frullato

While most Italians use bars as a place to get a quick beverage, some us the more comfortable ones as a gathering place where they meet friends to talk politics, sports, or life.  Such is the day at Bar Santo Stefano.  Every morning, friends meet to have their cappuccino or espresso and spend time with each other. 

Tomorrow (or Saturday), I'll introduce you to the men and women of Bar SS.

Morning at Bar Santo Stefano

I Love This Bar, Part I

Bar Santo Stefano

 “All true friendliness begins with fire and food and drink..."   ― G.K. Chesterton

Last year at this time, I was just starting my first week in Bologna.  After I finally woke up the morning after I arrived, I went in search of cappuccino. As luck would have it, Bar Santo Stefano was a 15-second walk from my apartment.  I stumbled in the door and ordered a cap and apricot brioche from the guy behind the bar.  As I stood and had my breakfast, we talked.

His name was Cesar, and he and his significant other, Lilli, had just bought the bar.  That morning, August 1, 2014, was their first day as owners of the bar.  Originally from Barcelona, Cesar had met Lilli when he was working in China. They worked together in Piacenza and decided to open their own bar in Bologna.  I was one of their first customers.

Cesar

I had gone in the bar in search of coffee but also to see if I could connect with someone in Bologna. Since I was there alone, I wanted to have friends who would know to keep an eye out for me. They became friends, and I enjoyed talking to them on my daily visits.  I had cappuccini and got to practice my Italian...except when I lapsed into Spanish with Cesar. 

 Bars in Italy are not quite what bars in the US are.  Italian bars offer offer everything from espresso and brioche in the morning to panini and soda in the afternoon to appetizers and drinks in the evening.  Bar Santo Stefano is no different. Cesar usually opens the bar between 6:30 and 7:00 to serve people on their way to work or school.  Lilli joins him around 9:00 or so, and late in the morning, he goes home to rest. After he returns, they work together until they close, sometimes as late as 8:00 or 9:00 pm.

Cesar is a great cook.  When I asked him if they could provide aperitifs for my two tour groups this year, he made a number of different things that included a Spanish tortilla (eggs and potato omelette), something with tuna, something with peppers, and a few other things. I don't remember what everything was, but they were all great.

Lilli

If you were to ask everyone in my groups what they thought about Bar Santo Stefano, I think they would all tell you the same thing:  Cesar and Lilli are wonderful people.  The bar is a friendly and comfortable oasis on a busy street.

 Last year, Mike didn't have the chance to get to know Cesar and Lilli since he was only in Bologna one night. I'm glad he got the opportunity to meet them this year.

"Thanks for watching out for Chris," Mike told Cesar after he arrived this year.  "I appreciate it."

"I am like her little brother," Cesar replied.  He most certainly is.

With Lilli and Cesar this year...

Tomorrow: More of what makes Bar Santo Stefano #1 in Bologna