Natale in Italia

Christmas is big here. Like in the states, retailers depend heavily on holiday sales, and change their normally strange hours (e.g., closed every Sunday, Monday morning, plus every day from noon to 2:30, then open from 2:30 to 7).

There are many small markets like this one in Mantova. I'm sure I'm getting using my excellent negotiating skills to get a deep discount on that jar of mostard.

All the best for Christmas from our family to yours! 

A fur piece from here

While fur coats seem very much a 50s thing back home, they're very common in Italy. Here, some Montova shoppers compare notes on a chilly Saturday morning. 

Wherefore art thou, Kinsley?

Denise (a.k.a. Kinsley), my eldest (24, except she couldn't be because do you know how old that would make me?) daughter, spent her junior year of high school in Italy. She lived in Guidizzolo, a small town about half way between Milano and Venice.

She's over here travelling with her main squeeze Jared Grogan and their friend Heidi Plotts. Susan, Mirella and I rented a car (we prefer the VW Passat over either Mercedes, for space, comfort and drivability), and headed over to the pretty town of Mantova, which Susan knows well. Meanwhile, Denise and crew were touring Rome, Florence, and, finally, Pisa (I suggested they check out the bell tower, an outstanding example of 15th, or whatever, century architecture). Denise announced that they would be arriving at Verona, the largest town in the area, at about eight Saturday night. I offered "Oh, fine, I'll just pick you guys up."

Here was my "thinking": Verona is about an hour from Guidizzolo. Somebody in Denise's host family took them to Verona earlier in the week, so I would be saving them two more hours of driving. Further, Susan, Mirella and I were staying in Mantova, which is only about 25 minutes from Vernoa by autostrada. And finally, the train arrived late enough that Susan and the baby would likely be in for the evening in any case.

The part I haven't mentioned yet is that I have never been to Verona in my life. Nor did I have, nor had I looked at, a map of the city. But you see, Italy has very good signage. In every town, even little ones, there is a target-shaped black and white icon for Centro, the Center, and the train station is always near the center, right? Although never exactly in the center, because the oldest part of the town is almost always now a "pedestrian area", where cars, at least most cars, are not allowed. (There are always enough cars to make you a little nervous and a little curious about who does get to drive there).

Traffic was heavy leaving Mantova, I was running a little late, but not bad. The gentleman who took my toll after leaving the autostrada was helpful. "Turn left after the (something or other that sounded to me like) "fairgrounds" (only with a capital "F"), then follow the signs. Ten minutes."

Well, I got to the center all right. On several occasions I saw signs for Statzione. Denise called me a few times and told me she could see a church from the steps. In Italy, this information isn't as helpful as it would be in, say, Novaya Zemlya, off the coast of Russia.

I overcame my healthy male aversion to asking strangers for directions. Several times. Each of the courteous Italians (actually, I think one was an American speaking Italian) said something to me that sounded like "The train station? Turn around, go to the second stop light (semaforo - I love that word!), turn right, then blahbedy blah blah on the right blah blah until blah blah the station." The point, of course, is that my Italian is now officially good enough to be dangerous.

Did I mention that I couldn't find my driver's license and had left my passport with Susan in Mantova? So, I had a strong aversion to attracting the attention of the local police, which can happen if the same car drives around the same several blocks for hours on end.

Verona has an excellently-preserved Roman ampitheater that was built in the first century A.D. This should suggest to you that the streets were not built using the grid system that we might find in Findlay, Ohio, say. Even more depressing was that I never (knowingly) even saw this structure, which I must assume is both large and distinctive.

Did I mention that it was nighttime? In an earlier posting I pointed out that a typical Italian roundabout might have 15 signs for the three or four or five possible exits (not counting the exit that you come in on, which might well be the right one). These are even more challenging at night, flying solo.

At one point, several hundred, I'm not making this up, Harleys and similar bikes, each ridden by a person (or more than one) dressed as Santa, roared and rumbled by. (Come to think of it, they were escorted by the police, which might explain my good luck in that regard.) It was depressing that Denise had not seen nor heard this procession when she next called. While she knew the names of the streets by the station, she couldn't "talk me in" because, like myself, she had no idea where I was either, although I was near a church.

Finally, don't ask me how, I found the large, train station-looking building ("Is it that yellowish color with a lot of big vertical windows?" "Yes!"). We were late for dinner, but Meri Ghisolfi, Denise's host mom, took care of business as she always does.

Lessons learned? Never blah blah blahbedy without first checking if blah blah, Roman ampitheater blah blah, and never, ever blah blah blah.

(And if you're curious, the statzione is in square F2, lower left, of the map. Now I look at a map!)
 

The Why chromosone

Don't ask me why. I don't know why. Why would I think I would know why?

Today, Susan asked me to do something. I asked her "why?"

Our little pumpkin, who will be a year and a half old on Saturday, heard the word "why?" So, for the first 14 times of what are sure to be many more, today we heard the word "why?" from our little one.

#6: Top out the tower on tippy toes

 

#5: Proceed step-by-step

 

#4: Take the time to build a solid foundation

 

#3: Sit down and think for a minute

 

#2: Collect building materials

We save the empty cans. They're solid, noisy, (make excellent drums), and stackable. 

How to build a tower: #1

In Italy, baby formula is sold in one of the many Farmacie. These all have bright green neon crosses. We order Similac Isomil II ("due") from these nice people. For some reason the delivery arrives at 6:45. 

Technical vocabulary

I am not the first (or most sensitive) person to note that traveling with a toddler offers a set of special challenges. Susan handles almost all of them, true, but I have noticed.

But the advantages are much greater! Going down the street with Mirella in Italy is like an instant ticker tape parade. I know, most people assume I'm her nonno, but that just makes it so much sweeter.

I've had the good luck to work in foreign countries a few times. In each case, you tend to learn some technical terminology, even if you hardly know the language at all. So, for example, I can say "watch out for the fork lift!" in several languages, or "gross weight or net weight."

Being here with Baby Girl has given me a rich new technical vocabulary that I would likely have never learned otherwise. A partial list:

- High chair
- Little chair that improbably attaches to a table, reminding one of those California stilt-houses that you know intellectually but never quite believe are safe
- Car seat
- Diaper (example: Italian mother helpfully pointing out that my daughter, in my charge for the moment, has most of hers around her left knee and nowhere else)
- Many flavors of yogurt
- The milk foam used to make cappucinos, which BG loves to eat with a teaspoon
- Teaspoon
- Bib
- Puppy
- Bunny
- Reindeer
- Duckling
- Playground
- Snowman
- Little flap thing you lift up in a pop-up book
- Cap
- Toddler
- Precious
- Slide
- Miniature train
- Token

. . . and

- Proud father (of all my three girls!)

Showdown in Antica Drogheria

Like many shops in the old center of Varese, La Drogheria is a throwback. A small place, it sells a selection of gourmet specialties from all over Italy, has a nice selection of wine and grappa, and, also things like soap and brooms and so on. Dark wood, musty, friendly older staff. Reminds me of Vobbe's back on Cherry Street in the 50s.

A week ago we went with Ezio and Virginia to a restaurant that specializes in food from Valtellina, a valley at the very top of Lake Como. Lots of game, cheese, buckwheat, different than most Italian food we've tried (I don't think there's a single dish with tomato to be seen or tasted). And very good wine from the region.

I turns out Valtellina is producing a lot of Nebbiolo, the grape that is made into Barolo and Barbaresco - the great wines of Piedmont, the next province west of here, across Lago Maggiore. Like the Pinot Noir that is grown in Oregon, Nebbiolo is supposed to be very "difficult", meaning it requires just the right combination of soil, climate and treatment on the vine and while making the wine. There are just a few wineries making it in the U.S., and only 3% of the plantings in Piedmont are Nebbiolo.

I remembered the name of the wine and asked the lady - I think she's the owner - at La Drogheria, and asked her. . .

"Do you have any of the Nino Negri wines from Valtellina."

"Of course, sir."

"Any of the Nebbiolos?"

"Ah, no, sir, Nebbiolo, is exclusively grown in Piedmont. It is the typical grape of Piedmont. Anyone who tells you otherwise is not telling you the truth."

"But, I just had some the other night at a restaurant and I'm quite certain. . ."

"Sir, someone could also tell you that they have Nebbiolo from Napoli, but that doesn't mean it's true." (Turning to other customers). "Nebbiolo from Valtellina!" Then she said the older Italian person equivalent of "As if!"

Now, I'm not so arrogant as to believe I couldn't be confused about certain details about Italian œnoculture. But I checked with Ezio (he was there at dinner, remember), on numerous web sites, and went back to the restaurant with Becky and Gino.

Vindictive? Certainly not! Am I thinking about whether to and how to break the news to the lady who dissed me in public? Absolutely! 

Bomb craters across the street

As I mentioned earlier, our very block here in Varese was bombed by B17s flying from Foggia in Southern Italy, on April 30, 1944. Something about the fighter plane factory down the street.

Our apartment faces a pretty hill, which has a fancy, old-fashioned hotel on the top. One day we discovered to our dismay that many of the large trees, some with trunks a meter in diameter or more, were being chopped down.

We learned from Signore Brunella, the 80-year-old gentleman who was wounded in the bombing, that the trees are locusts (Robinia pseudoacacia, Cal) and that they have a disease. He also told us that the obvious heaving we can see with the trees gone is in fact bomb craters from that day 60 years ago.

By the way, replanting is well under way. 

Notify Interpol immediately!

Just as I suspected! Fortuntely, Susan put one of the little James Bond beepers (did they have GPS in those days?) under the bumper of the bad guys' Maserati. . . 

Carleton counterfeit?

Susan's nephew Justin Redd, an ICI guy, attended Carleton College in Minnesota. Liberal arts, 1,750 students, yes they have athletics, Ultimate Frisbee is their most famous "program."

Italians love to wear these letter sweater-looking jackets, with complicated names on them like East Toronto Rugby Championship League, and so on. So imagine our surprise when we met this nice gentleman along the autostrada in San Remo, sporting his alleged Carleton jacket! 

Delightful Dijon

Thanks to Rita and Slim and Father Shugrue at Saint Francis de Sales High School back in Toledo, I had the great fortune to spend my junior year in France. My life changed forever.

Rich Nachazel, my colleague from Toledo, and I never tired of walking the streets of Annecy, our beautiful town in the French Alps. One night, it must have been just before Christmas like it is today, we stopped by one of the many street fairs. I was a vendor selling hot dogs using a dispenser much like the one in the picture. The buns sit on the spikes and stay warm, you see, while the saucissons (which the Italians call "hot dogs") are steaming away in the jar.

So, back in France, back forty years, I forked over my centimes, grabbed my baguette with two hands, and gave it a good old-fashioned Swayne Field Toledo chomp.

The first rescue workers at the scene said the "killing zone" extended in a fan shape for about 10 meters from my face. The deadly spray, a combination of the first two tablespoons of Dijon mustard that I had ever tasted and an mix of bodily fluids, exploded out of both nostrils, both ears, both eyeballs, and mouth.

So, today at the Casnebo neighborhood Christmas fair, I asked the nice fellow if he would mind if I took a picture of the first dispenser I have seen since that day, 40 years ago, in Annecy, France. 

Italian edge

Milan is the fashion capital of the world - as if they had to tell me that! Window design is an art form here. And fashion means edge. Even so, I found the messages on some of this line of clothes to be at least a little shocking. 

Another reason to hate Mondays

The three of us go to Canziani's (right downstairs) a couple times a day, on most days. We've dialled in our orders: Baby Girl has a cup of schiuma, the milk foam that is mixed into a cappucino. Susan has a cappucino, I have a double espresso lungo macchiato (with a little extra water and a dollop of schiuma).

But on Mondays, Canziani's is closed - buttoned up tight. There are other spots within a few blocks, but it's just not the same. How could it be? 

Christmas colors

The "pedestrian area" of Varese is small but interesting. I was struck by the beautiful colors, including Santa's, looking down this street. 

Meet me at arancione

As mentioned elsewhere in this blog, Varese has been the home of Aero Macchi, an important manufacturer of aircraft. The plane in the middle of this round piazza, right in front of the questura (Police HQ) is nicknamed "the big orange." 

Riding the horse

Baby Girl loves horses, and all animals. She would prefer that they remain stationary, as this well-behaved horse is doing. Note Susan's protective back-up. 

Alfredo drives the train

The Giardini Estensi is a converted villa, built for the Este family in the late 1700s, modeled after the famous Schönbrunn palace near Vienna. It's been turned into a beautiful civic center, with (not surprisingly) manicured Italian-style gardens, offices, and, up a steep hill, a play area. Alfredo, who like many people who work in Varese comes from near Naples in the south of Italy, sets up this little train and some little kid rides if the weather is nice. Business is slow, he says, everybody's out Christmas shopping. 

Baby Girl's first joke

18 month olds are right at the cusp of the language explosion. By the time a person is three a large percentage of their lifelong vocabulary and grammar skills are in place. It's fun and a little poignant to hear Mirella's vocabulary evolve each day.

So, this week, she made her first joke, at least that we noticed (who knows what's going on in that head?).

Old McDonald Has a Farm is a big hit in these parts. While she was singing it one day, I happened to sneeze. I am of the single, loud, explosive sneeze school, not the wimpy repetitive (like ten or more sneezes per session) school exemplified by Rita Mack.

So, the next time we were singing Old McDonald with Baby Girl, we came to the part that goes ". . . and on this farm he has a. . ."

Baby Girl: ". . . a - CHOO!" Then, a big laugh, after making sure that we got the joke. By the way, this is apparently one of those gags that get better the more you repeat it.

By a landslide

My 24 year old daughter Denise landed here today, along with her boyfriend Jared Grogan and their friend Heidi Flotts.

They were in pretty good shape and were curious about nearby Switzerland, so we drove over to beautiful Lago Maggiore, up its Eastern shore to Luino, then over toward Lugano. We were driving down a narrow road along the Tresa river which forms the border with Switzerland, when we came across a sign that said:

Road Interrupted by Landslide

Now, this was not a new sign. It was somewhat rusty, and I had the feeling that it had neither been posted nor moved lately. By backtracking less than a km we could cross the Swiss border and proceed along the other side of the same river to Lugano.

I have a hunch that there really was a landslide on the Italian side some years ago, and some intelligent person said: "What's the hurry? If they want to get by bad enough let them go on the Swiss side."

Many Italians commute daily to Switzerland to work. Today in a place in gorgeous Lugano the waiter, from Varese province, who drives down this very road - on the Swiss side of course - leaned over and said "You do know the food's better in Italy, don't you?"

Streamlined for Sundays

Sundays and holidays are the busiest days at Pasticceria Canziani. Here the counter team, minus hairnets, provides its customarily excellent customer service. 

Never on Sunday

I won't say coffee bars are the heart of Italy, but they definitely have a role to play in the nervous system. They are distributed geographically across Varese, and I think across most towns. They consist of a bar less than a foot wide, an espresso machine, and display cases with pastries, candies, gelatos and other goodies. There happens to be an excellent, perhaps classic version in our building, owned by the Canziani family, staffed by the same, plus a crew of pastry chefs and barriste: the women who make the espressos, wrap up the cakes, and so on.

At Canziani, this team includes Alessandra, daughter of the owners, Stefania, Lidia and Ana (pictured here) - all nice and efficient and patient people.

They, like their counterparts elsewhere, wear these little hair nets. But not on Sunday, it seems. I asked Mr. Canziani, who seems to enjoy chatting with me about things. "Because they're out of control" he say. "No discipline. If the inspectors (vigili!) catch people working the counters with no hair nets you get fined."

"But what about Sunday?", you ask.

"The inspectors don't work on Sunday." 

It's all a matter of perspective

Ezio Paroni and his wife Virginia, friends of Becky and Gino, have been a big help and have become good friends. Ezio is our excellent Italian tutor. Virginia also helps with our Italian, and with our day-to-day life.

The other Ezio said "did you guys know that in South Korea, the light switches are inside the room? I was talking to my friend's wife, who is from South Korea, and she told me. . ."

We looked at each other. The funny Italian way of putting the light switches in the hall is one of the first things you notice.

"Uh, Ezio, that's also true back home, and in most of the other countries either of us have ever been to. And Ezio, you yourself lived in New York for ten years."

Ezio is intelligent, conscientious, aware, fascinated by the contrast of U.S. and Italian cultures (among others). He is also back in Italy, and here, light switches are in the hall. Perspective is a funny thing.

çon et lumière

Rick Nopper, my grade school friend, Becky's brother, who visited his sister here in Varese in October, pointed out that in my previous account of our Alpine adventure I mistakenly referred to the town of Briançon as Besançon. There is a Besançon in France, not too far away, but not part of this story.

I went back and changed my entry. Thanks Rick.

The limits of technology

I may have mentioned in other entries that the Alps are a large mountain range here in Europe. Perhaps you've heard of them. Well, Thanksgiving weekend was upon us and one member of our team - OK, it was me - decided we needed a road trip. You may also recall that Thanksgiving came in late November this year, and if it isn't snowing by late November in the Alps, the people in St. Moritz and Chamonix are very disappointed, just like they are back at Mt. Bachelor in Bend.

But the weather was great. Our general plan was to visit Provence, the southeastern corner of France, including what we call the French Riviera and what they call the Côte d'Azure. Jonathan Cronk's brother Paul and his wife Franny were kind enough to invite us to visit them at their home in France. Varese is at about 1,000 feet and it's all autostrade between here and the Mediterranean coast at Genova. So, drive through the Alps, cruise around France, come back via the coast, straight shot up to Varese.

Even though I spent a year of high school very near, I had never heard of the Mount Cenis tunnel. The first great tunnel driven through the Alps, it is still one of the longest at 13+ kilometers (8+ miles). It links the industrial city of Torino, called the "Detroit of Italy" when Detroit was still the Detroit of America, with France. This would be our magic passage through the snowy Alps.

Well, I know this will come as a terrible shock to people who know us, we got off a little late - too late to drive through the mountains. Instead we decided to reverse the route - coast first, return via the mountains.

We had a nice trip. The baby continues to be an excellent traveller, even over long rides. The scenery along the coast is. . . you've heard all the adjectives. It is wilder than you might expect, dramatic, extreme, steep, beautiful.

I'll talk about Nice in another entry, and about our nice visit with Paul and Franny. We left their home in Aups ("Opes", just in case you find yourself suddenly needing to know how to pronounce it), and with Paul's help, picked out a route. It was lovely, as advertised. Always thinking, I decided to take a short-cut - not a big one, just a hypotoneuse versus two legs kind of thing, heading toward the mountains. We ended up in the largish town of Briançon. Though not a ski resort itself, Briançon is one of those "gateway to" type of towns. We found a cozy hotel, had a nice meal, befriended the mayor of a suburb of Paris, his charming wife and their Bernese mountain dog Roxy - fellow guests. Mirella is an expert at identifying dogs of all breeds, and her cousin Justin's Simon, also a Bernese, is one of her favorites.

Mirella and Susan went upstairs, I chatted with the owner of the hotel. Always empathetic, I mentioned that I bet they were hoping for snow. More business, you see. "Yes indeed, sir, and in fact, it should arrive overnight." I realized at this moment that I had not checked the weather forecast. This is not typical for me. But, I live in Bend, Oregon. Negotiating the high passes between Bend and Portland is a fact of life in Bend. You stay informed, you take your time, and you make sure you have a car that does well in snow, sleet and ice. Besides, we were going through the Mount Cenis Tunnel, so pas de probleme, n'est-ce pas?

A little embarrassed, the manager explained that unfortunately the tunnel connects Oulx, a town that I won't try to help you pronounce, with Chambéry, about 50 miles north of Briançon. Now, I admire Italian (think Ferrari) and French (think Concorde) engineering. I cannot explain how these obviously competent people back in 1857 through 1871 could have made this fundamental error. What's even more difficult to explain, this was one of those tunnels where they start drilling from both sides and meet in the middle. Very impressive, and very wrong. The tunnel was clearly supposed to exit the Alps right there at Briançon, just past the boulangerie, and not 83.987234 kilometers to the North.

Retreat was really not an option. We had driven over a couple passes to get to Briançon, and would have then had to add another five or more hours to our return trip.

Now, our rental car was a new Mercedes station wagon. Spacious, a pleasure to drive. Six forward gears, manual shift. But - rear wheel drive and no snow tires.

I didn't sleep too well that night. I woke up about 5:30, padded down to the lobby, looked outside, and saw - snow. About two inches of Oregon-looking snow. Light flurries, a little wind, no white-out, but demonstrably snow.

We set out about eleven. This pass is the steepest, though not the highest, that I've ever crossed. The guardrails looked like some kind of toothpick and straw affair that your kid would put on the road going up the baking soda volcano. The Mercedes helpfully displayed a bright yellow exclamation point whenever we slipped, which was frequently. I have learned, being, like all males, an expert driver in all weather conditions, that driving in snow is about managing inertia. You can't go too fast and you can't stop or you won't be able to start up again. So we did that, very carefully.

Near the very top of the Montgenèvre Pass, the Mercedes' positraction thing started spinning the wheels wildly, even though we were inching along. Susan pointed out that if we ever did get positive traction we would be immediately be in a drag race with nearby snow plows. But, I pointed out, I don't have my foot on the gas at the moment, or hardly so. But we inched along.

We crested the pass at 6,300 feet (1850 meters). All downhill from there to Turin, only an hour away. Quite slippery, with a little fog to boot. The Mercedes has high-tech antilock breaks. These cleverly wouldn't quite stop the car unless I really, really insisted, but would slow it down enough, if I would just learn to trust them.

Susan was supportive in every way, as is her nature. Though an even more expert driver than myself, if that is possible, she spends most of the time in the back seat tending to our still-rear-facing junior team member.

After one of the longer fifteen minute periods of my life, we got on the autostrade. Things got better. Soon, we really were in Torino, site of the 2006 Olympics, some of which will taken place in the towns we passed through. Home that night.

Technology - sometimes a powerful ally, sometimes an Iago, ready to betray even the most cautious, thoughtful and, may I say, competent dufus.