A Magical Place, II

The things I want to express are so beautiful and pure.

~ M. C. Escher

"Buona sera," I said to the little man who was standing in the doorway of an ancient building in Castrovalva.  "How are you?"

"Thanks be to God, I'm doing well, signora."  He smiled and leaned on the doorframe.  Novelia took over the conversation, and I listened and interjected a couple of thoughts here and there.   Vincenzo, or Enzo as he preferred, began to tell us about the Castrovalva of his lifetime.  He was born there, worked there, and saw the town burgeon in his youth and wither as he aged.

"Before cars arrived here," he told us, "we got up and down the hill by walking. If we had to bring something up, we used mules."  He added that the "new" road that we took to arrive in Castrovalva was not the one they used back then.  The other one, he said, was more steep and rocky.

"May I take your photo?" I asked him, and he obliged, taking off his hat so we could see his face more clearly.  

"How old are you?" Novelia asked him.

"Guess," he laughed.  We all looked at him for a few minutes, and he turned one way and then the other.

"75," Novelia started.  He laughed again and pointed his thumb up indicating that she should guess a little higher.  "80."  The thumb went up . . . "82" . . . and up . . . ."84" . . . and up. . . "86. . . . "90" . . . and up until she finally said, "96." Yikes.

You can't really tell it from the photos I took of Enzo, but he's in great shape.  When Mike and I went back to Castrovalva a few days later, we saw him in his workshop again.

"Buongiorno, Enzo," I greeted him.  "How are you doing today?"

"I'm very well, signora," he told me.  "It's always a good day when I can work."

******

If you've studied contemporary art (20th Century), you've undoubtedly studied or read about M.C. Escher, a Dutch graphic artist known mostly for woodcuts, mezzotints and lithographs.  Escher traveled through Spain and Italy in the early 1920s, and in 1924 married Jetta Umiker and settled in Rome. Taken with Italy, the countryside and mountains, Escher went to different regions of the country throughout the year drawing and sketching scenes from which he'd make woodcuts once he was home.

In 1929, Escher stayed in Castrovalva and sketched.  Critics consider the resulting print, Castrovalva, one of his best prints.  For copyright reasons, I won't show it on the blog, but you can see it by clicking here.  I took the photo above from an area close to where Escher made his sketches. I was looking in the opposite direction.  The town in the photo below is Anversa, the same one that's in Escher's lithograph.  I took that photo from the end of the same path (He was closer to the beginning of the path.) but angled the camera down to avoid the setting sun.

From what I've read, Escher's print influenced one of the writers of the BBC television series, Dr. Who.  In one of the seasons, Dr. Who regenerated but needed a place to relax and rest, and he ended up in Castrovalva.  Since I never watched the show and have no interest in doing so now, I don't know much  more about it than that.

At any rate, the people of Castrovalva have memorialized Escher by naming a street after him.

If you're interested in seeing a little more of the scenery, here's a short video Mike took the second time we headed up the mountain.

A Magical Place

"It's easy to understand why the most beautiful

poems about England in the spring were written

by poets living in Italy at the time."

~ Philip Dunne

"Do you have plans this afternoon?" my friend Novelia asked me after she got home from work one afternoon.  "Peppe and I would like to take you to that magical place."

"We're in," I said.  We'd tried to go to the town about which she was talking a few days before, but it was raining. This particular day was sunny and warm, so we headed out around 5:00.   We drove out of Sulmona and headed into the mountains leading toward Anversa degli Abruzzi.

"Where are we going again?" Mike asked.

"Peppe, slow down," Novelia urged her husband before she answered Mike.  "Castrovalva.  It is a beautiful town. Eight people live there."

"Nove," Peppe interrupted, "there are more than eight residents."  They got into a short conversation about this.

"Peppe says there are more people there.  We'll see," Novelia informed us.  "Maybe there are 20."

Once we passed Anversa, we turned onto a two-lane road that was hidden by lush mountain foliage.  We weaved and climbed for a good 10 minutes eventually stopping in a small parking area at the entrance to Castrovalva.  Perched on a rocky ridge above the Peligna Valley, Castrovalva has existed at least since the year 1000.  The old homes were built using stone, and while many homes are seemingly abandoned, people are renovating them and trying to keep the historical architecture alive.

"Many people from Rome come here in the summer to escape the heat," Novelia told us as we walked around.

"That's understandable," I answered.  "It's a lot cooler up here than it was in Sulmona."  The waning sunlight and higher altitude did make it quite a bit cooler.

"This is just beautiful," Mike said at some point.  "Let's buy that house there." He was pointing to the house on the edge of the mountain in the top photo.  "We can bring Castrovalva back to life."

Peppe said something I didn't hear to Novelia.  She laughed and said, "Peppe says you can run for mayor."  Mike did not disagree.

We passed by four or five people sitting in one of the small squares in town, and Novelia talked to them for a few minutes while we walked around.

"They told me that Castrovalva has 56 residents," she informed us.  "In the summer, more people from Rome come to stay, like I told you."

"Where do they shop and eat?" Mike asked.

"Anversa is the closest place," Novelia replied. (See photo below for view of Anversa degli Abruzzi from Castrovalva.)

"They must really love the place to drive all that way for necessities," Mike said.

"When you're mayor, you can help them open more restaurants," I joked.  Again, he didn't disagree.

As we started to walk back to the car, we met a few women who had just come from saying the rosary in a tiny church hidden among the old homes.  "Would you like to see it?" one of the women asked us. "I can let you in."  The tiny church (below) of St. Michael the Archangel honors the patron saint of the town.  I think it accommodates 20 people comfortably.

After we left the church, we met a delightful resident who took time to talk with us.  Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to Enzo and tell you about Castrovalva's influence on both a famous artist and a television show.

Cold Pasta

"It's fascinating to travel around Italy and realize 

just how many different ways they make spaghetti."

~ Mario Batali

"The food was great," I overheard Mike telling a friend today, "but really, after awhile, you get tired of eating pasta all the time."  Speak for yourself, Skippy. 

In fairness, Mike is not of Italian descent, and his mother didn't cook spaghetti of any kind.  I think the only pasta he ate while he was growing up was that canned crap by Chef Boyardee.  Marrying me changed him, of course, and he's now more discriminating when it comes to Italian food.  Of course, he's also the one who ordered cannelloni in France (below) and got something akin to Gravy Train (My apologies to Purina for the insult.).

 When I was growing up, we had pasta of some sort at least twice a week, and I'd eat cold pasta for breakfast a lot of mornings.  Seriously. I am not a fan of breakfast, but pasta is another story.  Jason, our son, is just like me, and he preferred pasta or soup in the morning  (That revelation sent his second grade teacher into fits similar to the ones his first-grade teacher had over the dog sibling.).

What I'm getting at is that I love almost any kind of pasta, although my favorite is with tomato sauce, mushrooms optional.

"You can eat tomato sauce on anything," Mike says to me a lot.  Darn right. (Although I might not try it on donuts or oatmeal.)  Yet, I'm willing to try other types of pasta sauces. Some I like, and others are, well, not to my taste, shall we say.

 "What the heck did you order?" Mike asked when the waiter delivered my tortellini with truffles (above).  I have to admit that I stared at it for a bit, too, as the sauce was not quite pleasing to the eye.  The tortellini, filled with  mild Umbrian cheese, were good if I scraped the sauce off of them.  The taste of the truffles was a bit too strong, and, quite frankly, I didn't like it at all.  Just looking at the photo makes me sick

"What the heck did you order?" Mike asked when the waiter put my plate in front of me (above).  (Do you get the feeling that we ask each other the same question all the time?  We do.)

In Bologna last week I ordered tortolloni with a "soft" butter and basil sauce.  The pasta filling was ricotta and spinach, and the sauce was just as advertised, butter and basil and nothing else. It enhanced the delicate flavor of the tortolloni.  

The following evening, we went to a different Bologna restaurant, and Mike ordered lasagna (above) while I ordered gnocchi (below).

"Are you sure you want pasta again?" Mike asked when I was ordering.

"Yes."  I had not had gnocchi in all our time in Italy, and I wanted it before we left.

"You just had pasta last night." He wasn't going to give up.

"And your point is what?  I want gnocchi."  Good grief.

I was glad I ordered it as the gnocchi were perfect.  While gnocchi are easy to make, they are not easy to make correctly.  My mom and grandmother made them, and Grams always said that if you overwork the dough, you end up with bullets.  These were not bullets.

I didn't always order filled or unusual pastas.  Actually, I think I had them only three times in our time overseas.  Usually I ordered spaghetti a la chittara (photo at top of post) or pappardelle (above).  Chittara are strings that are cut with a guitar-like device. Instead of being round, the strands are square or rectangular.  Pappardelle are wide, flat noodles that hold the sauce nicely.

Note that the Italians do not overload the plate with sauce.  The sauce enhances the pasta, but it doesn't overpower it.

 One of my favorite pastas is ravioli (above).  I didn't order it, but it looked great.  Have you noticed, by the way, that in addition to using less sauce,  the Europeans serve smaller portions?

In case you don't know, there are over 600 types of pasta in the world.  While Italy is known for its pastas,  they are also popular in many other cuisines, particularly Asian.  All Italian pasta names are plural, and the ending can give you an indication of the size of the pasta. There are others, but -ini will indicated smaller, and -oni will indicate larger. For example, we're all familiar with spaghetti which is a long, string-like pasta.  Spaghettini is a thinner version, and Spaghettoni is the thicker version.  Also, you might have noticed that I had tortellini in Spoleto and tortolloni in Bologna.  Same basic pasta shape, but the ones in Bologna were larger.

"What are we having for dinner tonight?" Mike asked me a bit ago.

"I'm not sure yet.  It's too early for me to think about it." I wasn't going to tell him, but we're having pasta. I may even make the noodles myself.  I'll let you know if I do.

Graffiti, Ancient Roman & GreekStyle

"Creating is the essence of life."

~ Julius Caesar

One afternoon last week, we went to the Archeological Museum of Bologna.  I think I've mentioned that Mike is into the museum scene more than I am, but I enjoy going, too. . . . usually. . . . maybe.  In all honesty, I'm not wild going to the archeological museums. But, I go when he wants to go.

A bit of background:  Bologna's been around since 1000 BC, and it was the capital of the Etruscan world of Etruria.  In 1869 or so, scholars started an archeological dig and found Etruscan tombs and Greek and Roman artifacts. Over the years, the museum has added to its collection and has Egyptian artifacts included, too.

Enough of the boring stuff.  Suffice to say we didn't stay too long in the museum. Once we hit the Egyptian side, we hurried through and left.

While I was waiting for Mike, I found a courtyard filled with "ancient" Greek and Roman plaques.  Of course, I think that they are probably plaster casts of the originals since they were a little too perfect and within reach of the public.

"Look," I said to Mike when he finally joined me last week, "I found ancient graffiti."  I didn't see it, but I'm sure he rolled his eyes.

Truth is, I like to figure out what the signs say, and last week I was into making stuff up.

For example:

Top photo. . .Amanda loves Tex-mex

Second. . .Nolen is a psychopath

"How old are you?" my dear husband who poses with ancient sculptures and store mannequins asked me.  I just rolled my eyes, and I think he could see it.

Tell the truth, isn't it fun to make this stuff up?

At any rate, I do marvel at the fact that these artifacts are still around so many years later.  I wonder what archeologists will find of our stuff thousands of years from now. . . . a golden arch?

By the way, I think this sign was for someone who worked as a florist and psychiatrist.

Yes.  Yes.  I'm still suffering jetlag.  Sorry.  I promise a story tomorrow when I can think more clearly.

Getting Down to Business

"Here's to freedom, cheers to art.

Here's to having an excellent adventure,

and may the stopping never start."

~Jason Mraz

When we last "talked," I was saying that it took us two hours to straighten out the flights that would eventually bring us home last Friday.  When we finally checked our bags and headed to the gate, it was 8:10.

"Holy crap," I said to Mike. "Is it only 8:00? We have to sit here four more hours? Holy crap."  Mike was nodding in answer to my questions.  "I feel like we've been up half of the day already." He nodded more.

"Well, we have been awake since 4:00 even though we didn't get up for another 30-40 minutes," he finally said.

"This is going to be one long day," I whined.  Our new flight to Las Vegas would get us home three hours earlier than the original one, but we would still be up for over 24 hours by the time we arrived there.  That is one of the hazards of overseas travel.

We did luck out on the return flight home, though.  We had not paid for our airline tickets since I used frequent flyer miles to purchase our tickets.  On the way home, we were able to get business class seats. Never having flown business class, we weren't quite sure what to expect.

On the flight from Bologna to London, there wasn't much difference in our seats. They were a bit wider than the seats we had in economy.  The big difference came in the meal offerings.  Even though the first flight after noon, the flight attendant brought us breakfast. . . a hot breakfast.  Eggs. Sausage. Ham. Our choice of .  The people in economy got a muffin.

"I wolfed that down in no time," Mike said to me as he finished his meal in record time.

"I can't believe I'd get excited about breakfast," I added.  I'm not a breakfast person, and I usually don't eat it.  After two months of pastries, though, we were thrilled to have a real breakfast.

Arriving onboard for the long-haul flight,  we were a bit shocked by the face that there were only 32 seats in the cabin, and they were situated two on the left and right sides of the plane, and four in the middle.  The seats were more like individual cubicles that faced each other,  (See the top photo.  I faced forward, and Mike faced backward.)

Each of the cubicles had a seat and a foot stool (See it on the back of the seat in the photo below.).  Pull down the stool, and we could rest our feet on it.  The seats reclined completely, so when the seats and stools were both down, we cuold lie down and sleep.  The pillows were larger, and instead of microfiber blankets, they gave us quilts.

Each seat had a personal television, extended tray table, and a little drawer in which we could keep personal items.  In addition, the flight attendants gave us kits that included socks, an eye mask, several lotions, and a toothbrush and toothpaste.  Once we settled in, the flight attendant brought us champagne.

"I feel rather conspicuous drinking this while others are boarding," I said to Mike. He just downed his drink without answering me. I tried not to drink when people were coming up the aisle. I was a bit embarrassed, to tell the truth.

Both of us slept a little on the 10-hour flight from London.  While the reclining seats were not the most comfortable things in the world, they served us well.

"We're spoiled," I said to Mike as we walked through customs.  We'll never want to fly economy again."

"I can't believe I'm this excited about something like this," he replied.  "We're not going to be able to stand flying economy overseas again. We're spoiled now."

Indeed we are.

5:45 am Is Too Early

"In a day, if you don't come across any problems,

you can be sure you're traveling in a wrong way."

~ Swami Vivekanand

"I will reserve a taxi for you," I heard Giovanni, our Bologna host, tell Mike Thursday afternoon, "but don't you think that 5:45 is still too early?" That morning, I requested he ask the taxi to be at the B&B at 5:30 the next morning.  He told me it was way too early and that we'd be the only ones at the airport. He wanted to reserve the taxi for 6 or 6:15, but I balked and finally compromised at 5:45.

Mike must have nodded his head.  "You're not going to get her to agree to a later time." Darn right, Skippy.   Who knows what kind of problems one could encounter?

Giovanni probably shook his head, but he did as he said, and at 5:45 on Friday morning, Mike and I heaved our suitcases into a taxi and headed to Bologna's Marconi Airport.  I breathed a sigh of relief as traffic was light and our driver was fast.  We arrived at exactly 6:00.

Inside the airport, we checked for the gate information and noticed that our Bologna-London flight was delayed.  It wasn't until we hit the check-in counter that we found out we faced a four-hour delay which would make us late for our London-Miami flight.

"You must go up to ticketing," the check-in agent told us. "We cannot help you rearrange your flights, but the ticket desk can."

"Should we check our bags first?" I asked a little peeved already.

"No," she replied. "They any change your outbound flight, so we can't check them until we know the itinerary."

(Let me step out of the story at this point to tell you how Marconi Airport works. (NOT VERY WELL!)  At most airports, as you all know, each airline has its own ticket, check-in, and gate agents. NOT in Bologna.  At Marconi, all agents work for the airport itself, not for the different airlines.  In the course of our time there, I noticed that one of the check-in agents worked Iberia Airlines for a bit, moved to British Airlines later, and when we were in the gate area, she was working a Ryan Air gate.)

We lugged our bags up to the ticket desk where we encountered Signor Personality who was not happy when we explained the problem.

"Our flight to London is delayed and will not leave until 12:00," I said to him. "Since our flight from London to Miami leaves at 12:15, we aren't going to make it."

He looked at me as though I had told him he had to personally drive us from Bologna to Las Vegas and  picked at his computer keyboard.  Clickclickclickclackclick. Clickclick. Click. Clack. Click.  He shook his head. Clickclickclackclick. Clickclick. Clickclickclick. Click.  He whispered to the guy at the next desk.  They look at the computer screen.  Clickclickclickclackclick. Clickclick. Click. Clack.  He picked up the phone.

Mumblemumblemumble.  Mumblemumble.  Silence.  Mumblemumblemumble. Mumblemumblemumble. Silence.  Mumblemumble.  He signed off and looked at Mike.

"I cannot help you," he announced.  "You will have to call American Airlines yourself."

"Excuse me?" I spit out. "Why do I have to call American Airlines? I have no way to call American Airlines.  You fix this."

He turned his head to look at me.  "Signora, I cannot help you. I talked to the British Airlines manager, and since you made your reservation through American, you must call them."

"I am not calling American Airlines.  YOU HANDLE THIS."  I was not happy.

Let's not go through this entire conversation, but suffice to say that it was a back-and-forth that I was not going to win.  We ended up lugging our bags back down to check-in where, once again, the agent there told us she could do nothing and told us we had to call American.  Once I pitched another mini-fit about not having a way to call American, that agent sent us to the airport's duty officer (whatever the heck that was).

Apparently the duty officer had a special phone number for American because I got to a customer service agent immediately.  She put me on hold while trying to figure out how to resolve our problem.

"Mrs. Cutler," she said coming back on the line, "do you care how we get you home?"  What the hell did that mean?

"Just get me home today, please," I almost begged.  

"She can put you on Iberia or any other airline," the duty officer said to me as the American agent was still talking to me. I didn't hear what she said as she put me on hold again.

About 10 minutes later, the American agent came back.  "Mrs. Cutler, we have two seats left on a British Airlines flight that will leave London at 4:40 and fly directly to Las Vegas.  You will arrive three hours earlier than your previous flight.  Is that all right?" 

No, I thought.  Let us suffer longer. Give us a long layover and a crowded flight. Please.  But, I answered, "Of course that's all right. Just get us home."

The agent put me on hold yet again while she reissued our tickets so our friends in check-in could take our luggage and give us boarding passes and vouchers for free breaksfasts.

Already tired because we'd gotten up early, I was exhausted by the time we finally checked in and headed to the gate area.  I looked at the clock. 8:10.

"Holy crap," I said. "Is it only 8:00?"  Mike just nodded. "We have four more hours until we take off for London?" Mike just nodded again.  "We have to sit here for four more hours?" Another nod.  "Holy crap."  

*******

Tomorrow:  We are finally airborne.

PS Sorry to end this so soon.  I'm falling asleep as I type this.  Good old jet lag!

Ciao, Italia

"What if we did not go home?

What if we just kept traveling?

Should you not listen well to the

questions you ask out of nowhere?"

~ Frances Mayes

"What time are you setting the clock for?" Mike asked me as we walked to dinner tonight.

"I'm not setting the clock. I'm not going home."  I was half=kidding.  "Call me when you get there.

Two months. . . .Nine weeks . . . .  Sixty-three days. . . . Very quickly, the time has vaporized. I've tried to catch it, to hold on to it a little longer, but it's not going to happen.  Tomorrow at this time, we'll probably be starting our descent into Miami International and life in the States again.

So much and so little have changed in two months.  I look at the two photos of us above and try to see the differences.  I think I can, but I don't know.  I think most of the changes are mental.

I'm lucky to have had this adventure. . . lucky to have married someone who would travel around the world with me . . . lucky to have someone who would entertain thoughts of having me work overseas for a few months . . . lucky to have a husband who makes me laugh all the time. . . . lucky to have someone as crazy about my ancestral land as I. . . .

I'm lucky to be going home. . . . lucky to have had a friend such as Mary care for my little dude, Riley. . . . lucky to have been able to Skype with our son . . . . lucky to live in a country that gives us the freedom to travel as we want. . . . lucky to have you as friends. . . . lucky to be able to share this adventure. . . .

I can't write much tonight.  I'm a bit too sad and, if you can believe it, a bit too excited.  Add in the fact that we have to get up to catch a taxi at 5:45 am (before most of you will have even gone to bed!!), and, well, you understand.

I'm not letting the blog die.  I have too many stories left to tell.  I hope you don't mind following for a little bit longer.  I'll probably take tomorrow off, though.  Our flight will land in Las Vegas about 26 hours after we leave Bologna.  I might be a little tired.

Ciao, Italia e Francia.  Grazie mille per tutti. 

Good night, everyone.  I'll see you on the other side of the world.