Lyram's House of Mayhem & Mirth

Arrividerci, italia

2006-04-11T03:59:00.000-07:00

My Dearest,

Tuesday morning, sitting cosy in bed in Casavalle while I write this. It’s raining outside, not a drizzle, but a full-on wet and steady sobbing, which perfectly suits the mood of povera Mara, who will leave Italy tomorrow. All that’s left to do is decide what to wear on the plane, repack the small bag with that on top, load up the car, and later today, we drive to Milan to spend the night with Maria and Salvatore before heading to the airport with them tomorrow morning.

But first, lunch! (Of course) It’s very simple:

Prosciutto Crudo di Parma
Cold roast farona & potatoes
Mozzarella Bufalo
A ripe tomato
A nice little salad of fennel with lemon
Marinated artichokes
Lemon torta
(Burp)

And you thought this was going to be some sad farewell full of longing and regrets for meals uneaten, important historical sites unvisted, and many Italian men unkissed. Hell, no! We’ve seen more sites than we can mentally process or even remember. I ALWAYS kiss the men – I have a strict policy. And we’ve been eating very well, thank you. For example, last night we had dinner at Da Faccini, in nearby Castel d’Arquato. We’ve eaten there several times, now, so when we walk in, they don’t bother to hand us the menu. Just come over and recite the daily specials.

Dinner last night was:

Fried bread (it has some special name here in the area, but I can’t remember it)
Duck liver pate
Carrot gnocchi in a basil cream sauce
Roasted farona (big chicken) with potatoes
Roast lamb with fresh rosemary with more potatoes

We were too greedy, ordering two secondis, so had to pass on salad, formaggio e il dolce. But on the way out the door, I snitched a tiny bite of Torta di Mandorle (almond). Crunch and sticky on the teeth at the same time. How do they do it?

Yesterday day, we went to Modena. The old centro is a UN World Heritage site. The duomo there a gigantic mishmash with the campanile as leaning as the tower in Pisa. Plus, 12th century lions guarding the doors, and looking like a cross between dogs and seals more than lions, but I think that's a comment on our limited ability to see rather than on the carvers of the 12th century.

There was a huge screem TV set up in the piazza with lots of people watching the election results once they started coming in at 3 in the afternoon. Plus a huge, beautifully restored synagogue nearby.
Anyway, there is also a beautiful central market in Modena, huge, full of everything good to eat (and do they know how to eat here in Emilia-Romagna!) We stopped to ask a woman selling gorgeous poultry – everything from tiny quail to pigeons, chickens of various types and sizes to ducks, geese, tachino (turkey) – where to go eat. She immediately conferred with the salumi lady next door and the vegetable lady across the way and after a five minute confab in very fast local dialect that I couldn’t follow, they decided we should eat at Trattoria Aldinna across the street. We were given very specific instructions for walking to the door, but walked right by it, never saw it, walked for twenty minutes in circles, finally asked someone at a bar, who walked us down the street and pointed, still didn’t see it, asked someone else, who walked us to the door, where we FINALLY saw it, and it was worth all the trouble.

A local place full of folks from the mercato across the street, local business people, students from the University around the corner. Not only were we the only non-Italians there, I think we were the only non-Modenese. The waitress could barely give us the time of day until George ordered the cannelloni and then the situation improved instantly. Suddenly there were more choices, it was possible for me to have veal scallops in balsamico (hey, it was invented in Modena) and so here is what we had for lunch:

Baked cannelloni filled with ground veal, spinach, parmesan with ragu
Veal scallops deglazed in balsamico
Potatoes mashed with cream
Steamed spinach with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of balsamic vinegar
Marinated artichokes
Macedonia (fruit salad)
Creme Caramel
Torta of Almonds and Spinach
A mezzo of local red wine
Caffe
(burp)

You can see why our dinner at Da Faccini was so abbreviated.

Going backwards in time, not an easy thing, but I haven’t written to you, my dearest dear, for a while so:

We’ve been here in Casavalle near Piacenza at Salvatore and Maria’s country place since Saturday. Salvatore, who is a terrific cook (and boy, does he know it) fed us and fed us when we arrived...

Minced chicken stewed with a little this and that
Pasta with carciofi
A cacicavallo cheese he brought back from Sicily last summer that’s been aging in the cantina for 9 months
Grilled sausages
His homemade wine, red, young and fizzy
wonderful fennel salads every day

And afterwards, sitting up into the night over a bottle of grappa, talking, joking, and me giving Salvatore English lessons. I meant to teach him how to say "I have the tortured soul of an artist, and you are very beautiful, my dear", which will be a very useful line for him at the gallery opening of his show in Seattle later this month. But he pointed out that I was teaching him how to say "In my soul I am a turtle. We both agreed that it would be difficult to seduce anyone by announcing that you’re a turtle. Toratuga, turtle. Tormente, tortured or tormented. I think I’ve got it straight now.

Before we came to Casavalle, we were in Sestri Levante for three days to visit friends. Plus to eat, of course. Our big highlight meal was at Luchini, an osteria down the road in Chiavari that’s been around since 1907. We ate:

Baccala Fritteres
Minestrone Genovese
Cima Bollito (Veal breast, wrapped around an eggy and vegie filling, then boiled)
Rib Steak
Potatoes baked with cheese
Something else, can’t remember what.
Creme caramel
Wonderful local white wine.
(Burp)

And dinner the next night at Ristorante Nanin, where the seafood is sublime:

Marinated White Anchovies
Hot Seafood Antipasto
Pasta with mussels and clams, a titch of tomato and an abundance of garlic.
More wonderful local white wine
(Burp)

And spent time hanging out with Marisa, Ricardo, Solo and Miriam. The friendship between George and Solo, is such a precious part of Sestri, as is my friendship with Marisa.

Before that, a day and a night in Parma, where we had a fantastic lunch and the only really bad dinner we’ve had in Italy this year. IN PARMA! Shocking. It was a restaurant near the duomo where we had eaten last year and had a terrific meal. New owners? The cook was sick? Who knows? Learned our lesson, though. When we walked in the door, it didn’t feel, look or smell ‘right’.

As for lunch the next day, George had a wonderful pasta and I ate every vegetable in the place at an osteria that was ethnic and sexy looking, but with american disco music playing. George doodled the word ‘jazz’ all over his paper placemat. Subliminal suggestion, he said..

Before Parma, we were in Saturnia, down in Toscana for three days. Saturnia has been a spa for the rich and famous since Etruscan times. These days, the rich and famous go to the Spa, where it costs 40 euros a day just to hang out by their swimming pool. The rest of us do much better though, by heading to the cascada (waterfall) where the waters of the hot springs cascade down into a series of pools where for free, you can rest your bones and restore your soul. My ankle was still smarting from a fall I took in Rome, so I found me a little whirly pool where I let the warm sulphury waters beat the shit out of my foot for hours on end. Heaven. We found a beautiful place to stay, just outside of the town of Saturnia, the Albergo Villa Garden. Beautiful room with terrace and views of blooming peach and almond trees. Big bathtub to soak in once we were done soaking at the hot springs – the rotten egg smell really wasn’t bad, but it really wasn’t good, either.

There are a couple of fantastic restaraunts in Saturnia. Sorry, I can’t remember what all we ate, but I can’t wait to go back, so it must have been really good.

And before Saturnia, we were in Narni, where our very dear friends Jadrana and Franco had made our six weeks there wonderful, amazing, fruitful. I finished a new draft of my new play. Spent some quality time thinking and dooling about a few other projects. Walked up and down my 200 gradinis (stairs) from the Piazza Girabaldi to our little casa on Moon Street so many times that my ass is as close to perfect now as can be. Narni was full of interesting places, many new friends, great food, and most especially, a reaffirmation of how much goodness there truly is in our difficult world, in our troubled and troubling times. All it takes is honesty, trust, and compassion, all of which were lavished on us. We did our best to respond in kind.

Goodbye for now, my dearest dears. Ci vediamo presto, si?

Baci (kisses),
mara

PUSSY WITH TWO SQUIRTS

2006-03-24T15:48:00.000-08:00

Dearest,

Since you’ve already accused me of writing food porn, I’ve decided to give up anything highminded and go about the pleasurable task of appealing to the basest of your instincts. So, just how base, I hear you asking, and what precisely is a pussy with two squirts? It's a Roman pastry, my dear...

We’re in Rome for a few days, visiting l’amica nostra, Gaby Ford, the Artistic Director of the English Theatre of Rome (or when they do a bilingual production, the (Not Only) English Theatre of Rome.) She lives in a 4th floor apartment in Porta Pia, near the main train station (and since the 4th floor in Europe is what we in the less optimistic States call the 5th floor, we’re very glad that she has a classy deco elevator up to her door.Three rooms, more than decent bathtub and a beautiful terrace full of green plants and flowers. Now, if only it would stop raining... And the pastry in question? Made by an open-all night and closed at 7 a.m. bakery in Gaby's neighborhood.

The specifics: Sorchetta con due schizzi, which translates as, well, I wrote it once in the title of this blog entry and once at the top of this paragraph, so I ain't doin' it a third time. Think of a flaky, light, delicate danish with a slightly lemony cheesy filling. Then imagine that two lines of chocolate pastry cream have been squirted on top of it, then further imagine that it's been further covered by whipped cream and then drizzled with dark chocolate.

We arrived Wednesday, had a wonderful lunch on the terrace with her and her friend Roy, a nice Jewish boy from New York, who has lived in Rome for a million years, is an actor (a very good one according to Gaby) and makes his living giving personal tours of Rome to Americans, Italians, well, all kinds of people. He says that the Italian Catholics are the best tippers. Lunch was:

Spinach Risotto
Insalata with all kinds of good stuff in it

I repeat: what is better in this world than eating a homemade risotto in Italy~!

Long shooting of the shit with Gaby and with Roy. The sun was shining, and vita was very dolce on Gaby’s terrazzo.

Followed by a long walk and gawk during which a tempeste (rain storm) began tempesting. We got out of the rain in a beautiful enoteca in Piazza dei Pietra. A glass of spumate for me, a nice montepulciano for George, plus a cheese plate of all sheep cheeses, everything from creamy, mild and fresh to ancient, dry and complex. Served with honey, apple compote, apricot jam, and pere marmalade with mustard. We have GOT to find some of these marmalades w/ mustard – we also ate some of a kickass bitter orange version in Perugia. We will serve a formal cheese course, even if it’s just the two of us henceforth and become veryvery cheesy. To counteract all the beans– I had made a minestrone with lentils, cecis and borlottis a few days before, and we were annoucing our arrivals wherever we went.

Thus fortified with vino e formaggio, back out into the weather and onto the Pantheon. My first impression – Japanese tourists taking photos by holding their cell phones high above their heads. Americans in Gap khakis and sweatshirts with football emblems, sitting on the few benches around the perimeter staring at their souvineers, looking tired. Why am I always so disappointed by the sights I’ve been dreaming of forever? Yadayada, Pantheon, proportions, dome, marble. The walking back around and getting lost in the pouring rain after was much more memorable, even visually – the sudden change in the quality of the light, the twisty streets, the fountains in every piazza, big and small.

But why am I complaining? We’re in Rome, baby! With its layers upon layers of city and history and the living of lives famous and otherwise. Back to Gaby’s apartment in time to go to a party for her friend Antonino and his new American bride, Jenny. They live in Venice Beach in California – it turns out 4 or 5 blocks from our friends Dorie and Ed. The piccolo mondo syndrome at work. Naturally, I called Dorie in California. How often do you get to say (unfortunately to her voice mail) "Hi, darling, it’s midnight here in Rome. We’re at a party in an unbelievably beautiful loft. The guests of honor are your NEIGHBORS! Ciao, bella!" Quite the la dolce vita moment, if you know what I mean.

Back late, up talking until 4 in the morning. Maybe all that dolce life is a little, er, um, rigorous for my vita, but I want credit for trying, fer crissake. Of course, when I finally got up at noon, exhausted, parched and with a very un-Italian hangover, discretion won out over valor and I stayed in for the day, comfy, reading, and out of the rain and a sudden deluge of gigantic hail.. What I didn’t see yesterday: the sights. Do I know how to visit Rome or what?

What we finally did do: trek over the Piazza Novarro to see Gaby’s beautiful theatre space, which you can see at www.rometheatre.com, grab a ride from there to a rehearsal of her next production where we arrived in time to shmooze with the actors while Gaby went out into the street and dragged a rather large log back to use for the set. The best props come off the streets for free, just like back home. Afterwards to an osteria in Gaby’s neighborhood where we had a perfect late dinner:

Carcioffi and assorted vegies off the antipasti table

Penne arribiata (translates as 'angry sauce', and waiter insisted that we refrain from sprinkling it with cheese because the cheese might calm down the bite of the perperoncino)

Saltimboca Romana (veal sauteed with sage and proscuitto)

A steak (grilled to medium and served with nothing but salt and lemon)

Broccoli

Insalata mista

bottle of house red

grappa

burp

Afterwards the buses had stopped running, and there wasn’t a cab in sight. It was a fifteen block walk back to the apartment, so Gaby stuck out her thumb and stopped a station wagon full of lesbians. Who generously gave us a ride back to the apartment. The dolce vita just keeps rolling and rolling.

Back at the apartment, more grappa (this time in the pretty glasses), followed by more conversation, the reading of a few scenes from a play, followed by getting to bed early – 3 a.m.

Today, a completely new leaf. I was up bright and early at 10:30, and with a quick exit out of the house by a quarter to one. We walked our long mile over to the Jewish Ghetto, where we ran into Roy (of Wednesday lunch at Gaby’s) at Yatovah, the kosher dairy restaurant that he had told us about. Another instance of the piccolo mondo principle at work in the enormous Roma. He was leading a tour for three clients from Birmingham, who insisted that we should try the pasta they were eating:

Homemade fettucine in a cream and lemon sauce

I thought she meant that we should come over to their table with our forks, which they didn’t exactly, but which we did and they were nice enough to let us have a taste, even if it wasn’t part of their cultural gestalt. Oh boy! (which is inglese for mama mia!) was I glad we did. Besides if you can’t table hop and fress off a stranger’s plate in a kosher dairy restaurant in the Roman ghetto, what is the point of traveling?

What we ordered, with a little sage advice from Roy, who had translated their menu into English for them:

Carcioffi a la guida (artichokes Jewish style)

Gnocchi a la panna (with cream and parmesan – little floating clouds of potato gnocchi, fabulous)
Bacala con pomodoro e ciopolle (which, strangely enough, tasted exactly like the fresh salmon baked with tomato sauce that my grandma used to make – I was thrilled and transported – taste as time travel.)

Ciccoria piccante (chicory stewed with pepperoncino, olive oil and served with pressed, sliced dried fish eggs and bread crumbs)

A ricotta and polenta torta for dessert that was so good that I cried real tears.

Café

Esrogcello (lemoncello, but made with esrogs grown on the Amalfi coast, where, according to Roy doing his fabulous tour guide thing – the very best esrogs have always been grown, the place where the sages of old shelpped from all over the Mediterranean to do their grocery shopping for the holidays...)

Followed by a stop at the kosher bakery where we picked up a kilo of cookies to sustain us:

Macaroons

Biscotti with lots of almonds and cinnamon

Pizza Guida, a sweet bread stuffed with candied fruit

something else, I can’t remember what it's called

burp

We tagged after Roy and his tourists for a few minutes – actually LEARNED something about the Ghetto: created in 1555 by papal edict. Large enough space to hold 2,000 people, but on opening day, 6,000 Jews had to shoehorn themselves in, started with 2 gates which increased to 8 over the generations. Finally closed in the 1800's. It was the Jewish slum in the 1400's before it ever became the ghetto. At its height it held 16,000 people. I think I got that right. Then we looked into a window set in the pavement, where in the basement of a furniture repair shop there was a 2nd century taverna. Fast food joint. You could still see the marble counters.
Okay, by now it was pouring again. So after a stop at the Jewish bookstore, we grabbed a cab back to Via Castelfidardo (Gaby’s apartemente) where hot bath, reading, relaxing and the writing this has ensued.

We leave for dinner in a while. Gaby has us going to a restaurant that specializes in the foods of Imperial Rome. I promise to take photos and let you know what it’s like to eat like a Citizen.

Baci,
mara

PIZZA & GHOST DOORS

2006-03-16T07:49:00.000-08:00

Dearest,

First, the pizza: As many of you know, I stopped eating wheat a while ago because of my arthritis, and damn, if it didn’t work, so now my aches and pains are much less achy and painful. It is practically impossible to avoid eating wheat in Italy, although my consolations are risottos and polentas and fabulous soups made with farro or fagioli... So I’m not complaining or anything.

BUT. I should eat ONE fricking pizza, ONE time this trip, shouldn't I? After all, it’s ITALY. And the time chosen for this famous one-time-only eating of the pizza was determined to be Tuesday. After much discussion with everyone we know or have met here in Narni, plus a few consultations with friendly Italian strangers, it was determined that we should go to Pizzeria Chiodo Fisso in nearby Terni. Chiodo Fisso: it translates as ‘spike in the forehead’ and is slang for ‘obsession’. And oh, honey, baby, dear...

I ordered a salsiccia & funghi porcini, sausuage and porcini mushroom pizza. The crust was thin but not cracker thin, baked in a wood oven and NOT soggy in the middle, not even by the final slice. With a taste balanced nicely between the wheat and the yeast. The tomato sauce was neither too acidic nor to salty nor to sweet nor too cooked into paste. The mozzarella bound everything together nicely, not too much of it, either. The sausage was mild, like the best breakfast sausage you can imagine, the porcinis were, well, this is porcini country here in Umbria and they don’t mess around.

Burp.

George ordered mezzo peperoni, mezzo salami picante. Peperoni in Italian means sweet bell peppers. His pizza came with one side filled with beautiful grilled fresh peppers and the other side with, er, perperoni as we know it in the states. Plus he asked for mozzarella bufalo on his. He refused to share.

I have eaten good pizzas in Italy. I have eaten a few great pizzas in Italy. But, for the first time in my life, I have eaten the Platonic Ideal of Pizza and it is a chiodo fisso, a spike in my forehead. Despite waking up with my shoulders, elbows, hand joints and knees inFLAMed and throbbing with arthritis, I shall return to Pizzeria Chiodo Fisso in Terni one more time before we leave Narni

Naturally, I’m already planning for my second pizza. I’m inclined to get a Pizza Margherita con mozzarella bufalo, just simple and perfect, you know? Although I may get a Pizza Rucola, with arugula on top, and a perfect blend of pizza and salad, easily obtainable here in Italy although hard to come by in the states. Or I’m open to suggestions, so let me know if you have any (Domino Pizza habitues need not apply.)

Okay, the ghost doors...

They also call them porte dei morte, doors of the dead. They’re all over the place here in Narni, where there are buildings six, seven, eight, more hundred years old. Old doors and windows that, long ago, were walled up during some long-forgotten project for some long-forgotten reason. Some of them are remarkably beautiful and strange because over the centuries, as remodel followed restoration followed remodel, the outline of the original door may have been subsequently closed, partially reopened and then partially reclosed several times. So that an ancient stone archway may abruptly disappear into a current window, or there may be the outline of a door inside of the outline of a 2nd story window which is intersected by the yet another forgotten previous door or window and inset with a current window.

Yesterday, we drove up to Gubbio, north of Perugia for the day. The guide book says that Gubbio is especially famous for its porte dei morte, many of which are at ground level. The guide book says that the Gubbionese explanation for these walled up holes is that when someone died, a hole would be knocked in the wall through which to carry out the corpse, and since it was a corpse that used the doorway, it would then have be walled up because otherwise BAD LUCK! . But c’mon, as much as I love you, no matter how superstitious I am, which is VERY, I am not knocking a hole in the wall of my HOME if you happen to die there. And the book agrees with me. They say it’s a romantic story, but more likely, these doors were at the foot of staircases which were walled up to defend the home in time of war.

However.

I choose to believe my friend Jadrana, who says that Ghost Doors just ARE. The complicated walled up doors/windows are part of the ORIGINAL construction of medieval and older Italian buildings, so that the dead (as in ghosts) could have their own entrances and exits. The recently deceased would certainly need portals to the next world. The soon-to-be-born likewise would need passages for their souls to enter this world. And other ghosts could potentially become lost or get stuck or who-knows-what – maybe some ghosts are just like some people and enjoy traveling and seeing the sights.

Before leaving for Gubbio, I studied my two Umbrian guide books PLUS the Italian language guide to Slow Food restaurants. Put some check marks by the sights worth seeing, chose three lunch spots to cruise, read the menus and smell the aromas of before deciding upon where to eat. Of course, in fine fashion, after all that work, I forgot to bring the books. So when we got to Gubbio, we had no itinerary and more importantly NO IDEA WHERE TO HAVE LUNCH!!!!!

Driving into Gubbio, it’s easy enough to figure out what to see first. There is a fantastic Roman Amphitheatre build in the 1st century bc, just outside the walls to the old city. It’s been restored and every summer there is a schedule of performances. The day was beautiful clear-blue and sunny. The green green grass and the ancient stones of il Teatro Romano were calling. It was all there to behold – the stage, the orchestra, the seats, the backstage areas, dressing rooms, workshops, etc. I picked up a pebble, which I’m certain was trod upon by a famous and beautiful Roman actress in 69 bc during a fight she was in the midst of having with her very angry Roman producer/husband about the affair she was engaged in with her very handsome and younger Roman leading man.

It goes something like this:

ADULTERY IN THIS AMPHITHEATRE OF GUBBIO
(a short play)

by Mara Lathrop

(Setting: The stage of the Amphitheatre in Gubbio)

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
It is true. When Victoriosus Maturicus first came as an actor to this amphitheatre of Gubbio, he meant nothing to me. But Victoriosus Maturicus is young, he is handsome, and something in me stirs! Something deep, something which cannot be denied!

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
I have given unto you this amphitheatre of Gubbio. What can Victoriosus Maturicus provide for you except smoldering glances and good hair? For the love of Jupiter – he is an actor!

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
You know nothing of love!

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
I know that I am your husband and either you will give up Victoriosus Maturicus ...

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
I cannot!

BRODERICK CRAWFORDICUM
...or you will give up this amphitheatre of Gubbio!

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
I will not!

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
(BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM grabs BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS by the shoulders and shakes her, throws her to the ground.)

BETTE DAVISIS
(With all the dignity she can muster, BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS stands up and brushes herself off.) I must now prepare for tongihts night’s performance here in this amphitheatre of Gubbio.

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
Annus Baxtera, the young and beautiful local girl, knows all your lines and will perform in this amphitheatre of Gubbio in your place!

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
Annus Baxtera, that little vixen?

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
This amphitheatre in Gubbio is mine, do you hear? Your gilded sandals shall never again trod upon the stage of this amphitheatre of Gubbio!

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
This amphitheatre of Gubbio was nothing but a backwater for second rate touring companies until *I* brought to it my grace, my artistry, and without me, this amphitheatre of Gubbio will return to ignanimity once more!

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
Backwater? You were performing in a 50-seat amphitheatre on the banks of that sewer, the Tiber River, when I plucked you from the chorus. I brought you to this amphitheatre of Gubbio. I made you a star! And I will unmake you, too!

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
(she strikes BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM across the cheek.)

BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM
Go then go, to your Victoriosus Maturicus. The two of you are doomed to whacking each other over the head with giant phalluses for the vulgar country folk on market days in Bastardo! (BRODERICUS CRAWFORDIUM exits.)

BETTESSIMA DAVISIUS
(She picks up a small rock at her feet and holds it up to the heavens) I swear by all the muses, by the gods themselves, by the very stones upon the stage, this amphitheatre of Gubbio will be mine! All mine!

THE END

And now, without further ado...

The Gubbio Food Report

Since we’d forgotten to bring the books, we were at the mercies of the guy at the tourist office and a 10 year old boy on the street for restaurant recommendations. The guy in the tourist office said he was not able to recommend anything and gave us a brochure with a list of all the restaurants in Gubbio. He said everything was excellent. Uh-huh. At the first cross street we came to, we saw the right type of sign and the right type of old fashioned lantern for a decent trattoria meal. We walked over to peruse the menu – short and sweet. A half dozen antipasti, a handful of primi, secondi, plus a short list of specialties of the house, some vegetables and desserts. A boy of about ten years walked by and told us in Italian that it was a really good restaurant. He was a cutie pie.

La Lanterna was okay, although I don’t think we ordered well. The mezzo of house red wine was a little sour, but a drop of water fixed that. George and I split a starter of what should have been zuppe di contadini e fagioli, which should have been vegie and bean soup but turned out to be barley and bean. A little olive oil and a sprinkle of peperoncini sparked it up and we liked it well enough. Nothing I couldn’t have managed as well or better at home. George had lombo di miale, one of their specialties – it was a small slice of fresh pork leg, sauteed and covered with a balsamic vinegar sauce and some fresh arugula. I liked it, but George thought that is was too teenytiny and kind of like novelle cuisine. I didn’t think it was quite that microscopic, at least it was more than enough if we were each eating three courses, but we weren’t. At least the flavors were gutzy. And all the white plate looked very pretty around it. I had a scallopini of veal with porcini mushrooms. The sauce was a titch sour – like they’d used some bad wine when reducing the sauce. Nothing awful, but gee, I guess I’m getting as crabby as Giorgio about eating anything less than utterly fantastic meals in Italy. Followed by an insalata mista. Just fine, although not nearly as good as one of Franco’s. On the way out the door, the cute little boy who told us that it was a good restaurant in the first place was doing his homework at the bar with the television on. Duh. And then, upon checking in the books later, turns out we should have eaten at practically every other restaurant, osteria and trattoria in Gubbio.

But how bad can a sunny day be, when il pranzo (lunch) is followed by a leisurly stroll... The old streets–twisty and beautiful. A walk past the Teatro Communale, the theatre that was built in the early 1700's and still serves the town today. Quite a bit of walking up. Hey, it’s a hill town... The reward was the view over the countryside to the west from Piazza Grande in front of the Palazzo dei Consoli. Gubbio is built in terraces up the side of a very steep hill/cliff and so the open spaces seem incredibly open on the downhill side. Plus, there’s a small river that runs through Gubbio. And check this out – they PAVED it, the river. The riverbed is squared and paved in stone the old town. Plus there’s a beautiful giardino commissioned some lady or duchess in the 1830's. Plus we made it into Chiesa S. Martino, which was recently restored, with the new (17th century?) Facade removed from midway up, with the 12th/13th century original exterior showing above it. A really beautiful and satisfying solution to the problem of restoring a church in Italy. Plus twisty medieval streets. Did I already mention those? Of course, we never got to all the historic buildings and the important museum. But hey, if you want a real travelogue, get a book and don’t leave it on the dining room table.

The drive back to Narni was on a country road that followed the crest of a chain of hills south to Perugia. So THAT’s what I want to go back for, even more than for another walk through beautiful Gubbio or a meal in one of their famously delicious restaurants. It is to drive north on and enjoy that country road, (which I can’t remember the name/number of) but it has views and vistas and vast visual variety in all directions. It was late afternoon as we drove, and the light turned from white to gold to pink and orange, red and then to indigo as the sun set. All those overly dramatic, embarrassingly romantic, 18th and 19th century English paintings of the Italian countryside? It’s all true!!!! They got the light just SO RIGHT!!!!!!

Dinner at casa Via della Moon Street: It was dark and we were tired by the time we got home, so we kept it simple, just boiled up some:

Pasta di farro and tossed it with fresh tomatoes chopped up and briefly sauteed with ½ an onion, some garlic, and a spot of red wine and I diced up a fresh mozzarella bufalo and threw that in, too.

A bunch of lightly steamed wild asparagras, drizzled with fruity, green Umbrian olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a sprinkle of grated pecorino Yes, I see you turning as green as our wild asparagras.

For dessert, a piece of chocolate.

Burp

love,
mara

A Perfect Day (ptt, ptt, ptt)

2006-03-12T04:49:00.002-08:00

Dearest,

A perfect day is made even more so when compared to the horrible, very bad day preceding the perfect day...

...which wasn’t so shabby, either, by the way. Just a few little knockabout trials and tribulations. And in Assisi, no less!

So it turns out that my very least favorite part of having a car in Italy isn’t the driving (which is bad enough). It’s the parking. Especially in a new place where I’ve never been before. We arrived in Assisi on Thursday morning and, as par for my course, I ended up parking in a public parking lot waaaaaaaaay off to the east end of the old city. As far away from the Basilica of St. Francis as you could be and still actually be in Assisi.

But we made it through road construction, a sewer improvement site and several building restoration projects to the central piazza, picked up a few brochures at the information office, got oriented and headed west. By now, it was LUNCHTIME! And every place we passed was closed for vacation – March being one of the few slow times in the Assisi pilgrim/tourist year. After some lefting and righting, and a lot of walking up (Assisi, like Genoa, is a place that even when you’re walking downhill, you seem to be walking up – miracle or nuisance, you decide) we arrived at a very fine IL PRANZO at the only open ristorante we saw, consisting of:

Tagliatelli Delizioso – their name, not mine, and the sauce was very delicious, with cream, finely ground pork, and many other fine secrets

Truffle Omelette – perfectly cooked, the eggs just barely done and the truffles still uncooked inside

and contorni:
Onions Glazed with Balsamic Vinegar
Grilled Radicchio
Sauteed Asparagras, as thin as coctail straws

our (inevitable) mezzo litro of red wine

café

(burp)

Thus fortified, a walk through the Basilica – but how to take in such a place? For a bunch of poor monks who didn’t believe in ownership, wow! There’s the upper church and the lower church and the cloister and the crypt. Also the room of relics – a patchwork robe of rough woven brown cloth worn by Frank, himself. A little piece of paper with his signature. We thought the frescos in the lower church far surpassed the more well-known frescoes in the upper church. In Italy, everybody is an art expert.

In all, we shlepped through 5 or 6 churches in Assisi: San Rufino, the Basillica of St. Francis, the Basillica of St. Clare, la Chiesa Nuova (the New Church) and then we lost count, so let's just call it Church Thursday. (the toilette of S Francesco)

Along the way, we passed by a pastry and gelato shop. Naturalemente, a brief stop for enhanced nourishment was required.

‘So okay,’ I hear you wondering, ‘where are all these trials and tribulations that supposedly preface your perfect Friday?’ I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it...

(3rd row, 2nd from left)

Departed Assisi at dusk in a deluge-like downpour of very wet rainstorm, heading for the highway. Got on the wrong road. Ended up heading north to Perugia, instead of south to Narni. On a way-small, teeny-tiny country road with 2 inches of standing water on it, thanks to the pouring rain. Decided we’d stay overnight in Perugia and see some of the Perugia sights on Friday if they hadn’t all washed away. Got lost AGAIN and couldn’t FIND Perugia, which as you probably know, is a major Italian city. Now headed on our third or fourth wrong road within an hour, this one was limited access, so we seemed doomed to arrive eventually in Ancona, 150 clicks away. Saw a sign for Assisi. Got off highway. Decided we could find a place to stay somewhere near Assisi. Decided to find a ‘charming place’. In the dark. In the rain. Saw sign for a ‘Country House’. Followed sign down dark and twisty, slick and rainy country road. Road stopped being paved. Drove over washboard gravel road all the way to ‘Country House’ which was dark and closed. Drove back to highway. Repeated twice more at additional signs to ‘Country Houses’. Drove back to EXACT SAME 1st PARKING LOT in Assisi. Walked into center of town. Stopped at first hotel with lights on.

Dinner was at a nearby osteria – the food was barely so-so. George, who was the soul of patience, encouragement and support during the Terrible Drive while I wailed and hit my head repeatedly on the steering wheel crying, ‘it’s all my fault, why am I so stupid?’, was extremely grumpy about eating a bad meal in Italy and blamed me for allowing him to pick the restaurant.

But – and this is the turning point in my story – from the minute we got back in our hotel room, things were great! The Hotel dei Priori was in it’s first incarnation, a 16th century palazzo. They gave us a really beautiful room with a frescoed ceiling (and you know what HAS to happen in a beautiful hotel room with a frescoed ceiling, don’t you?) Plus, we had a 6 foot long bathtub. The price of as much hot water as I wanted was included, as was a very decent breakfast the next morning. Plus wi-fi. Not to mention that after quoting us the 50% off winter rate, I had the presence of mind to as for ‘un piccolo sconto, per favore.’ So they knocked another 10% off the room. Only twice as much as our budget usually demands. Sometimes, it’s good to be fedup,
soggy and in need of the first hotel you come to, n’est pas?
(the view from underneath)

In the daylight of a Friday morning, it’s very easy to find Perugia.

We had decided to make a modest day of it. To see only one sight, eat only one meal and get an early start on heading back to Narni.

We picked the Provincial Museum of Archeology, which is housed in a former cloister of a church. We drove into town. Found a FREE PARKING SPOT near the train station. Went to the Avis office at the train station. The guy gave us perfect directions and a hand drawn map to find the museum. Followed his directions EXACTLY (sort of) and found the museum! Found STREET PARKING (although we did have to pay this time). The museum was thrilling. All pre-Roman stuff found pretty much within a 20 mile radius of Perugia. Including a bronze chariot, hundreds of cineary urns, and a fantastic collection of amulets and lucky charms.

Took a break for lunch. And wandered into the nearby Ristorante Nana. Is there anything in this world that compares with stumbling through an unfamiliar door to a truly wonderful meal? And so, my very dearest, this is where hanging tough through this particular blog entry finally pays off for you. With photos.

We decided to eat an entire meal – way too much food. So we did our famous split everything thing. Mezzo e mezzo, as it were.

Antipasto Misto
*chicken liver pate with cognac
*salad of farro and black truffles (don’t worry, I had a lovely conversation with la donna di ristorante and she gave me the ricette for this one, so I’ll make it for you)
*apple slices
*tart shells filled with soft cheese mixed with garlic and artichokes, black olives
*a pudding of eggs, cheese and polenta

Primo
Zuppa di cece (garbanzo beans and onions with a drizzle of very fruity local olive oil on top)

Secondo
Bollito Miso (boiled meats – in this case, beef shoulder, pork, and veal meatloaf, served with three sauces: marmelade with mustard, olive oil with fennel seeds, and onions carmelized in balsamic vinegar)

Potato Torta (a wedge of potato & cheese pie)

Vino
mezzo rosso (the house wine was from a local winery and the best house wine we’ve eve had in Italy)

Dolce
we asked the owner, who by this time was enjoying us enjoying his food to bring us whatever he thought was best. Sorry, I forgot to take a photo. It was:

A homemade napoleon drizzled with chocolate.

George had a glass of whiskey and
I had a shot of bourbon

Café.

(burp)

Oh yeah, and then we went back to the museum where we saw a reconstructed Etruscan family tomb. And then, despite our earlier decision to stick with only one sight, we went to investigate what kind of church could possibly be under a nearby rocket-looking campanile (it turned out to be the stunning San Pietro, a floozy-doozy of a church, as tricked out and tarted up as La Scala. There are interesting historical reasons why S. Pietro is so decorated and guilded, but none of them have to do with food. We were given a private tour by Giovanni, the guy with the keys to the sacristy and the crypt), and then we got out of Perugia just as it was getting dark.

We rested in our little casa on Via della Moon Street all day Saturday. We needed our strength for a dinner party Saturday night at Jadrana & Franco’s house, where we met Grazia,Giorgio, Daniella and Claudio. The company was wonderful, the conversation pretty much all in Italian, although George managed to end up in a corner by the window with the very beautiful Grazia after dinner for a smoke and a long talk. (how does he always do that? never mind...)Dinner was delicious, of course.

(Daniella, George & Jadrana)

Antipasti of salumi, bruschetti, olives marinated with orange and peperoncini

Zuppa di Farro, which I promise to make for you when I see you.

Coratella, a stew of lamb innards, an Umbrian specialty and rich and exquisite

Insalata di Franco *(see earlier tribute to the salads of Franco)

Cream puffs for dessert.

Café

Grappa

(burp)

Ciao bellisimi,
la tua Mara

Rain and wind, followed by more eating...

2006-03-08T06:19:00.000-08:00

Dearest,

You’re waiting for the Cuisine Report, aren’t you? First you have to hear the Spoletto report. Spoletto is a beautiful! Ancient! With a really fantastic roman bridge! And a beautiful cathedral that opens onto a huge, sloping piazza. And beautiful narrow medieval streets. Almost everything else in town was covered by scaffolding. And we ate lunch there.

Friday il pranzo in Spoletto at Ristirante al Mercato:

Lentil Soup (George)
Mushroom Soup (Mara)
Roast pigeon in red wine sauce
Chicoria e brocoletti
Torta di Spoletto
mezzo vino rosso

George’s lentil soup was made with the local, fantastic teenytiny lentils. Mara’s mushroom soup was made with fresh porcini and forest mushrooms, sweated with garlic and olive oil, with a rich chicken stock added, then pecorino and croutons. Pretty perfect. Roast pigeon – all gone including most of the bones. The torta was a mocha custard baked with chocolate and amoretti on top.

Saturday for la cena, we had guests!

Dinner was

Salumi di Norcia
Lima Beans baked in Vegetable Sauce
Braised Beef
Grilled Baby Artichokes
Insalata of Fennel, Pears and Walnuts
Chocolate Torta

Our guests were Jadrana and Franco, Stephanie and Guilio, their daughter Bernice and their American friend Patricia. Patricia has lived in Italy for 35 years and has (so far) had two Italian husbands, so I don’t know why they call her American still. An object lesson for living here, I suppose. She made the chocolate torta, which was her French sister-in-law’s recipe. Chocolate, butter, sugar, eggs and a sprinkle of flour. The leftover called and called us until there was nothing left.

The house here on Via della Moon Street is small, so once everyone had put their coats in the bedroom, we all sat down at the dining table. Three hours later, we kissed everyone goodbye on both cheeks. In between, we ate, talked in English, Italiano, Francomarese, with a smattering of French and Yiddish. About what? Art, food, mathematics, and a little of everything. At a certain moment, I looked around my Italian table and wished and wished only that you had been here, too.

Sunday, despite wind, rain, a little snow, with occasional sunbeams breaking through the gray, rolling clouds, George, Jadrana, Franco and I went on a day-long outing into il cuore verdi di italia, the green heart of Italy.
First stop was Monte Castello di Vibio, where there is the Teatro della Concordia, a 99 seat theatre built in 1808. We got the grand tour and made reservations to return the end of March for a concert of le 4 stagioni di Vivaldi. (c’mon, you can translate that; it’s easy.) The theatre was in continuous use until 1951. In the 60's there was talk of tearing it down, but the townspeople of Monte Castello di Vibio raised money and imposed a tax (!) on themselves to restore the theatre. Eventually, they got money from the European Union, and now, beautifully restored, with the original frescos and oak pillars intact, Concordia presents plays, concerts, readings, etc. Can you imagine a better place for Franco and Jadrana to take me?

And after Monte Castello di Vibio, we stopped at the parc in Deruta and ate a picnic lunch of Fritatta di Carciofi, porcetta, pane, orancie e bierra in the car – rain shower. Ask me to make you Franco’s fritta di carciofi sometime. .After lunch, we drove to Montefalco to the Museo di Chiesa di San Francesco. Ask to borrow the book when you see me and you won’t be sorry. But you better give it back. Plus wandering around Montefalco, another unspeakably beautiful Umbrian hill town – the vistas down the alleyways and out past the city walls to the hills and valleys beyond. No wonder I’m not a travel writer – there is really nothing that can be said about how the interplay of light, stone walls, nature and my heart make me so happy to be alive in this world. And it is a different world, here. Where the past is not so dead as you might think and time and light play the nicest of tricks.

Plus! PLUS – George bought some bottles of Montefalco Rosso.

Followed by a day of rest, with a huge windstorm outside, a freshly made pot of American coffee, bread, cheese and our endless supply of Norcia salumi... plus the Montefalco Rosso.

Yesterday, Tuesday, we were shunted onto a detour road on a sweet country drive our way to Orvieto. The road never connected with the closed road -- or at least I never figured out how. When the road finally ended in a small mountain village, we turned around, drove allo the way back to Narni, and took the autostrada to Orvieto. We were there and parked within 27 minutes. So much for the back roads.

Our goal: the duomo. And lunch, naturalemente: At a small restaurant in the vaulted basement of a medieval building. With the walls painted a beautiful soft yellow and with good art on the walls. Except for a German threesome on the other side of the dining room, we had the place to ourselves. Just us and a kindly waitress who was willing to talk slowly and help us pick a very fine meal:

Pasta with fava beans and pork cheek
Roasted pork shank with roasted potatos and brocollini
Creme caramel
Cafe
Vin Santo

And no offence, Mom, but this Creme caramel gives yours a real run for it's money. For those of you who don't know, my mother makes probably the best creme caramel in .. I used to say the world, but now I have to say in North America. We're going back to Orvieto next week to go to the Etruscan Museum (after the duomo, we felt that we'd taken in all the beauty we could stand for one day). I will do my best to get the recipe or at least a few hints.

ci vidiamo presto,
mara

All You Care About Is The Food?

2006-02-27T10:53:00.000-08:00

Dearest,

Based on the fan mail, mostly all youze guyz care about is what we ate yesterday? So be it:

Sunday, Feb 26

IL PRANZO (lunch) at Franco & Jadrana's house:

Risotto con carcioffi (artichokes) --creamy, perfectly cooked. Is anything better in this world than risotto homemade in an Italian kitchen by an Italian cook?

Whole fish roasted in coarse salt -- Franco and Jadrana had eaten a branzino cooked thusly at friends' house in Trieste for New Years and this was the first time Franco had attempted it in his own kitchen. YAY FRANCO!!! YAY friends in Trieste for cooking it in the first placed!!! I promise to make this for you (yes! YOU) sometimes.

Insalata Mista--which is a mixed salad, but what passes for salad in the states, even a really good salad, is niente (nothing) compared to the beautiful and dear little lettuces here.

LA CENA (dinner) a Casa Via della Luna (our house on Moon Street)

George ate:
leftover bollito -- short rib of beef boiled with aromatic vegies
pane di Terni

I ate:
1/2 a mozzarella bufallo and a (ripe!) tomato from Sicily
Not even any olive oil or salt.
Perfection.

Okay? Can I get on with my story now?

In between meals, Franco took us to Cascata di Marmore -- a beautiful waterfall. They wanted 4 euros per person to go into the park at the bottom of the waterfall for the primo view. Instead, we parked on the shoulder of the highway and took some photos -- view was pretty damned fine senza the 4 euros, eh?

Afterwards we drove up a twisty road, past the studio where Benini makes his films, up to the top of the falls, where they wanted ANOTHER 4 euros a person to go to the good vantage point. Ay yi yi.

In an attempt to avoid the fee, Franco and Jadrana shut up and George and I spoke only English to them. Not so much as a 'buongiorno'. No go. One of the three women guarding the gate spoke excellent English. Someone would have to pay 4 euros if I wanted to walk around the corner to take a photo of the falls. This according to the tough old bird who seemed to be calling the shots in Italian.

Ciao, scoma vecchia (a really bad thing to say). Which I wish I'd said as we were leaving, but didn't.

Anyway, preferiamo gelato. We prefer gelato. Not to mention that I can easily download photos of the falls off the internet, for your viewing pleasure. So. We headed into Terni, where it was the final Sunday of Carnivale. The streets and piazzas were loaded with kids in costumes and it was a fine, only partly cloudy afternoon.

Gelato eaten, Franco, Jadrana, George and I went to a wonderful chamber music concert. Beethoven, Mozart, Faure and an encore of Mendelsohn for piano, violin and cello. The cellist, in particular was incredible. Listening to the music and watching the cellist was a lesson for me in what it really means to listen.

And now, ahem, onto the other stuff.

I have had two complaints about the blog recently.

The first from my friend Martino, really angry with me for pretending to be an 'expert' on Italy. I am not an expert on Italy. I am not an expert on anything. Well, I like to think I know a thing or three about playwriting, making love, and cooking. But, it's just me in here, people. My opinions-- while usually stated emphatically and with apparent confidence -- are limited, biased and faulty. Hell, I don't even spell very well. Anyway, I AM NOT PRETENDING! This really is my blog and I am an insufferable asshole on occasion.

So when you read the crap I write here, like "the salumi in Norcia is the best in Italy" it's only because I either read it in some guide book *Rough Guide on Tuscany & Umbria in this case*. Or I'm being overly emphatic / dramatic to make a point. And the salumi in Norcia is REALLY REALLY GOOD.

Martino is a dear love of a friend . He and Chiara have made so much possible for George and me here in Italy. The times that we have spent with them in Puglia have been some of the best times we've had on this or any continent.

The second complaint is from my friend Hatto in Athens. Whereas Martino's complaint was a rather characteristic yadayada yellathon over the telephone (it's so good to have Jewish friends who are happy to yell at/with/to me), Hatto's complaint (also characteristic, in my opinion) was a well reasoned and documented bitchfiesta via email.

Hatto points out to me that on my blog I tell less than the complete truth, the full story, and in publishing a blog that has no external editorial oversight, by making private thoughts public for anyone with internet access to read, my capacity for hurting people is without limits. Further, that the problem is larger than just my blog, but is a blog-wide issue, this private thoughts in public space issue, that must be addressed in the larger context of the world wide web.

I agree completely with Hatto: everything he says is true.

We all get to be faymoose these days, don't we? Or at least pubic, er, public. To me, anyone claiming 'the truth' is dangerous or misguided or has their head completely up their ass. Just like I claim proudly to be an UNEXPERT, I also happily hereby proclaim that I'm totally responsible for all the putrid mistakes herein, the half-truths to improve the retelling of a story, the omissions so that I can get more directly to my point, the less-than-generous point of view. All me. My bad.

You are hereby advised: far from being the 'star', I am the villain of this story. If I say something that aggrandizes myself and diminishes someone else, it's only because I'm going for a cheap laugh or my innate cowardice has gotten the better of me or I'm a complete and irredeemable bitch. I'm not saying this for the sympathy vote (although supportive emails taking exception and telling me how good I am and how much you love me are always appreciated, naturalemente.)

So why do the blog thing? It entertains me. You are free to disagree if it doesn't entertain you. Also, this is how I keep in touch with friends -- much cheaper and more efficient than writing postcards, more fulsome--aren't you glad to hear about my adventures, even if today you are suffering through all this fucking navel gazing? My goal? To get you to send me an email saying hi or to post some comment on the blog for me to find. Because I get lonely.

If you are looking for something more grand or important or 'real' from me you must immediately cease and desist - I just can't take that kind of pressure.

As for the personal examples of the problems with blogs that Hatto shared with me, I hereby state that while Hatto drives in a way that makes complete sense on the highways of Greece, and despite the fact that sitting in the front seat while he's driving is an overly-exhillarating experience, Hatto is the most generous of friends.

Hatto, his wife Anna, and their friends and family have all treated us with so much welcome, going far out of their way to include us in their Easter and other occasions when we've been in Greece. They have allowed us the great privilege of sharing their lives during our visiits. I truly hope that someday I'll have the opportunity to be as gracious and giving to Hatto as he's always been to George and me. It is an unconscionable failure on my part not to have mentioned this previously.

Of course, those of you who know me know that I'm not the best guest in the world, leaving the toilet seat in the incorrect position when I'm done in the bathroom, leaving my shoes on when I should remove them and taking them off when you wish I would leave them on.

Basta! (Enough!)

Here's the deal:

--my humor is sometimes offensive to all people
--my humor is always offensive to some people
--*I* think I'm funny, and so does my mom
--I'm not the world's most careful observer
--I leave A LOT out, often on purpose
--I wouldn't hurt a fly, unless it makes for a really good story (just kidding! see above comments on humor)

Please don't read my blog if you don't want to. And if you want to and you do and I subsequently annoy, offend, hurt or displease you, please drop me a line --vitriolic or civil -- or call and talk to or yell at me -- take your pick. It's all good and life is short.

love,

mara

NARNI

2006-02-24T11:45:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's been six, no, eight, no... almost nine months since I wrote. A whole lot has happened, of course.

But let's just skip that part for now. Maybe later. If you behave yourselves.

Here we are in Narni, about as far south as you can be in Umbria and still be in Umbria. A rather famously beautiful Umbrian hill town. Photo attached, now that I know how to attach photos.

Our friends Jadrana and Franco from Sucuraj in Croatia found us our little house in Narni. This is where they live when they're not in Sucuraj.

And please don't yank my chain about the Narni/Naria thing, okay? Narni originally WAS named Narnia, way back in the long, long ago. And in recent months, Narni made it onto the tourist trail, at least for Americans because of the release of the blockbuster movie. According to our friends here, all the business owners in Narni were ecstatic. At the time, I explained that in true American mass culture fashion, the stream of new visitors would peter out in no time, but how to explain a beautiful Italian hill town that has survived for two and a half millenium getting 3 of its fifteen minutes of 'fame'?

By the time we got here just before Valentine's Day (did I mention that St. Valentine was BORN in Narni and is its patron saint?) the weird Americans looking for lions, witches and wardrobes were all gone and things were back to their quiet mid-winter normalcy.

So. Our house in Narni. It was constructed in the 14th or 15th century, has been remodeled within living memory, although the 1970's bathroom is ... well, let's just say that Italian bathrooms of that era were the lowpoint in Italian design history. Otherwise, it's a sweet little place, with a view over the tile roofs and across the Nera river valley to the cliffs on the other side.

The house is way up at the top of the town, just below the fort. It's 200 stairs (that's gradini in Italian) from our house at Via de la Luna, 18 (18 Moon Street) down to the Piazza Girabaldi, where we can buy something for dinner, have a coffee, beg the lady at the newspaper stand to order one copy per day of the Herald Tribune for the 17th time, go to the yarn and fabric store, catch the bus to Narni Scalo (the lower town with more shops and the train station) and otherwise hang out. Of course, it's 200 gradini back up to our house on Moon Street.

Don't think of Narni as a town. Think of it as my charming, Umbrian stairmaster. I've never had an entire town dedicated to the firmness and tautness of my ass before, and frankly, I kind of like it. You'll have to see for yourself.

So far, we've made a day trip into Rome, visited the nearby towns of Amelia and Terni, driven by rental car up to Sestri Levante to reclaim the stuff we left there last year and gotten ourselves more or less comfortable.

Yesterday, we made the first of many pilgramages that we plan to make from Narnia. This one was to the town of Norcia, about an hour on a zippy, windy road through a river gorge to the east. Norcia, as you probably don't know, was the birthplace of St. Benedict, who you probably DO know was the founder of monastacism.

Of course, we didn't go on the Norcia pilgramage on account of St. Benedict. Norcia is also famous as the place where probably the best salumi in all of Italy comes from. If you can make it out of a pig, they do it best in Norcia. If you've got to eat traife (non-Kosher food) Norcia is your town.

Plus. The finest teeny tiny lentils grow nearby.

Plus. You're going to love this, and go ahead and start salivating: Norcia is where the primo truffles in all of Italy are dug up.

The old town center is a kind of squat affair, with thick city walls and squat buildings, nothing more than 2 stories high. Along with the sausages, the lentils, the truffles and Benedict, Norcia is also famous for having bigass earthquakes every several hundred years.

Enough with the tourist prose. The food shops!!!!!!!!!!!! Never have I seen such beautiful food shops. Not fancy like Peck's in Milano or the food halls at Harrod's. But just bountifious meats, truffles, bottles of vino, beautiful pastas and beans and everything else that you can think of, with every shop showcasing the taxidermied heads of wild boars.

We did our best to hit every shop in Norcia, buying the following, which we have to eat because we can't bring any meat products back to the states...

Little tiny picante sausages made with wild boar meat
A thin salami with biggish chunks of fat through it
Another think salami with lots of black pepper
A big fat salami called Grandpa's Sausage, very mild
A piece of Norcia prosciutto, which is drier, silkier and gutzier than the Parma variety
A 2 year old Norcia pecorino cheese
Some farro pasta
Truffle truffles (choco heaven)
And a couple of jars of mushroom sauce for pasta

All before eating lunch at Ristaurante Benito, a really nice place that was full of locals. And I swear to gawd, I have no idea how Italians can eat as much as they do for lunch plus all the wine, plus a shot or three of grappa after and go back to work at 4 in the afternoon.

So for lunch we had:

A platter of Norcia salumi
Fritattina di tortufo (truffle omelette)
Soup of artichokes, garbanzo beans, wild mushrooms in a really rich chicken broth
Roast suckling pig stuffed with truffles
Sauteed cabbage & baby mushrooms
Rosemary roasted potatos
A mezzo of vino rosso
Cafe

We couldn't manage dessert, but everyone around us was eating chestnut puree with chocolate and whipped cream.

Also everybody around us had fresh pasta with wild boar sauce for their primi, while all we had was zuppa.

We each ate a truffle truffle on the drive home.

Burp.

Today, Franco, George and I went to the local mercato, where the fresh fish van sells really good stuff every Friday. I bought something for dinner that looked kind of like halibut, but wasn't. Plus, they were selling baby artichokes from Puglia, 10 for 5 euros today.

The way I cook here in Italy is much more Italian than the way I cook in the states. I don't know why.

Here was dinner tonight:

whatever that fish was, marinated in good Umbrian olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and herbs then grilled on the cute little grill with legs in our fireplace

sauteed yellow potatoes (more of that incredible olive oil)

baby artichokes, steamed til barely done, brushed with yes, more olive oil, then grilled on the cute little grill with legs over the coals in the fireplace and drizzled with balsamico

for dessert, another truffle truffle.

I think we may have to drive back to Norcia to buy more truffle truffles at the candy store.

love,

mara

Rhymes With?

2005-06-13T14:04:00.000-07:00

Dearest Sweetheart,

So where EXACTLY is Sucuraj (pronounced soo-cher-ai). Well, it’s not quite halfway from Split to Dubrovnik on the coastal highway. You get as far as the town of Drvenik (yes, it seems to be missing at least one vowel, but it isn’t). Then you catch the ferry, which comes five times a day. A half hour later, you're there. Sucuraj – it’s on the island of Hvar (that vowel thing again). Two hundred and fifty citizens. It swells to maybe 2 or 3 times that size during July and August. There are several restaurants and bars, a gelateria, two small markets for food, a cantina where you can buy wine, raki and prosek, a bunch of small fish boats, a newspaper stand, a souvineer shop, the ferry terminal, beaches, and that’s it. And when I say that’s it, I mean THAT’S IT.

So, I hear you asking, what is there to DO all day in Sucuraj? It’s amazing how busy a person such as myself can be. Take today, Monday, June 13, 2005, for example:

I woke up at 7:30 and sat on the veranda drinking coffee, watching the water (important to check out the wave patterns, color of water, etc. to get an inkling as to how good a swimming day it will be in the afternoon). After 1/2 hour of studying the weather, one of the chickens next door made a gigantic fuss over the egg she had just laid. To hear her, you’d think it was the only egg that had ever been laid in the world. Or at least it was golden. Or at the very least, extremely huge. I think she was a Roumanian chicken because she went on about her amazing accomplishment much as I would and at a similar length.

Next, George and I walked to the center of town to watch the day-boat tourists disembark at 9 a.m. Very exciting.

Today was Sveti Ande Day (Saint Antonio of Padua Day) and Tony is the PATRON SAINT of Sucuraj, so this was a big, BIG day in Sucuraj. Everybody showed up at the little old St. Antonio Church (as opposed to the bigger, newer, everyday church on the other side of the harbor.) After which there was a procession in which they carried the Tony Statue all around town and everybody had a parade.

After the procession, we went to wait at Bistro Tony *named for Tony the owner, not Tony the patron saint*, where they were spit roasting a bunch of lambs in honor of Tony *the saint, not the bistro owner*. One beer later, I left to go tend to the rest of lunch and George kept waiting for the lamb. Eventually, we had a lunch of spit roasted baby lamb, new potatoes with fresh green beans – and when I say new and fresh, I mean they came out of the garden across the alley – a salad, same provenance as spuds and fagiolini, bread, black wine (which is really red wine but here they call it black wine), and a variation on tiramisu that I invited out of Croatian things: sour cream, fresh apricots, lady fingers, leftover American coffee from breakfast, a little sugar, and a grated chocolate bar.

Our neighbor Joshko came and ate lunch with us. The wine was his homemade – and in our completely unscientific samplings, we have determined that Joshko makes the best wine in Sucuraj.

After lunch, George went off to help a guy he knows work on an outboard motor and I went to the beach. The water was a little cold today, so I jumped in, jumped out, and then laid in the sun for quite a bit longer than is recommended by health officials.

Next was the fifth or sixth walk into town for the day, this time for the pre-dinner cocktail.

On the way home from the drink, we stopped at Jadrana and Franco’s apartment, where we met the sister-in-law and the friend of the sister-in-law, then went to the brother’s house for a glass of his homemade wine (white, but it was slightly pink, very dry and very alcoholic.) We think this guy just might just give Joshko a run for his money. But we need to retest at least several more times to be sure.

Then headed home for dinner, but Mladenka, our landlady was expecting us for a drink and a nibble in honor of Tony Day. Mladenka is an incredible baker, although she doesn’t speak any English. As usual, we ended up calling her son Vladan in Split and had him translate for us. This week, she’s going to make her kolache, cheese pie, and apple strudel and I get to watch and take notes.

Then about the time we were ready say our adieus, we heard a bunch of drunken men singing, so we all went to see where, who, and etc. It was the next alley over. Several men at the big pensione with the blue shutters, having a big dinner.

And now it’s completely dark outside, and we’ve decided to skip dinner.

You'll excuse me while I go outside to count the stars. Another important daily activity. Okay, nightly.

And NOW, it’s even later, and Jadrana and Franco were bya few minutes ago to eat the rest of the tiramisu thing I made for lunch and have a glass of prosek.

Important things to know about Sucuraj:

When you rent an apartment here, it’s very likely that you will be required to take lettuces, zucchinis, tomatoes, and whatever else is ripe from the landlady/lord’s garden as part of the rental agreement. Every day. Or you get in trouble.

If you want to know if the restaurant is REALLY serving fresh fish, ask them who caught the fish. If the answer is ‘we serve only the freshest fish from the local fishermen’ BEWARE, they’re going to sell you some frozen crap. If the answer is ‘I’ve got three that Stepjan caught this morning and 2 from Tomoso, it’s a safe bet to order the fish. If they use last names, ask to see the fish before you decide.

Everyone will invite you to drink some of their wine. Always say YES. Decide who makes the wines that are the most to your liking, and then invite these people to come eat dinner as often as they're willing. That way you will always have tasty homemade wine. Your guests will bring a plastic soda pop bottle full of wine. Plus a small bottle of their homemade hard stuff if they really like you.

We were supposed to stay here for three weeks, but when the people coming after us cancelled, we jumped at the chance to keep the apartment for one more week. Now we’re supposed to leave on Friday, but we’re staying another week, and if the Czechs who are supposed to get the apartment don’t show up, we’re sitting pretty. Otherwise, we’ll move three doors down to an apartment owned by our landlady’s nephew.

I can't post any photos to this blog, but if you now need to see a photo of the view from my veranda, I understand and sympathize. So email me and I'll send you a jpg.

So there it is: Sucuraj is something akin to heaven. On the downside, Sucuraj is in the general vicinity of near the end of the earth. So for pity’s sake, write me an email, will you? mara@awarenessworkshop.org – how hard can that be?

all my love,

mara

the arithmetic of travel

2005-05-15T23:06:00.000-07:00

Travel, travel, travel for the last three weeks. This is only the briefest accounting of our movements through the geography. Nothing so impressive as Hannibal or even the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. But we did have to plan ahead (well, sort of) and then execute that plan (I can hear you laughing at me, and I don't blame you.)

As for the actual experiences of the past three weeks, the people met, the meals eaten, the thoughts thunk, I'll have to write a book to explain the pleasures, the mysteries and the etceteras of it all. Much more than I can do with a blog entry on a Tuesday morning when the sun is shining and I only have a few hours left in Zagreb...

ZAGREB!!, you say-- how did you end up in Zagreb? Simple:

We left Sestri Levante on April 25 and went to see our friends in Puglia for several days (12 hour night train).

We took the overnight ferry to Patras in Greece (14 hour boat ride)

where we hooked up with our friends Hatto and Anna for Greek Easter (3 hour car ride / 20 minute water taxi ride)

and spent a glorious week on the beautiful island of Spetses (no transportation to report except for walking and one 10 minute ride in a horse-drawn buggy -- no cars allowed on Spetses!)

then took the hydrofoil to Athens (2.5 hours)

for 5 wonderful days in Athens -- an amazing place among so many amazing places!

then took the train to Thessaloniki in northern Greece (6 hour train ride)

for two days -- the greek and roman ruins there are incredible! Another amazing place among amazing places. (more walking, although they've got even worse traffic problems than Athens. I think it's best to stay out of cars in Greece whenever possible, but that's a longer story about the chills and thrills of riding in the front passenger seat --or as I've learned to call it, the death seat--when Hatto Fischer is driving a car.)

Then took the train to Zagreb (20 hour train ride)

which took us across four borders Greece into Macedonia, then Serbia, then Montenegro, and finally Croatia. A truly magnificent journey. The countryside so beautiful. Like there was never a war, like villages were never destroyed, women raped, fields burned, people killed. I spent the whole time with my nose pressed to the window for the magnificent vistas of mountains, hills, fields, wild flowers everywhere in every color of the rainbow, thinking about war, about the failures of us stupid humans, about how the earth abides despite the things we do to each other and to it. But there I go getting all descriptive and philisophical.

We spent my birthday yesterday in Zagreb. A beautiful, sophisticated, very European city, the old parts full of twisted streets, stone buildings, churches with amazing spires and domes, the newer parts laid out in the 19th century, wide boulevards, grand buildings and parks and gardens everywhere, all served by an elaborate tram system. Again, we've kept to our feet, mostly because of the supreme nature of the pleasure of walking in Zagreb.

My birthday present was to stay in a hotel with a BATHTUB!!! And ROOM SERVICE!!!! When the check in clerk learned it was my birthday (ahem, it always pays to speak up, don't you agree?) she upgraded us to a DELUXE room. So it was a BIG bathtub, a huge room with a nice sitting area and french doors that opened to a balcony with a view of the park and the fountain outside.

Today, we're splitting for er, ah, um ... Split (I have so always wanted to say that.) The train ride takes 9 hours, so we're taking a plane instead. That takes only (45 minutes)

Total travel time from Sestri to Zagreb, excluding sleeping, eating, sightseeing and generally goofing off: you do the math -- but no more long train rides, thank you very much, at least for a while.

We'll stay in Split for a night or two and then on to our beach apartment on Hvar Island.
Writing and the sunning of myself await. Time to go.

please write me,

love,

mara

The coldest winter in Liguria in 30 years

2005-04-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

...or so we've been told. In Italian: ciò è l'inverno più freddo durante trenta anni. Not that we minded all that much, except for when it came time to pay the gas bill. That was a shocker.

The meterologists here all have the theory that we brought the lousy weather with us from Seattle. Now that we're getting ready to move on, the weather is getting nicer by the day and the weather people expect that once we leave Liguria, things will get back to normal/gorgeous here on the Italian Riviera.

The last time I posted anything here was back in December, and now it's April. Aren't you glad I've been so busy living that I haven't had time to write? ME TOOO!

Michael, Daniel and Annemarie all showed up here to celebrate New Years. We did our usual Lathrop family thing of trying to do way to much in a day followed by indolence and some sloth. But we managed to get into Genova and tour the beautiful medieval parts of the city, to Florence for a couple of days, to Pisa, to Lucca, and a few other spots nearby in Liguria.

In mid-January, George and I snuck into Seattle for two weeks to see my mother and brought her back with us for a month.
In addition to losing five pounds while eating too much Italian food, she walked at least a mile or two every day, climbed the four flights of stairs to our apartment without complaint (and without much huffing and puffing by the end of her stay), and went home with two black eyes and a sprained nose.

A good souvineer for somebody's mother, don't you think? She tripped and fell on a curb in Chiavari (next town over) and landed on her nose. The nose bled and bled, the kind and excitable people of Chiavari ran and got a bag of ice for her from the bar across the street and phoned for an ambulance. The ambulance drivers strapped her to a backboard and rushed her to the local hospital where she was admitted to emergency. When the young (male) doctor arrived to look at her nose, my mother declared in a very loud voice, "Oh Mary, he's Soooooooo handsome."

"Shhhhh, Ma, he probably speaks a little English."

"Don't you think he's just GORgeous?" At which point said gorgeous doctor speedily ordered an xray of my mother's naso (nose) and am-scrayed (scrammed). An hour later when it was time to see the doctor again to hear if she had a broken naso or not, she was seen by a gray-haired (female) doc with steely gray eyes. "Where's the good looking one?" my mother asked me.

"Shhhhh, Ma, she probably speaks some English."

"Your nose is not broken," said the lady doc e finito, with me skulking out after my mother.

Within 48 hours, Mom had bloomed a coupla of big-ass shiners and looked exactly like Rocky Racoon.

Anyway, none of us had ever been to il ospidale in Italia before. And doing new things builds fortitude or something like that. When we were done with the gray-haired doc, I asked the admitting nurse in the emergency room to please call a cab for us, and then my mother insisted that I ask the nurse where we were supposed to pay.

"But there's no cashier here, and I haven't seen anybody pay anything. I think they bill you."

"Ask her, ask her!

"Don't worry about it, Ma," I told her, "they made copies of your passport, your social security card, your medicare card, and your blue cross card. If they want you to pay, they know how to find you."

"ASK HER!!!!!!!

"Scuzi, signora, dove campro?" (excuse me, ma'am, where I pay?--as you can see, my Italian is understandable, but far from grammatic.)

"Paghi direttamente il tassì." (You pay the taxi driver directly.)

In Italy, you don't pay for being treated in emergency rooms.

So, I hear you asking, what next?

Sestri Levante has been a wonderful place to live for a while. If you haven't seen any photos of this place yet, go to

www.hotelmira.com

Our apartment is on the top floor, two buildings to the right of the Hotel Mira. Right across the street from the beach. Get to watch the sunset in the west every damn night when it isn't totally cloudy. And the sunsets here, they write poems about the sunsets here. I cried over the sunset last Friday it was so beautiful and I was so deeply involved in it.

That said, alas, we are giving it up at the end of April. Sestri fills with italian sun worshippers for the summer and rent prices double for May and June and quintuple for July and August. And this beautiful sleepy town of 25,000 swells to a summer population of 130,000. Time to get out of Dodge, as they say.

We are going to Greece for a couple of weeks to spit roast a baby goat with some friends in their backyard on the island of Spetses and then move on to the island of Agina so that Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke and I can sit in her pistachio orchard and write something Chekovian with each other, and then we fly to Budapest for a few days and then take the train to the Dalmation coast in Croatia for a month. (Did you know that the fastest and cheapest way to get from Athens to Zagreb is by way of Budapest? ) George found us some 9 euro airplane tickets on the internet and the train from Budapest to Zagred is 20 euros. We'll be staying on the island of Hvar and travelling from there to other islands and Dubrovnik, then moving on to Istria for a while. Then back into Italy fora couple of weeks for the final, we're-going-to-stati-uniti-for-six-months-farewell tour. Then we return to the states for several months.

Daniel and Annemarie are getting marriedin Seattle over Labor Day weekend, and then SALTMINES seems to be getting a something done to it in NYC in October. Then we'll be renting a place for a while up in Pt. Townsend, on the Olympic Penisula in Washington state, if we can find something decent and not too pricey. , we'll be coming back to Italy for March, April and May next year,then again for Oct, Nov, & Dec. The new version of the Big Plan is to live 1/2 the year in Pt. Townsend and 1/2 in Italy.

Right now, I'm working on a new play, this one a meditation on the liberation of Dachau. Not a lot of yuks , I'm afraid. .As it is, I figure if any theatre ever decides to do this play, they stand an excellent chance of having their audiences run screaming away in droves. "Come with us now to the death, dispair and hopelessness in the world-without-meaning that was Dachau in May, 1945..."

If you've gotten this far, you are a true friend, and so TRUE FRIEND !!!THIS MEANS YOU!!!!, please write and send me news and GOSSIP!!!

My email is: mara@awarenessworkshop.org

ci vediamo presto, (see you soon)

mara

PS: in case you're wondering, l'italiano mio è meglio adesso (infine!!!). Ho captito buono, ma parlare è molto dificile. Tutti giorni, parlo l'italiano a tutto. E questa la primapoesia mia: Basta la pasta!

translation: My italian is better now (finally!!!) I understand well, but tospeak is very dificult. Every day, I speak italian to everybody. And here is my first poem: Enough pasta! (it rhymes in italian) : Basta la pasta!!!

Actually, I haven't lost or gained any weight in the last six months,although everything on me is solid muscle now. We walk everywhere or elsetake the train or a bus. No car. Living poor in Italy is, I think, the richest thing I've ever done. Do I sound happy here? I am happy here. And I have been very happy to be away from all that is brutal and ugly in American culture, politics and society. Not that there isn't plenty of same in Italy, but it's different here. For example, not much sarcasm here, but lots of irony. So it really is my kind ofcountry.

December, the Italian Riviera, No Complaints (well, not many...)

2004-12-14T03:33:00.000-08:00

Carissimo,

Sestri Levante è buonissimo, è bellisima. Non la protesta per mi. Domani, andiamo a Malpensana riprendere Michael. Sono filice pero' non scrivare. C'est la vie (oops, that's French.)

con amore,

mara

Dearest,

Sestri Levante is the best, the most beautiful. No complaints for me. Tomorrow, we go to Malpensa (airport near Milan) to retrieve Michael. I am happy, but not writing. That's life. (ay yi yi, c'est Francais.)

with love,

mara

p.s. I wrote the whole above note in my lousy Italian without looking up a single word in my dictionary--sono mi contento (I'm pleased with myself -- just had to look up 'contento', though).
L'italiano mio is coming along slowly. My grammar stinks, but fortunately, Italians seem to be tickled that I’m giving it a go.

I have tutto cioccolati a la casa mia. (Lots of delicious Italian chocolate in my house.) I’m trying to avoid eating it -- am trying to just let it be enough that I have it in the house (think of how a miser is with his money, although I have yet to lock the doors, close the shutters and take all the chocolate out of its hiding place to count it, but that would make a good short story, wouldn't it?)

It's eight o'clock in the morning, I'm sitting in the kitchen while behind me the Italian washing machine does it's odd little thing. But the clothes come out clean, and today will be sunny and warm so I get to hang my underwear and jeans out the window, rather than having them molder on the inside rack I use when it's raining. No dryers here, for the most part.

George bought me Italian underwear and I've been wearing it. It is endlessly easy to smile at everyone when I know that I've got beautiful and slightly nasty knickers on underneath my clothes. Although I’m slightly uneasy by the sight of it hanging on my clothes line. The guy in the store around the corner from the apartment propositioned me the other evening, but only, I think, because he liked the underwear on the clothes line and figured that I'd say no.

Genova by train a couple of days ago was a revelation. We spent the entire day walking the old alleyways of the citta antica. I could imagine myself as a student/scholar six or seven hundred years ago, walking on the same exact cobblestones on my way to a lecture. As it was, we took the 45 minute harbor tour by boat -- and the lecture was in Italian.

Yesterday, we took the local bus to Moneglia, a beautiful little town several coves away from Sestri Levante. The road to Moneglia is a paved-over ex-train tunnel, wide enough for a narrow-guage train, one way of course, several kilometers long. Twenty minute wait for the road to clear from the other side. The bus drivers to and fro seemed happy enough, but I was a little claustrophobic. The walls of the tunnel were less than a meter away from either side of the bus. Lunch at a taverna in Moneglia was so delicious, so full of garlic and sunshine that a return trip must happen soon.

ciao bella, see you the end of January in Seattle,

mara

Home to Seattle

2004-11-14T05:51:00.000-08:00

My father died on Sunday, November 7. George and I came back to Seattle to be with my family, and on Wednesday, November 10, we laid Dad to rest next to my Grandma and Grandpa.

I spoke about my father at his funeral, a wonderful privilege...

Abraham Fallick, March 29, 1919 - November 7, 2004

On behalf of Abe’s family, our family, thank you for sharing this day with us. After the burial, please join us at our family’s home, the house my parents built together, the place my father always jokingly called "Mrs. Fallick’s Residence."

Over the years I’ve written about my Dad many times. Bits and pieces of him and of my Mom appear in most of my plays. But today of all days, I think it most appropriate to allow my father to speak for himself one more time.

In 1998, Dad was interviewed by Susan Broome for a history she was writing about the Adirondack Trust Bank in Saratoga Springs. The following is from the transcript of that interview.

You know it’s amazing how what you see and what someone else sees is different even if you’re looking a tthe same thing. I found out if you want to be successful, you’re honest with your banker, you’re honest with your doctor, you’re honest with your lawyer and you’re honest with your Rabbi–you tell them. The way my father told me–we spoke only Yiddish in our home–you never tell a lie. Because if you tell a lie your head is only so big and you’re got to remember that lie. And then you have to remember another lie and another. Before long, your head is full of lies you have to remember and there’s no room for the truth, so you never tell a lie.

In Rumania there’s an old saying "it’s smarter to be lucky than lucky to be smart." I sit around in my club with all the old goats in the steam room. You talk any Yiddish? The word "zindick" means–it’s hard to translate–you’re remorseful, you’re not happy, you’re zindick–"If I’d known then what I know now, things would have been different." We talk Yiddish, and they say, "What about you Avrom?" I said, "Not me. When I was born, God wrapped his arms around me and says, ‘Avrom you’re a mazeldiceh – Abraham you’re a lucky person, go forth.’ And I went forth and knock on wood, I can’t complain. Life has been very good to me.

I want to tell you something. [Esther and I] are married 55 years. If I could bless you–your husband should love you as much as I love my wife after this time–I adore her. She is the most–I told you, I lucked out. Sometimes people think we’re fighting–our kids don’t understand. We’re emotional. We fight like crazy. My kids sit there and we’re kissing and they say, "Look, they’re fighting and they’re kissing."

Do you know what the word baschert means? Baschert means your destiny. You what what bubbameinsahs are? Grandmother’s tale. So the bubbemeinsehs say that when a male child is born and a female child is born, the lord matches them up and that becomes your baschert. That’s the one you should be married to. I believe it and I’ll tell you the reason why. I couldn’t have picked a better wife if I’d written a set of specifications–that’s how wonderful my wife is. So I figure somebody had to have helped me because I wasn’t smart enough to pick such a wonderful wife.

So how lucky was my dad?

These are the last few lines of a letter my father received from my mother dated June 22, 1945. It was the final letter he received from her before heading from Europe back to the United States at then end of WWII.

Nothing much doing here. I’m all on pins and needles, waiting for you to arrive. That’s all I live and breathe. Don’t worry about my getting tired waiting for you. That’s just about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard in all my born days. Next to being with you, I’d rather be waiting for you than anything else I could possibly do. I love you, dearest. You are so wonderful.
I’m so glad you agree with me on children. Because, dearest, next to you, I want your children.
Goodnight, dearest. I love you so. And I hope and pray that the time until I’m with you again just races by.

Forever, your

Esther.

And how lucky are Gordon, Bruce Molly and I to be those children?

I believe that we all begin learning the lasting lessons that guide how we conduct ourselves and live our lives from the first moment we’re born.

My brothers, my sister and I have learned from the best. From a couple who were crazy in love and stayed that way for 61 years. And that love overflowed their hearts to nurture and provide for the four of us, for Stephanie, George and Mark, for Daniel, Michael and Sam. For our cousins, for our friends, our neighbors and our community. And that makes all of us so lucky. We are all of us mazeldiceh, lucky persons.

For as long as I can remember, my father has threatened to do the impossible. To do what not even Houdini managed to do. He has promised to come back from the other side in the middle of the night and tickle my mother.

Until then, bye Daddy. I love you.

L’chiam, everybody. To life.

Home to Sestri

2004-11-04T08:41:00.000-08:00

Sestri Levante is 50 kilometers east of Genova, is smack dab on the lungo mare (sea front), and sits on a small peninsula with bays on either side --the Bay of Fables on one side and the Bay of Silence on the other. The old town consists of several winding streets between the two bays. We’ve rented a 3 bedroom apartment facing La Baia delle Favole (Fables) and the sunset. We won’t get into it for several days, as they’re painting and cleaning it for us. The bathroom has an old European fashioned deep sit-up tub with a shower. The kitchen has no dishwasher, but a washing machine for clothes. Dryer, not so everyday in Italia. We’ll be hanging the wash out the window like everybody else. The furniture is serviceable and comfortable. I’ll be moving a few things around... For the time being, we’re staying in a small apartment on a little back street. It’s 11 o’clock at night as I write this and all is quiet. Any minute now, I expect to hear a town crier calling out the hour.

Sestri is remarkably beautiful–the buildings are pinks, reds, yellows, green shutters, mostly 3 and 4 stories. Painted with flourishes around the windows and doors. The streets are narrow and paved in stone. They’re all walking streets, but cars come bombing along once in a while. Up the street from our apartment is a metal building on the beach where the fisherman bring in their catch morning and late afternoon. Just behind us is a road that leads up to a high promontory with a view of the entire Mediterranean, some old roman walls, and a place to get a drink (of course). Tomorrow we’ll take the entire walk – it leads to a reconstructed Genovese fortress from the 12th century. There’s also a tower up top where Marconi carried out his first radio experiments. There are small shops everywhere, with produce displayed outside the door. Beautiful pasticcerias (pastry shops). We went into a small coffee store today and bought half a kilo of coffee that was still warm from the roaster.

Our friends Giulio and Deborah have been kind to us beyond all kindness. We stayed with Deborah in their apartment in Milano for a few days when we got here. Then we picked up our rental car and convoyed with Deborah in her car in the lead to Chiavari (next big town down the road from Sestri). Giulio was already in Chiavari, staying at his mom’s place like he does in October.

Mornings in Chiavari were adventures – a trip to a beautiful beach town called Zoagli. Very small, the beach and then straight up the side of the cliff. The four of us walked along the beach promenade, through a tunnel and then up, up, up and then down to the beach again. Deborah and I continued up the other side, while George and Giulio sat on a park bench, huffed, puffed, smoked cigarettes and admired the underside of the train bridge. The next day, our introduction to Sestri, with everyone piled into Deborah’s tiny car, because Giulio’s mother Andreina adores Sestri and decided to come along.

Afternoons were siestas back at the hotel, well, in our case, getting over jet lag. Giulio and Deborah cooked dinner for us at his mom’s place every evening. They left yesterday afternoon to go back to Milano. No dinner last night, but after the lunch I’m about to describe, you’ll understand that no dinner last night was no problema.

Yesterday, we took Deborah and Andreina out to a country restaurant called Pedun. (Giulio decided to stay at home and sleep, but he called a number of times during lunch to find out what we were eating, what we were drinking, what we were talking about... Finally, his 89 year old mother took the cell phone and said "aren’t you supposed to be asleep?" and hung up on him.)

There’s no menu at Pedun, just a set meal that they bring to everyone. It changes with the seasons. This is what we had and I promise to take you there for lunch or dinner when you come to visit us (as long as you pay):
Homemade foccacio, loaded with olive oil and a little cheese on top.
A bottle of their own homemade house red

Antipasti:
peppers sauteed with capers, pine nuts and raisins in olive oil
bread dumplings with onions and saffron
zucchini pickles and sun dried tomatoes
rice cooked with cheese and mushrooms and fried into little cakes
cheese omelet wrapped in savoy cabbage leaves
potatoes stuffed with minced ham and roasted over a fire

At this point, I’d had more than enough to eat, but too bad for me...

Primi piatti (first courses)
Polenta with wild boletus mushrooms in a light tomato sauce
Homemade linguine made of chestnut flour and tossed w/ pesto

At this point, everyone had had more than enough, but too bad for all of us...

Secondi piatti (main coures)
Potatoes sauteed in olive oil with wild mushrooms
Red beans baked with sausages
Ligurian-style rabbit with olives and pine nuts

Dessert was optional, so we optioned out –what choice did we have (acutally, we refused to allow the waitress to describe dessert, not wanting to buy trouble) and finished with only

Grappa & espresso

one note: when I say olive oil, you’ll have to trust me when I tell you that you’ve never tasted anything like Ligurian olive oil unless you’ve had Ligurian olive oil while in Liguria. Herbaceous, sweet, fragrant, kind of delicate but with guts.

Lunch for the four of us including tip was 100 euros.

Dinner tonight on our own in our little temp apartment for the first time: prosciuto crudo, local Ligurian salame, gorgonzola dolce like you can’t ever buy in the states – I’m sure the FDA would have a special cow if they knew what we were eating over here. I thought of my mother, who was the first person to describe gorgonzola dolce to me after her first visit to Italy almost 40 years ago. Two perfect rusty colored pears. Some slightly tough little bread rolls. Ligurian olive oil. A bottle of local vino rosso. Gelato for dessert. Burp. I can still button my pants, thanks to all the walking.

I promise I’ll talk about other things than food, but good lord, the food here is better than the angels get to eat in heaven.

Love,
mara

The Next Big Adventure

2004-10-22T08:21:00.000-07:00

All big adventures begin with a disaster. In this case, the disaster isn't so much a disaster as it is a (patience while I check the online thesaurus for the exact right word...)

...AFFLICTION!!!!! Perfect Word!!

All big adventures begin with an affliction. In this case, it has been the affliction of selling the house, packing up and storing the shit worth saving, selling off the rest of the shit, giving away the shit that nobody wants to buy, boxing up the stuff that nobody wants for free for the Goodwill, carting the stuff that the Goodwill won't take to the dump, and dumping the stuff the dump won't take in a secret ravine at an undisclosed location.

We're camped out on a mattress on the floor in our otherwise empty house. On Sunday, even the mattress is gone, so we'll go sleep in my childhood bedroom at my folks for a couple of days. And then on Wednesday, Oct. 27, we fly off to live in Italy.

Why Italy? Why anywhere? Do you want the political answer, the social answer, the cultural answer, the personal answer, the philisophical answer, the professional answer or what? In no particular order here are some of the reasons we're THA-RILLED to be moving to Italy and try out living life somewhere else:

--Reality TV shows.
--Another production of "Our Town".
--The hopeless resignation in the eyes of too many friends
--Having to listen to assholes at parties talk about what they just bought, like yet another expensive possession will actually heal lives filled with reality TV shows, another production of "Our Town" and hopeless resignation.
--The revolting & low level of mudslinging that passes for political discourse in this election cycle.
--People actually thinking that John Kerry is the antidote to everything that's wrong with the Bush administration (but people, PLEASE get out and vote for John Kerry anyway.)
--Long held dreams by both George and me that we'd (each/both) someday live abroad
--New people to meet, new relationships to pursue, new languages to learn, new plays to write

I'll try to post regularly, say once every week or two as the Next Big Adventure unfolds like (pick whichever metaphor you like best for us)

like a newborn flower opening in the warmth of the Mediterranean sun

like an origami 'peace crane'

like a really great story

like an heirloom quilt just out of the hope chest

like days and nights and panoramic horizons

like lifetimes full of friendships and love

a presto (soon),

Mara & Giorgio

Moving Right Along...

2004-06-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted anything for a long while because I've been very, very busy. With what? With packing up the house and moving to Italy. Smitten doesn't even begin to describe what happened to me in Italy. I'm in LOOOOOOVE. With a whole frigging country. And, yes, I know, could I be any more trite than to fall in love with Italy? Well, yes, I could have fallen in love with Provence or the south seas, but falling in love with either of those places is only more trite by a single smidgen.

Where will we be? For the first 6 months to a year, we'll be renting a house in Liguria--the area in the northwest of Italy along the Mediterranean. Yes, think of us on the the Italian Riviera and sob at our good fortune. By the time a year has passed, if we're still as happy being in Italy as we hope to be, we'll be ready to buy something and set up a more permanent life for ourselves.

Why leave everything behind and move to Italy? Do you have to ask?

The other evening, I asked George if he felt that I was at all railroading him into this move to bella Italia. He answered that yes I was railroading him, but he was being railroaded more or less willingly. The hardest part for him is letting go of his basement and garage full of stuff--old computers, power tools, marine lumber, etc.

We'll be having two garage sales--one to sell all the stuff out of the garage to make room to sell all the stuff in the house.

Then onwards and upwards to put the house on the market and sell, sell, sell it while the selling's good. If everything goes right, we're out of here the first of October. Email if you want to get on the sign up sheet for a week in our guest bedroom in Italy.

GETTING LOST IN VENICE...

2004-05-04T09:44:00.000-07:00

...is one of the great pleasures of a visit to Venice. Getting lost in Venice when George is cranky because his feet hurt--not so much fun.

I never figured out how we got lost or where we were while we were lost or how we eventually became unlost. As for the last, it was an act of desperation and the wasting of money that did the trick: we bought yet another map and before I even opened it to locate our 4-dimensional hell-maze on sweet, lovely, 2 managable dimentions on paper, I suddenly knew exactly where we were and how to get anywhere I wanted to go.

Being lost isn't about not knowing were I am. I frequently don't know where I am. For me, being lost is feeling that left/right/up/down/back/forth are all in incorrect alignment in relation to themselves and me and even the sky is upside down. For someone like me who is almost never lost, what a wonderful feeling, a total freedom.

I FELL OFF THE EARTH

2004-04-30T17:38:00.000-07:00

You were wondering why I suddenly stopped posting to my blog, weren't you? And now you know!

Okay, I didn't actually fall completely off the earth, but I was so busy having fun and travel that I couldn't be bothered at the time to write about it. But never fear, I did keep a list of things that I was meaning to write about if I ever got around to it. Well, I kept a list for a while, but then ultimately, I was too into the trip to bother with even that.

So here I am, back in Seattle and here's the list of things I'll get eventually around to writing about ... some additions from when I wasn't keeping the list anymore. Look forward to more adventures. Feel free to write me and nudge me if there's something you'd like me to write about right away.

Plus more Flat Stanley adventures to come, of course.

love,

Mary

Getting lost in Venice
Fighting with George in Venice (a short play)
Talking to jewelers in Venice
The Venice Ghetto
Hatto Fischer thinks he's Andy Granitelli
Seeing the Parthenon for the first time
Walking up to the Acropolis from our hotel
The German guy who kidnapped us into his favorite bar in the Plaka for glasses of masticca
taking the slow boat to Agina
Cleaning the cottage
talking with Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke on her Chekhovian balcony overlooking the pistachio orchard (a short play)
Walking stairs and alleyways on Greek islands
Easter midnight mass on Spetses
barbecuing the baby 'lamb'
the sculpture garden on Spetses
Walking with Anna to the convent
Chocolate crepes are not Greek
Expat book project
last dinner in taverna w/ Hatto & Anna
Mountain bread, mountain cheese, and mountain sausage at sea
Listening to an Italian mother read to her 3 year old on the train to Milano
theories about Armegeddon
mummified Saint Ambrose
shopping on the Via Spiga in Milano -- the servant uniform store and the silk flower store and the weird hat store
lighting candles in churches
dinner on the canal in Milano (yes, Virginia, there are still a few canals in Milano)
RAP, the Puglinese restaurant
blackbirds
dinking a lot
dinner at Maria and Salvatore's house -- the menu & the topics of conversation
Salvatore's paintings
sad lakes in Italy
Watiching the Italian 24 hour news channel
Vigevano
church service at monastery and stop at their gift shop and bar afterwards
observing another writer suffer
chamber concert in sacristy of Santa Maria del Grazie
counting the steps from THE LAST SUPPER to Giulio's apt.
Il povero Giulio Stocchi song
Street market shopping spree
Sforza Castello in the rain
Sforza Castello in the sun
Bar Magenta and Caiprinhas
Andrea, pizza and karaoke
Lunch for Pina
night train to Paris
getting a room in Paris
my new hat
George's new hat
picnic in the Jardin di Luxembourg
the worst restaurant in Paris -- we found it in one try!!!!
fabulous dinner in Paris the next night
pro Palestinian demonstration near the Sorbonne
alone on the Ile St. Louis
walking up Montmartre to Sacre Ceuer and walking down to the klezmer band
how to get Parisians to be nice to you without really trying

DA IVO -- GREAT MEAL IN VENICE

2004-04-06T03:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Jeni,

Dinner at Da Ivo tonight. Thanks for the suggestion -- a fantastic meal.

To re-and-over-stimulate your tastebuds:

Raw baby artichokes sliced paper thin in a salad with crab meat sauteed in olive oil and garlic.

Local clams, mussels and some other kind of shellfish that the waiter said waas baby razor clams, but not like any razor clams I've ever seen. In a broth with white wine and garlic--superb doesn't being to describe it.

Spaghetti with clams alla Venetiana

Baby lam chops with more sliced baby artichokes suffed with ementhal cheese and then baked.

Four kinds of cheeswe -- bel paese, something kind of like a swiss and two types of parmesan with a sliced, perfectly ripe pear.

espresso and hazelnut and almond brittle.

a mezzo of white and then a mezzo of red wine with the whole thing.

175 euros later--a wonderful spluge of money and calories and worth every bit of it. Dinner was on April Fool's Day, our 33rd arbitrary anniversary of living together.

WONDERFUL LONDON

2004-04-06T02:53:00.000-07:00

Mary and George, here. While Lyram waits for poor flat Stanley to recover from kidney removal, we had a terrifc two days in London. Monday afternoon was easy--a beer and a sandwich at a pub, followed by a quick 1 1/2 hour traipse through the British Museum. Back to the hotel for 'naps', which lasted till the following morning.

Tuesday started with our first fight of the trip--over where to have coffee--and moved to the British Museum again for another bolt through. My highlights--an 18th century gold necklace set with stuffed hummingbird heads instead of jewels and some war spoils captured from Napoleon at Waterloo. George's highlights--a flint dagger with an intricate pattern on the hilt and a recreation of George III's library with an amazing exhibit about the Enlightenment. Ask us when we get home and you can borrow the catalog.

Lunch in another pub--NO MORE BRITISH FOOD!

Afternoon spent walking along the south bank of the Thames, a walk around the recreation of the Globe and a fast traipse through the Tate Modern. Dinner with a friend of a friend in a chic place called Baltic and then a visit to her flat and her five gigantic Russian Wolfhounds.

When - o - when do I get to come back to London and spend a lifetime or two?

FLIGHT TO LONDON -- 31 March 2004

2004-04-06T02:38:00.000-07:00

The guy sitting next to me on the plane to London had a head shaped like a bullet and an accent that was vaguely slavic. According to this guy, there are three different doctors in Ukraine, any one of whom would be happy to pay me $19,000 for a healthy kidney.

"They have ong-range helicopters standing by to rush the kidney all over Europe to the patients," according to Mr. Bullet Head.

"Helicopters are very expensive to operate," I observed.

"What they care?" laughed Mr. Bullet Head. "They charge a cool quarter mil to the patients. People in Europe are desperate for kidneys. Makes you think, don't it."

Think What was there to think about? I'm every bit as attached to my kidneys as they are to me.

Still... $19,000 is a great big gob of money. At Europe on $100 a day, that's 190 days. Or at $50 a day (if I can find a cheap room with a hot plate and the occasional generous benefactor in a club or a bar) $19,000 is more than a year!

But no! Kidneys are lke Prince Wills and Prince Harry, to use the popular British metaphor--The Heir and The Spare. If the good lord in his wisdom had wanted me to sell off a kidney, he'd have given me more than two.

I raised a quizzical eyebrow at Mr. Bullet Head and he raised an eyebrow in return. "How much, do you think, would these Ukrainian doctors would pay for a very small, very flat kidney?" I ventured.

"I already tell you--big, small, flat or all puffed up, they pay $19,000 for a healthy kidney." Mr. Bullet Head was suddenly sitting straighter, more confidently, almost like he was flying up front in first class.

"Eastern Europe isn't on my itinerary," I thought out loud.

"What is itinerary?" asked Mr. Bullet Head.

"That's a very good point," I replied.

"You no like Eastern Europe? No worries," he went on. "These Ukrainians have private hospital clinics in London, Barcelona, Prague, all the hot spots. Plus the long range, high speed helicopters, of course."

"This $19,000," I asked him. "Is this in American dollars or that attractive new Euro currency?"

Dear Caleb,

Flat Stanley asked me to write you as he's feeling a little under the weather. He took ill qauite unexpectedly on the flight to London. But no worries--he's being taken care of in a private hospital by a team of three very reputable Ukrainian physicians. More soon,

Love, Lyram

money for the trip

2004-04-05T11:29:00.000-07:00

The guy sitting nextto me on the plane to London had a head shaped likea bullet and an accent that wasvaguely slavic. According to the guy, there are three differentdoctors in Ukraine, any one of whom would pay me $19,000 for a healthy kidney.

"They have long range helicoptersstanding by to rush the kidney all over Europe to the patient," according to Mr.Bullet Head.

"Helicoptersare very expensive to operate," I observed.

Mr.Bullet Headwas blase. "They charge a cool quarter of a million. Peoplein Europe are desperate for kidneys. What's 19 grand? Makes you think, don't it?" he mused as he put on his sleep mask.

Think? What wasthere to think about? I'mevery bit as attached to my kidneys as they are to me.

Still, $19,000 is a great big gob of money. At Europe on $100 a day, that's 190 days! At $50 a day--if I can find a cheap room and a hot plate to do my owncooking, plus the occasional generous benefactor in a club or a bar, $19000 is more than enough for a whole year...

But no! Kidneys are like Prince William and Prince Harry, to use the popular British metaphor--the heir and the spare. If the good lord in his wisdom hadwanted me to sell off a kidney, he'd have given me more than two.

I tugged on Mr.Bullet Head's sleeve. "How much do you think these Ukrainian doctors would pay for a very small,very flat kidney?"

"I already tell you--big, small, flat, puffed up, they pay $19000. Mr. Bullet Head was suddenly very alert.

"Easter Europe isn't on my itinerary," I told him.

"These Ukranians have access to private hospitals in London, Barcelona, Prague, all the hot spots. Pluss the long range helicopters, of course..."

Ciao is Italian for Arrivederci

2004-03-28T08:01:00.000-08:00

Stay tuned for the continuing adventures of Flat Stanley and Lyram as we ramble, traipse and generally loiter our way across, around, under and through Europe. Also, Mary & George will be imposing on my better nature (such as it is) by using this House of Mayhem & Mirth to post bulletins about their much more banal (banaller--that's a word, right?) travels in Great Britain, Italy and Greece.

Taking Off

2004-03-27T08:16:00.000-08:00

Flat Stanley arrived in an envelope the other day, accompanied by a sweet handwritten note from Caleb.

Dear Lyram,
Here is Flat Stanley. He has a nickname. It is Stan. He likes to play with toys. Please take a toy with him on your trip to Europe. Any toy will do. And I made a bed for him out of a shoebox and a blanket out of tissue paper. Please make him a bed, too. I love him very much.
Best Regards, Caleb.

The responsibility of caring for someone's child is finally beginning to sink in. Here I was, thinking that Flat Stanley and I would have a gas getting stoned and traipsing the back alleyways of Europe, sleeping under bridges and begging with the gyspies whenever we ran out of money--only to realize that somebody LOVES Flat Stanley, somebody has given Flat Stanley a NICKNAME--even if it's not a very good nickname, somebody has made Flat Stanley a teeny, tiny bed and his very own blankie. HOW CAN I TAKE FLAT STANLEY to my debauched world, he's just a little kid (if a very small kid made out of felt) and not just ANY itty bitty felt kid, at that. No, Flat Stanley is SOMEBODY's beloved felt CHILD.

So FS and I headed straight for the copy store where he took a two-sided ride on the color copier. Then I carefully traced around the simulcron Flat Stanley with a razor blade and slapped the two sides together with the help of some glue. The real Flat Stanley was a little taken aback, I have to admit, but I'm taking the fake Flat Stanley to Europe. I can't chance losing the real one down some side canal in Venice or having a Greek pimp cut him up because I'm short a couple of drachma.

The real Flat Stanley can sit on the kitchen counter til I get home in a month at which time I'll give him back to Caleb safe and sound. Don't ever let it be said that Lyram doesn't have a heart.

Master List for Trip to Italy

2004-03-21T18:11:00.000-08:00

1. Make the master list for everything.

1. Make two lists: 1) things to do before leaving for Europe; 2) things to do in Europe.

1. Make three lists: 1) chores; 2) packing; 3) plans.

1. Make four lists: 1) to do around the house; 2) errands; 3) phone calls; 4) trip research.

1. Make five lists: 1) chores; 2) necessary errands; 3) optional errands; 4) bills!!!!; 5) read travel book.

1. Make four lists: 1) cleaning; 2) banking; 3) dry cleaners?; 4) RELAX! YOU'RE GOING ON VACATION FOR CHRISSAKES!

1. Make three lists: 1) throw out milk and leftovers; 2) get money; 3) make food for bon voyage party

1. Make two lists: 1) call Mom and ask to borrow $1,000; 2) get 4-footer from Subway

1. buy more wine.

Flat Stanley

2004-03-16T07:43:00.000-08:00

Garth asked if I would be willing to help out his 7 year old son Caleb with a school project.

Apparently, everybody in the second grade is required to make a 'child' out of felt and provide for that 'child'. It's kind of like that thing they do to high school kids where they make them carry an egg around with them and treat it like a baby so that they'll learn about responsibility and practice celibacy. Only this is for first graders, so nothing breakable or messy like an egg and no sex ed. Caleb's 'child' is a gingerbreadman-sized felt fella named Flat Stanley. Flat Stanley has neither vocal chords nor moving parts and he likes to do whatever Caleb feels like doing, which would make Flat Stanley a perfect child, as if there was such a thing.

But every parent needs a break from their kid, no matter how silent and inert that child might be, so Caleb is trying to ditch Flat Stanley for spring vacation. Initially, Caleb asked G.G. and Grandpa Steve to take Flat Stanley with them on their trip to New York City, but when he heard that I was spending a month in Europe, Caleb decided that Flat Stanley would have a more interesting time with me(plus, a trip to Europe will impress his teacher and he'd be in line for a better overall Flat Stanley grade.) According to Garth, all I have to do is write a couple of postcards home to Caleb "from" Flat Stanley and take a few candid snapshots of Flat Stanley with scenic backgrounds as proof that he was occasionally removed from my suitcase.

So, I can see Flat Stanley with the grandparents--a walk through Central Park, a trip to the top of the Empire State Building, a cruise around Manhattan on one of those tourist boats--all completely appropriate activities. Daily postcards, plus cool souvenir gifts of the Big Apple "from" Flat Stanley "to" Caleb. Let's face it, G.G. and Grandpa Steve will do anything humanly possible to make Caleb an even happier and more fulfilled grandson than he already is.

But what the fuck kind is Flat Stanly have going to be up to in Europe with me? Flat Stanley getting piss-drunk at a nightclub in Rome and afterwards we're arrested for naked skinny dipping in the Trevi Fountain? Flat Stanley and me smoking hash at a marijuana cafe in Amsterdam? Flat Stanley in flagrante delicto at that swinger's club in Paris where I always have such a good time ("look Caleb--Flat Stanley isn't so flat anymore...!")?

"Dear Caleb, Tonight Lyram is taking me a bondage club in Madrid. In the three weeks I've been in Europe, we haven't left the hotel rooms until late after dark. I haven't seen a single famous site, not even the Eiffel Tower or Buckingham Palace. This is a Europe that they never talk about in the first grade. It's all bars, sex clubs and dark alleyways. love, Flat Stanley"

The End of A Promising Career

2004-03-13T08:42:00.000-08:00

It seems that my brief time as a lyricist has already run its course. To quote a message left on my answering machine, "funny, really funny, Lyram!" Funny? Funny!? The heartfelt outpourings of a crime victim--funny?!!!!!??!

To quote my own mother, "those were very nice songs, dear, but please try not to write anymore of them, okay?"

To quote several co-workers, "I don't get it..."

And etc..."It's important to play to your strengths, Lyram."

"What the fuck, Lyram? Did the theft of that old hunk of tin car send you completely round the mental bend?"

"Lyram, there's fortune and fame to be had for the taking in the fabulous music industry. For monthly payments of only $39.95, billed directly to your bank card, sign up for our new, improved three-year internet songwriting course."

The prophet is never honored in her own country...

The Car Saga Continues...

2004-03-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

Officer Friendly called at 11 this morning to say that he was standing next
to my car, that it looked fine and that if I could get straight over to the
intersection of Eastlake & Louisa St. he wouldn't call a tow truck. Fifteen
minutes later, I was starting the car. No broken glass, no broken locks, no
broken ignition--my thief must have had a key. He took my CD case, my cell
phone charger and that's about it.

The car is up at Marqueen Garage for the afternoon, so they can take a look
see.

As for the CDs, if everybody burns me a copy of something they really like,
I'll have an all new car library of tunes. Pretty please?

My biggest concern about the entire incident--in preparation to issuing a traffic ticket, a meter maid guy plugged my
license plate number of my illegally parked car into his handheld, thereby discovering its stolen status. Does this mean that I'm required from now on to say and think only nice things about the parking enforcement people? I have no deep thoughts on this, other than it reminds me exactly of how I felt when a theatre critic in whose opinion I had zero respect gave a rave review to one of my plays. I am seeking guidance on this difficult issue.

Anyway, I'm no longer singing the blues. It's all girl groups today!

to the tune of MY BOYFRIEND'S BACK by the Angels...

(spoken) You took my car and went away,
And drove off into the night.
And when I went outside to drive to work,
I said things that weren't very nice.

But now...

My car is back, and you didn't break the windows.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)
You left a used syringe and the peelings of some mangoes.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)
You broke my CDs of The Eagles and The Arrows
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)
But you took Wooly Bully by Sam Sham and the Pharaohs.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)

(Hey, you're really not so neat.)
(You left crumbs upon the seat.)

My car is running, so I guess I ought to thank you.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)
If you were my kid, though, instead I'd have to spank you.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)

George said it was probably a crime of convenience.
(Ah-zoom, ah-zoom.)
And there wasn't any damage so it's not much of a grievance.
(Ah-zoom, well, let me see...)

You spilled beer in the front and in the backseat you got carsick.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)
There's some scratches on the fender, on the bumper there's a nick.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)

Plus--I have to change the locks.
And that's gonna cost some bucks.

But my car is back and she's running like a top.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)
And the guy who found it was a really nice cop.
(Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!)

Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!
Hey naw-nee-naw, my car is back!
etc. til fade...

Carlessness

2004-03-11T17:28:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, March 10

Yes, carlessness, not carelessness. Somebody stole my car last night--a bizarre
and unexpected event. Expecially given all of the new $40K SUVs, black
Mercedes sports coupes and other prime rides in the neighborhood, that
somebody made off with my 14 year old Acura!!! What does it mean?

I'm completely disinclined to turn lemons into lemonade or any other such
Pollyannish scenario, but what in the world is a person do besides:

1) call and report the theft
2) arrange for the insurance company to come up with a loaner while the dust
settles, and
3) write a blues tune.

so please, hold a good thought that my car is safe and sound on some side
street with nary a scratch and will be returned tomorrow OR that it's
already suffered such excruciating damage that the insurance co. will
instantly total it and pay me top dollar to a replacement.

I don't care which. You pick.

THE STOLEN CAR BLUES

Oh, the car thief came last night
And stole away my car
Now I have to hoof it
to drown my sorrows at the bar.

I got that low down, no good
somebody stole my vehicle blues...
And if I ever find that bum
I'm setting fire to his shoes.

Woke up this morning,
went out to drive to work,
But right there at my parking spot
I nearly went berserk...

I got the low down, no good
somebody stole my vehicle blues...
Whoever was who took my car,
I haven't got a clue.

My car was older than my kid
We'd racked up lots of miles,
The car would shimmy; I would shake
'Cause, baby, that's my style.

I got the low down, no good
somebody stole my vehicle blues...
That thief is going straight to hell
And let the devil take his dues.

So now my car is gone
And won't return, I bet.
As soon as Safeco pays me off
A new car's what I'll get.

I got the low down, no good
somebody stole my vehicle blues...
Those thieving, stealing, drive away with it,
HEY, ASSHOLE THAT'S MY CAR YOU JACKED bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuues!!!!!