Apricale

"He enjoys true leisure who has time to improve his soul's estate"
-Henry David Thoreau

Apricale is an amazing Ligurian hilltown, clinging precariously to a narrow ridge like a mountain goat. Built circa 1100 AD, it’s a labyrinth of twisting, turning pedestrian “streets” made of fist-size stones (a slow and bumpy ride for the tiny wheels of our heavy suitcases).
Our little Casa Delle Damigiane has an entrance from the alley, then up the stairs to our “flat” with stone floors, stone walls and arched stone ceiling. The tiny wrought-iron railed balcony has a magnificent, dizzying view of the surrounding cascade of green hills. Looking up to the tippy top of the highest mountain is the slightly larger hill town of Perinaldo, where we’re renting another house next week. Plunging down into the river valley we can see and hear the river, complete with ancient arched stone bridge and waterfall. From our balcony, as in Villa Guardia, we watch the quick-flying, aptly named swifts as they swoop and dive for their dinner bugs in the evening. They’re small like bats, but with a sweet chirpy little voice, and if you try to watch just one it’s like following the lightening-fast moves of a quiddich game from Harry Potter, or a starfighter from Star Wars.
The cats in Apricale may possibly outnumber the people. They leap from rooftop to alleyway, spraying, fornicating and pooping with reckless abandon. (Jeff has subsequently renamed the town “Poopricale”). The dozen or so dogs in town make their presence known only when the church bells ring, when they howl with great feeling and vocal range.
One night, huddled around our tiny balcony table playing cards (teaching Jenna the subtleties of Rich Man Poor Man) we were surprised to hear the first tentative notes of an electric guitar…then a few pounds on a drum..then a whole band starting up. Turns out we’re the lucky neighbors of a metal (garage-type) band. A METAL band, whose musical talent is sorely lacking. It was a memorable experience to watch the honey evening light settle over this ancient hill town, serenaded by swifts, croaking frogs, and electric guitar.
We’ve spent the week exploring the area. One sunny afternoon we walked down a narrow dirt trail from Apricale to the valley floor to explore the river and the ancient bridge. We walked past ancient stone walls and an old “mill” with rusty water wheel. We stripped down and dunked into the cool, fresh river. We caught frogs and crawdads, and saw tiny trout, snakes and lizards.
On another day we took the bus into San Remo and rented old cruiser bicycles and rode along the 40k bike path that hugs the coastline all the way to San Lorenzo Al Mare (near Imperia). The path was not particularly crowded, and a few miles in, I apparently startled a large dozing snake that was sunning itself next to some bushes near the path. Not usually afraid of snakes, I want to emphasize that this was a particularly LARGE snake (diameter: zucchini) that whipped its whole rear half around, snakelike, which caused me to wildly swerve my bicycle and scream out “Ahggggg!”. Of course the snake disappeared back into the bushes by the time Jenna and some other riders caught up, so I basically looked like an idiot, but my heart was beating like mad.

NEXT UP: Conversazione

La Spiaggia (the beach)

“My life is like a stroll on the beach…as near to the edge as I can go.”
--Thoreau

Jenna is in love with the beach. And we are in love with her.
Wearing short shorts, t-shirt, barefoot, she works on her cartwheels in the wet sand and demands that we watch. She falls over on purpose. She buries her feet until she gets stuck. Familiar now with castles, walls and piazzas, she and and Jeff make a perfect sand castle.
I think the beach feels familiar and settling to her. A beach is a beach.
She jumps in the low waves, watches a dog chase a stick thrown into the water (no doubt longing, as I am, for our Roxy). She smiles at the young children nearby, pouring small buckets of saltwater on each other, laughing. I know she wants to play and make friends, but not yet. It will come.
The ocean is blue-green and the wind blows white caps on the surface. It’s sunny and brisk. To remind us of where we are, a red/white/green Italian flag blows sideways out on the jetty. We rent “lettinas” (lounge chairs) and umbrella for 5 Euro per day at one of the private beaches. Most of the private beaches (along with their snack bars) are still closed, in anticipation of warmer days ahead. The public beaches are further away, often rocky, and we haven't bought towels or chairs to sit on yet.
A tan, thin woman wearing a tiny striped bikini lays a few yards away from another tan, larger, older woman, also wearing a bikini. A large pale man wears a tiny little black Speedo-type suit. No matter what age or size, in Italy women wear 2-piece suits and men wear shiny little panties, period. The only exceptions are foreigners. My “tankini” is pushed to the back of my suitcase in favor of my 2-piece (“When in Rome…”).
Jenna is adapting to Italian life with her usual flair…she orders succo di fruitta (juice), Panini and tosta (sandwiches) and most importantly, gelato—all in Italian. She buys bus tickets. She reads (2 books already!) during the enforced quiet of Siesta. She burps and says, “Scusa” (pardon me). She notices all the little things…how the children run naked on the beach, how the cars are smaller, how people hang their laundry outside. Jeff and I are jealous of her ability to never forget a new Italian word. We call her our “little ambassador” as she smoothes the way during any interaction, because it is very clear to us that Italians LOVE children.

NEXT UP: Apricale: “One of the most beautiful Italian hilltowns”

Documenti

“The length of this document defends it well against the risk of its being read”
-Winston Churchill

Being in Italy is not all fun and games. Some days, we get down to business.
In Italy, obtaining the proper documents is a lesson in patience and persistence. Italians love their documenti.
The Italian Consulate in Portland, as well as guidebooks and websites said we must obtain a “Permesso di Soggiorno” (permit to stay) from the “Questura” (local police) within 8 days of entering Italy. The Permesso is also necessary to buy a car (which we desperately need) but, alas, can take up to 3 months to process. On Saturday, we got the 10-page Permesso document (from the Post office, not the Questura), only to find out we need a telephone number, permanent address and Codice Fiscale (tax code) to complete it (none of which we have). We also got the 4-page form for a P.O. Box.
Monday’s goal: get telephones, Codice Fiscale, P.O. Box and Permesso di Soggiorno. It was a lofty goal but we were determined.
We took the local bus from our village to Imperia, skimming the tiny narrow streets with inches to spare on either side. The bus horn honks around every turn like a clown horn—high-low, high-low.
Getting the phones was relatively simple, as so much depends on how patient Italians are with my halting, limited language skills. I think I said, “We would like to buy 2 phone. Much, much, cheap.. To talk he and me for 3 months or 1 year. Do you understand please?” The Vodophone employee was sweet and friendly, and we were out on the street with our telephoni in less than 20 minuti.
We then asked at the Imperia information office where we could get the Codice Fiscale and followed the streets to the “x” she’d marked on our city map. No matter how simple the directions, we always seem to get lost. As we were all mildly bickering about whether we’d gone too far or not far enough, a man with long curly hair, smoking a cigarette, asked in English, “Can I help you find something?” We told him we were looking for the place to get our Codice Fiscale. After much discussion with the people inside the building, we learned it USED to be this building, but had moved. He gave us another set of simple directions, but again we get lost. Here’s Jeff: “No I think it’s this way” (points). Here’s me: “No, I think it’s this way” (points). The inevitable frazzled nerves of travelling and getting lost. Tired, frustrated and thirsty we finally found an official building “L’ufficio Imperia somethin-somethin”.
We walked inside the stuffy, airless building and Jeff immediately turned around to wait outside. We got him back in. After thoughtful determination as to which button to push on the ticket machine (to get a number) I then saw people filling out documenti. I asked at Informationi “I would like Codice Fiscale, please?” and am handed (you guessed it) more documenti. We hadn’t finished the documenti when our number appeared on the board, then it disappeared. We were finally directed to the stern looking woman at the #10 desk, next to Informationi. I handed her the number, and she fired off about 6 sentences in rapid Italian, ending with a question? I say, “Please, please speak more slow. I’m American. I’m sorry. I speak only a little Italian. I would like a Codice Fiscale please”. And I show her the unfinished paperwork. She asks something else (still fast) and I shrug my shoulders and try to look contrite. She rolls her eyes, taps her pen and looks around for someone else to deal with us. “Per che un Codice Fiscale!” she asks us, (why do we want a Codice Fiscale!) and I fumble through my bag and show her the application for the P.O. Box. She mutters “No, No, No!”, and storms off disgustedly with our application. Jeff and I look at each other, and frown. Jenna looks away. She comes back and says something else we don’t understand. Then says “Passoporto!” and Jeff hands it to her. Then blah blah blah “Shenghen VISA!” and we say “no Visa”. She rolls her eyes again, lets out a puff of angry breath and storms off. She comes back, shaking her head. We hear the words “No, blah blah, STAMP, blah blah, Italia, blah blah, visa” and I think she needs to see the stamp we got upon entry to Italy. I show her my passport and she seems a little more satisfied (later we saw that Jeff’s passport “stamp” was a faint illegible marking). She leaves again with both our passports and the documenti. It’s tense (but we need this document!) and at the same time it’s also absurdly funny, in a really tense way—so of course I crack up at the completely wrong time. I can’t help it. I stifle a hysterical laugh, which causes Jeff and Jenna to giggle as well. She’s so stressed, so disapproving, as if to say, “Why are you wasting my time with this petty request? It’s ridiculous. Why do YOU need a tax code? Why are you Americans even in Liguria? Go to Tuscany with all the other Americans. Learn better Italian!”
Now a man comes back to the desk with her, and he talks on her phone to someone else. We hear “Si, si…no, no…Americano, casella postale”. He gets off the phone and calmly says something to the woman. She fires something back, turns to her computer and mutters “emmay, eee, tay…” and we realize THAT’S MIT…she’s spelling our name! After she finishes Jeff’s name, she forcefully stamps the documenti several times and finally hands us our official CODICE FISCALE. Oh Joy! We come out of the building, and I am practically shaking.
On a roll now, we headed quickly for the post office to get our box.
We painstakingly filled out the 4-page document necessary for a “casella postale” (P.O. Box) with our new telephone and Codice Fiscale numbers. A helpful woman shows us how to open box, etc. I ask whether the Questura is open, she said no, domani (tomorrow) but then sees our Permesso docs and says, “No, no you must go to the CGIL (immigration) office first, then back to post office THEN to Questura”. Of course, that makes sense.
At the CGIL office (which turns out to be an immigration office) we hand over our Permesso documents. “Per che Permesso di Soggiorno?” (why do want the Permesso?) “Well, we stammer, we’d like to buy a car”. “No, no, no Permesso” without visa impossible, etc. And we’re back to where we started. We frown. Finally, a kind, helpful employee who spoke a little English comes over and sorts it all out. He says WE DON’T NEED a Permesso di Soggiorno to buy a car—all we need is a Codice Fiscale!
“Va Bene” (it’s good!). We leave, satisfied we have all the documenti necessario to buy a car, and we spend the rest of the day at the beach.

NEXT UP: la spiaggia (the beach)

Villa Guardia

"For us to go to Italy and to penetrate into Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery back, back down the old ways of time. Strange and wonderful chords awake in us, and vibrate again after many hundreds of years of complete forgetfulness"

-D.H. Lawrence

After spending a few days frolicking on the Ligurian coast (Italian Riviera, west of Genoa)--one night in the quaint town of Noli, and another in the bustling Diano Marina--we've headed inland to the small, quiet village of Villa Guardia (population: very few). It's a jumble of stone buildings, each with a terra cotta roof a different shade of orange, orange-red or red-brown, slanting this way and that. The tiny church steeple at one end of town is tall and pointed and has a bell that rings on the hour, in concert (or competition?) with other church bells from the surrounding hilltowns. Someone once told me that they made it a habit to take a big, deep breath when they heard church bells, and I have taken on this habit. There are still remains of the ancient entrance tower and wall that once surrounded the town. I can say with certainty that we are the only Americans in this village, which could turn out to be either charming or not, depending on how the week goes. So far, the town folk are a tight bunch.

The house we rented for the week, named Torre Rosso, is tall and narrow, with stone walls and tile floors, like most of the houses in the area. The first floor has a kitchen made for very small people with very tiny groceries--not the piles of food we procured at the large open market in Imperia. Being in Imperia on "market day" was lucky: we've learned from experience that everything in Italy closes down on Sunday (and some places are even closed from Saturday noon until Monday morning), so everyone races to buy their food and, more importantly, their alcohol on Saturday. By the way, I bought fresh vegetables and fruit (carrota, limone, etc.) NOT from a little old lady, but rather a tall, dark, strapping and handsome young gentleman with a wickedly dangerous smile who actually complimented me on my Italian (at least I think he complimented me...).

Anyway, also on the first floor of this ancient casa is a bathroom with a confusing toilet/bidet fixture that apparently allows one to "get it all done" at once, though we honestly can't figure out how.

On the second floor is our cool, comfortable bedroom, along with a living/dining room that has large iron-framed, south-facing windows looking out to the surrounding hillside.

On the third floor is a tiny bedroom for Jenna, where she can get impossibly messy with all her clothes, books, IPOD, camera, Barbies and babies. There's also a television set, and Jenna is earnestly studying her language skills via Italian cartoons--that is, when she's not begging for Nutella or gelato. Also on the upper floor is a large terrace, which looks down on the tiny Piazza Castello consisting of a bench, a few potted plants and, inexplicably, a small caged turtle. Jenna is fascinated with the turtle and is convinced it's been abandoned and needs food. The terrace looks south, toward the ocean (though the ocean is hidden behind the hills). We can look out across the rooftops, down along the river valley, and high up the naturally terraced and abundantly lush green hillside to Bestagno, another hilltown spilling along the next ridge. There's apparently a good reason why Italians built all these towns on hills (fortification/protection) but it seems like it would've been so much easier to build on flat ground.

After 3 days of pasta and pizza (and the accompanying "full" feeling), we were excited to finally cook for ourselves, and created a feast of grilled fish (of uncertain variety), rice pilaf and fresh asparagus for dinner. Savoring dinner with a cheap and delicious local wine, all was good in the Mitchem-McCall household.

Finally crawling into our comfortable bed after a long day was near perfect, when all of a sudden a flash of flapping black wings sent me screaming and diving under the covers. "Wow!" Jeff yelled, jumping up to study the thing that had flown into the netting above our bed, "that is the biggest bat I've ever seen. It even has big ears". Of course he speculated it was aiming for my hair. As the bat lay stunned and barely moving, brave Jeff siezed the opportunity and swatted the bat with a broom. It soured back out the window, where it lay stunned on the ground briefly, and then flew away.

NEXT UP: How to get a P.O. Box, a cell phone, and an official "Permesso di Soggiorno" document--when your language skills are still a bit iffy.

Lost Dog

"My little dog--a heartbeat at my feet"
- Edith Wharton

No matter how ready you are for a trip, you are just never prepared to lose your dog nine hours before your flight to Italy. Yes, our beloved Roxy ran away today. She had been staying with friends for two weeks without incident, but for some reason today she decided to hit the road. Maybe it was all too confusing to her--the move, the chaos, the new home. Did her little dog brain sense we were leaving and need to find us? Who knows. We got the call around 7 tonight, sadly informing us that she was missing. Several friends jumped in to help search the area, calling, whistling, driving, walking and worrying, but we couldn't find her. The animal shelters and Humane Society were called. It began to get dark and we began to lose hope. Then we found an ad on Craigslist: a lost dog that matched Roxy's description. We quickly called and spoke to someone, but we still weren't sure if the dog was Roxy. We raced to the address. Jenna and I ran to the door, rang the bell, the door opened and there, in a stranger's living room, was our waggly-tailed Roxy, looking happy-as-you-please. We fell upon her crying. A kind, lovely woman had found her and placed the ad. An angel, and I don't even know her name. Thank you, angel.
Jenna said afterward that it was the first time she'd ever cried from happiness.
I guess I'll finish packing now. The flight leaves soon.

Next up: hopefully nothing until we land in Italy.

Chaos

"Before the beginning of great brilliance and beauty there first must be a period of complete chaos"
- I Ching

Chaos pretty much sums it up. A simple decision to move to Italy has turned our lives inside-out. After the flurry of airline tickets and reservations, the household sorting, selling, packing and moving, after the last-minute denial of our travel visas, and falling into bed exhausted, things have finally sifted down to two basic emotions: excitement and fear.
The excited, positive feelings are usually in the morning (if I've slept well) or in the evening (after a glass of wine). I think about this Great Italian Adventure we're embarking on: how we'll savor the culture, the food, the landscape. How we'll swim in the velvety blue Mediterranean and buy produce from a little old woman at the local market, and how we'll start to think and dream in Italian. How we'll face the inevitable challenges with a fresh and lively sense of humor. How we'll savor the freedom of living without mortgage payments and utility bills and unfinished home projects.
But then just like that, the fear worms its way into my belly in the middle of the night, when I can't sleep, and my mind hops around from one daunting thought to another...what are we doing? How can we just leave our friends, our town, our dog (though she's in good hands), our stuff? How will we have the patience to homeschool? How can we possibly pull this off?
Seeing so many friends and family at our Buon Viaggio party the other night was such a sweet sendoff--like getting married, but much less expensive. So much love and support, even though I know for a fact that some of them think we are completely mad, impulsive, naive and utterly foolish.
But then I ask myself: how often do we truly follow a dream? How often do we get the chance to do something adventurous and we don't do it because we're scared and can't predict the outcome?
Next up: hopefully something witty and insightful...