The Roman obsession

OK, I admit it. I think about Romans several times a week.

It’s not that I have much choice.  If you are living in Italy as an expatriate, you are here for the beauty and history. Much of that beauty came from the ancient Romans who, by definition, also supplied the history.

So yes, I think about Romans every time I pass a sign to an archeological site or look at an old stone wall. The Romans left an incredible legacy that is impossible to ignore if you are in Italy.

But I can’t quite understand the current social media fascination with the Roman Empire. That’s the last half of the Roman civilization and was dominated by tyrants, declining freedoms and the eventual collapse of a culture that had thrived for half a millennium.

The real attention should be on the Roman Republic. This period from 510 BCE to 31 BCE is where most of the Roman inventions and culture that Hollywood so loves were invented. And though it wasn’t a perfect democracy, Romans during the Republic voted on everything from leaders to public works projects to wars.

They learned much of that from their predecessors here in Tuscany – the Etruscans. Unfortunately, the Etruscans were much better at making wine, mining silver and commerce than at crafting great buildings or fighting wars. Which left the historical record in favor of the folks who were much better at those latter two – the Romans.

To be clear, Roman Republicans were not all good guys.  They fought constantly, enslaved anyone they conquered and split their society (and votes) between elitist patricians and not-so-common plebeians. But they did vote and they didn’t just put up with autocratic tyrants. Even with the inefficiencies of democracy, they were the ones who came up with most of the grandeur for which we gasp “This was Rome!.”

The current social media trend seems to focus on the pomp and gallantry of the Roman legions and the results of Roman engineering. But I think the vision of hunky guys in short-skirts and bronze helmets is as fuzzy as standing back and looking at the Coliseum and saying “cool building”.

I’m much more interested in the “how” of everyday Rome than the what. If you walk through the streets of Pompeii, you cannot help be but be impressed with the density and quality of the construction.  It’s a full city – and still standing.

I look at Roman ruins and ask “how did they do it?” not in the sense of how did they invent all of those cool things, but in the actual question of how they physically did it.

Think about what is missing from those Hollywood toga-ripper movies. Someone had to engineer those great aqueducts (try calculating just the area of a rectangle in Roman numerals), dig up a whole lot of rock and gravel and then transport it to the building sites.  You don’t put a ton of gravel in a chariot.  There were no Ready-Mix plants and cement trucks to provide that huge mass of concrete the Romans used.

So the less-attractive vision of the Roman civilization is of thousands of dowdy oxcarts clogging the roads as the great Roman legions march off to yet another construction site.  That’s right – Roman soldiers were the hardhats of the civilization in peace as well as war.  When they were not hacking off barbarian heads or besieging Etruscan wine warehouses, they were the literal backbone of the Rome we now marvel.  Roman soldiers were required to build roads, temples, palaces and their own barracks. When you spend most of your days tossing around blocks of tufa, you are in great shape for the occasional hand-to-hand battle.

So yes, I think of the Romans as I visit what they left behind centuries ago. And I am puzzled that we left their accomplishments behind to wallow in the Dark Ages after their fall. But I’m not obsessed by them. 

I’m more obsessed by the lesson that a civilization that could rise so wonderfully could fall so thoroughly. I’m not ready to trade for Pax Americana through the destruction of the Republic.

Driving in Italy

 I don’t think that I am alone when I say the thought of driving in Italy brought terror to my eyes.

My vision of Italian drivers was of wild-eyed crazies in tiny little cars who treated pedestrians as targets and who announced their intentions by leaning out of the window and shouting unintelligible curses.

That made-for-Hollywood reputation was somewhat reinforced by an earlier trip to Rome, where I found crossing the street on foot was something of a dance and that no one but Americans seemed distressed when a speeding Vespa missed you by millimeters. They seemed to be playing be a whole different set of rules.

Which they were. And which I am gradually learning to understand.

In many ways, Italian drivers are among the most skillful that I have witnessed. For all the “crazy” driving I’ve been subject to, I have yet to see a single accident on an Italian roadway. But I’ve seen both many breath-taking maneuvers and enough examples of safety to change my expectations.  So here are my observations after spending nearly a month behind the wheel of my little Fiat:

• Despite the American fascination with European railroads, you need a car to see the real Italy. The trains are great, but they go from city to city. If what you want is the urban experience via public transportation, the trains are wonderful. (And everyone should see Rome and Florence at least once in their lives). But if you want the Under the Tuscan Sun experience of villages with  Etruscan/Roman/Medieval ambience, only a motor vehicle will take you down Italy’s version of Blue Highways. And…
• There is no Uber in Italy. Only Luxembourg has a higher rate of car ownership in Europe. Italians like to drive.
• Jaunts through unknown countryside are far more relaxing when you drive as a coordinated pair – a focused driver and a competent navigator. This is especially true when all the road signs are in another language. Give Cecile a cell phone, Google Maps and a paper map for the big picture, and she can take us almost anywhere – as long as I can keep us on the road.
• T-Mobile’s cell phone coverage is better here than it is in Missouri. The mapping and navigation programs work just the same here as home (and in English), but there is always that spot with “no bars.” It’s best to plan your route before driving it.
• Tuscan mountain roads are right out of a James Bond movie. There are all the twists, hairpins, and drops, along with more than a few Fiat drivers who really think they have that Aston Martin when they pass you on a curve. But if you can look up for a second, the scenery is spectacular.

There are no passing lanes. But everyone passes in the most un-American spots. (Check out the video of our daily "home drive.")

• And that works because Italian driving relies on faith. People seem assured that the other driver will indeed pull over far enough that you can squeeze between oncoming cars or that you will know when to exit a round-about.
• Bicyclists are the most faithful of that faithful. There are neither bike lanes nor shoulders but cycling is a national sport. Whole teams of Spandex-clad pedallers keep their heads down and don’t seem to flinch when barreling cars and trucks skim by them.
• “Barreling” is a relative term. While it seems that every car and truck is roaring at Mach 1, the speed limits are low by U.S. standards. Top (and rare) freeway speed is 110 kilometers per hour – but that is just 68 miles per hour. Two-lane state highways top at 90 kph (56 mph) but are mostly 70 kph (43 mpg), dropping to 50 kph (31 mph) near towns. And there are a lot of towns. Turn off on a residential or business street and you creep at 30 kph (just under 19 mph). Speed is enforced with traffic cameras, radar scanners and the occasional Carabinieri roadblock. Carry your International Driving License in the glovebox.

• 
  There is a good reason Italians don’t drive big SUVs or brutish pickups.  The ancient old cities have streets designed for ox carts – or a single mule. Our Fiat Panda is a skinny little gem with flat sides that usually scoots through, though I didn't believe it when we belatedly saw the sign that a street was only 1.2 meters (less than 4 feet) wide.  A Cadillac Escalade would take Teflon paint and a coat of Vaseline to scrape through village roads.
• Those big SUVs also don’t squeeze petrol – which runs about $8.25 per gallon. There is some consolation that the standard European octane is closer to our mid-grade than regular. Our Fiat gets about 39 mpg on mountain roads.  It is a “mild hybrid” with a small battery and electric motor that boosts acceleration – much like an e-bike. It recharges on the downhill.
•  I’m impressed with Italian road maintenance. Most of the roads are smooth and well-striped compared to Missouri county roads. The signs that are both frequent and decipherable to an American if you look at the pictures instead of read the words. But just like when finding your way, having a good navigator to read the signs is glorious.

On the whole, driving in Italy is much easier and much more fun than I ever expected. Set aside the stereotypes and cultural fears and get behind the wheel. Buon viaggo.

An Italian stroll

 I had a real "Italian" day. 

Late this afternoon, I went for a walk in the older part of our village .  As I was strolling down one of the tiny streets admiring the view of the Tuscan hills, I saw that a fellow older man had his garage open and was puttering with something.

 I stopped to admire his work and his small but tool-packed shop. With my very minimal Italian, I indicated my admiration for his polished and fully tricked-out Piaggo 50cc Ape. “Ape” means “bee” and is the 3-wheeled truck version of the Vespa, which means “wasp”.  It’s sort of a cross between a Ford F-150 and a golf cart. No old codger could resist one – which is evident here by the number of gray heads put-putting around Boccheggiano. 

It was a sign language and partial phrase conversation, but fun. I think he told me his name, but he may have meant the name of his Ape. We both understood “arrivederci” as I wandered on.

Down the street, I came across a young fellow who I knew spoke minimal English from the time we met at the village sports bar. He was helping a friend move – by standing back and giving advice. We shared a chuckle as I walked by.

Then up the ancient grooved stones of the pedestrian lane to the big church at the top of the hill. There are lots of potted flowers in the small piazza that Cecile and I found on another evening stroll are mainained by a wonderful lady I only knew Teresa. As it happens, she was trimming plants as I walked by and welcomed me with that oh-so-Italian enthusiasm.

Our chat lengthened into a long talk and espresso at the nearby patio table. I texted Cecile, who walked up the hill to join us.

Teresa Zurzolo is the former director of the international Festival of Constante Cambiamento in Florence. She had a long career in transcultural cultural programs and is semi-retired to Boccheggiano where she writes and promotes programs in art, literature, dance and the development of culture. She speaks excellent English and has invited us back for dinner and to meet others from the village. She is an amazing woman.

But it was getting late, so we had to return to our apartment to make dinner. Just as the pasta water was boiling, however, we ran out of gas.  Like many Italian apartments, our stove is fueled from a blue butane bottle in the adjacent cabinet. But it was after 7 p.m. Saturday, so I thought we were in for cold cuts until Monday.  But on a chance, I walked down the hill to the bodega, which sells butane and always has a cluster of empty blue tanks outside the door.

I was distracted though, but the orange-trousered volunteer paramedics chatting outside the village mutual aid society office. When I used Google Translate to ask where I could borrow a wrench to change the tank, I got an English reply from Sasha, one of the volunteers.  She not only went to her house to get a wrench for me, but called the now-closed store and arranged for them to let me in the back door to get gas. That meant I wouldn’t have to wait until Monday, as the bodega is closed on Sunday.

Great! I jogged – or actually wheezed – up the hill to our apartment, put the empty tank in the car and drove down to the store. Big smiles and nods from the store lady showed me where to pick up a full tank and where to stash my empty. No real talking, but plenty of communication.

And now I’m back home, cooking with gas and feeling pretty cocky.

Fair is fair

There is nothing more "rural real" than a county fair. Or country fair. Or, in this case, a fair in another country.

We had a terrific time today at la Fiera Ghirlanda - the Garland Agricultural Fair. Like county fairs back home, it had prize pigs, giant cows, lots of vendor booths, high calorie food and rugged cowboys. Most Americans, I believe, would be surprised to find that Italy is a cattle-raising country with its own cowboy traditions.

In this part of Tuscany, the prize cattle are of the Maremma breed. They are huge and have headsets that rival Texas longhorns.

At this fair, many of the cowboys/girls were part of a drill team known as Butteri d’alta Maremma. Watch how you say that, partner. "Butteri" can translate as "butter," but in this case it properly translates as "cowherds." Or Italian cowboys. 

Whatever their label, they were a joy to watch. With matching suits and almost-fedorra hats, they had a sense of style and grace much different from what we see on the rodeo circuit. It was, in a way, a cross between home on the range and English dressage.

But I have to get one of those Italian cowboy hats.

The team rode beautiful tall steeds, but also brought out a traditional cart pulled by oxen. It was a crowd pleaser. Almost as much as all the food in the fairway.

The fair was packed with vendors hawking "antiques", toys, kitchen gear, clothing, junk and treasure.

And food. Lots of food. Italy produces an endless variety of processed meats -- salame, porchetta, prosciutto, etc, They were all there, along with Peroni beer. And Italians are experts at making sweet treats the names of which I don't know but the taste of which I crave.

We stopped at a booth to try one of the many varieties of brittle and, as usual, begged forgiveness with "Parle un po Italiano..." We were rewarded with a big smile and "It's alright, I'm as Canadian as you can get."  Sarah, it turns out, is an expatriate from Calgary who sells treats with her Italian partner when she is not teaching yoga.  It was delightfully relaxing to have a conversation in English -- accompanied with pinenut brittle.

Again just like the fairs back home, we ended the day pleasantly worn out -- but ready for our next adventure.

The other sword in the stone

 Italy has a more commendable Sword in the Stone story than the Arthurian legend. While Arthur pulled out the sword to gain power over all England, St. Galgano’s La spada nella roccia is a sign of peace.

Born to wealth in the Tuscan town of Chiusdino, Galgano had a dream in 1180 that the Archangel Michael and the Apostles would lead him to peace if he gave up his knight life. He took the deal, plunging his sword into a stone to show he renounced all violence.

Galgano lived next to the stone as an animal-loving hermit. After he died,, Pope Lucious III declared him a saint and built a round chapel around the stone (under which Galgano is supposedly buried).

But wait, it gets better.

Later, three envious louts tried to pull out the sword. A wolf that Galgano had befriended attacked the sword-stealers and ripped their arms off. And now those mummified arms are displayed in a glass case in the Montesiepi Chapel.

Sound as likely as Arthur and Merlin? Ha! In 2001 researchers from the University of Pavia used Carbon-14 dating to show the arms and the sword were indeed from the 12th century.

There may be no Italian Camelot, but the story of one man’s pledge of peace continues on a beautiful hilltop in Tuscany.

Tool Time in Italy

While having your own place in Italy puts a new spin on tourism, it also comes with responsibility. There is no front desk nor landlord to call when something doesn’t work. Just like home, it’s time to put on your handyman cap.

 Our apartment is in a building constructed sometime before 1900, so it has even more excuse for creaking bones than I do. 

Before Cecile and I arrived, Gillian and Will had scoped out the building supply stores and outfitted us with a basic set of tools. It wasn’t long before I got to try out both.

While trying to clear a sluggish drain in the kitchen sink, I broke a piece of pipe. There was nothing else to do but to find an Italian equivalent to Ace Hardware.

“Brico” is a general term in Italy for do-it-yourself – an adaptation of the French bricolage. The word is used in the name of several hardware store chains, from the huge BricoLarge to the very modern Brico.io to the inexplicably smaller MaxiBrico. Fortunately for me, there is a MaxiBrico tucked in an industrial park about 15 minutes of winding road from our apartment.

Hardware stores are magic. No matter if they are in Mid-Missouri or Mid-Tuscany, they attract some of us like light bulbs do moths. Especially if they are the kind that have little bins full of nuts, bolts and doohickeys that you just might need some day. (Even if they are measured in millimeters instead of 64ths.)

And here’s the good news: Clerks here understand the universal Tool Time language. The guy at MaxiBrico had the same response as the guy at Ace Hardware to my hand waving and “This thingy that goes into something under my sink is busted.” He looked at my broken piece of pipe, turned, led me to the plumbing department and wordlessly pointed to a whole box of thingies. 

He even smiled and nodded when I said “Grazie.” And I’m sure that, just like the guys at Ace, the nod turned to a shake when I turned around.

And like hardware clerks in any town or country, he knew he would see me again. It always takes at least two trips to the hardware store before you finish a project. 

I’ve been to the MaxiBrico three times and to its upscale Brico cousins twice. You got to love DIY tourism.

 

More than words

I’ll admit to a bit of anxiety when I heard the invitation. Lia Bonacchi, our realtor’s mother and the secret key to local life, asked us to go to a literary event she organized in nearby Prata. An actor from the regional hub Grosseto was to dramatically retell parts of The Decameron, the 14th century Italian classic written by Giovanni Boccaccio.

This is something like being invited to hear Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Old English. The Decameron is a similar set of 100 stories a group of young Florentines supposedly told to each other while waiting out the Plague in the countryside.

Cecile checked out an online English edition of Boccacio and read enough to see that the original seven young women and three young men used well-honed wit and bawdy innuendo to enliven a life in a pandemic. A bit classier than firing up Zoom.

I had no cause for anxiety.

Prato is a Tuscan hilltop town of about 500 souls. It had a few more when it endured a siege in 1285 or when it harassed Napoleon’s troops in 1799, but now welcomes both tourists and countrymen to its rustic beauty. That night it was mostly the latter – we seemed to be the only Americans in the audience.

Lia had arranged to use the historic garden of an extremely tiny stone church in the old town. (The garden is another of her projects: Conserving fruit tree varieties dear to Tuscan hearts). Sweet Tuscan night air under the branches of a heavily-laden pear.

Actor Giacomo Moscato was amazing, as was his accompaniment on the lute and other stringed instruments by Paolo Mari.

It was all in Italian, very little of which I understood. But not to worry. In a way, it reminded me of opera. Moscato’s face and pacing spoke volumes. I could focus on the rhythm of the words, the story in Moscato’s gestures and the soothing sound of the lute. The words were important (and funny, if the chuckles from the audience were evidence) but I knew that could read the details of the story later. 

It was pure performance. Molto bene.

Leave it to Lia

We chose this apartment and, even more so, Boccheggiano, based on the enthusiasm and warmth of our real estate agent, Giulio Martini. Guilio grew up in the village as the son of its only realtor. The enthusiasm he and his 30-something friends (The 4 Gatti)­­ have for their hometown is without bounds – I’ll write more on them later.

But perhaps the most wonderful benefit of buying from Guilio was being introduced to his mother, Lia Bonacchi (Italian women don’t take their husband’s name).

Lia is the ultimate Italian mama. She seems to know everyone in western Tuscany, manages a vacation rental, organizes cultural and civic events, immediately befriends you with her smile and offers her help long before you realize you need it. She is from Prata, married a Boccheggiano man, lives near Follonica and seems to be in all three places at once.

Her English is good enough that, along with a little help from Google Translate and impromptu hand waving, she can explain anything. It has enough pleasant gaps, however, to encourage Cecile and me to try expanding our tiny Italian vocabulary. Talking to her is like opening a window to Italy.

The purchase of our little piece of Italy would undoubtedly been much more stressful if Lia had not volunteered to help us with the basic civic maze of utility bills, local rules, etc. She was a godsend to Gillian when she came over in January to sign the purchase paperwork.

Now she has, in her wonderful way, befriended us and sends to us a regular stream of pointers to interesting local things to do and – even better – invitations to events she organizes.  Through her we have watched a parade of classic autos, enjoyed outdoor drama and next will attend a dinner theater at an agritourismo nearby. These are local events that don't pop up in tourist brochures.

As I ramble on about our Italian adventure for the next two months, I’ll undoubtedly by mentioning events and places that Lia has recommended that will provide us with an inside scoop on Tuscan life. 

A day at la Spiaggia - the beach

 

Italians love their beaches. And their umbrellas.

We spent Tuesday, the last day of the ferragosto holiday, at Folonica on the coast across from Elba Island. It’s been a popular beach for a long time — even before Napoleon looked longingly at it. The 15th Century Torre Mozza looks over the beach and a Roman road cuts through the water just off the sand. You can stand out of the water on a section of Via Aurelia and tan like a gladiator. 

We were all there for the sun — but in moderation. A forest of umbrellas keep people from incinerating in the Mediterranean heat. 

Contrary to the rumor, Italian beaches are not full of topless grandmothers and Adoni in speedos. It’s a family place, although the popular tiny bikini bottoms offer hectares of flesh of for bun burning.

If you forgot your bikini, or lunch or a toy to bounce on the sand, not to worry. There was a vendor for any need. My favorite was the caterpillar-tree electric cart that sold ice cream and beer.  Hey!  Look at the tractor treads ...

You gotta love Italy.

A blur, Italian style

“Una sfocatura.” 

I’m not sure if it’s the proper usage, but that’s how Google Translate described my first day in Italy.

“A blur.”

Jet travel is hell on your sense of time and space. Especially so this trip, when we had a 7-hour layover in Chicago before a 9-hour flight, then 3 hours of rental car bureaucracy followed by a 2 ½ hour drive. Then, what the hell, let’s go to a festival until near midnight!

We had a choice of trying to make a connection from our Columbia-Chicago hop flight to our main flight to Italy in 40 minutes or in 7 hours. At my age, terminal sprints can be terminal, so we chose to wait it out, but bought a day-pass to American’s comfortable Admiral’s Club. Lots of great food and comfortable chairs, but it was a less-than-perfect prep for a long “night” in an airline seat.

The flight was as expected – marginal comfort, marginal food, very marginal sleep. But our plane actually arrived a half-hour early and amazingly, we breezed through Italian customs.

Not that our luck counted for anything at the rental car counter. We had reserved a car for noon and the saleswoman-clerk said that unless we wanted to upgrade to a bigger car (hint, hint), that’s when we were going to get it.

But we are retirees and know what to do with time on our hands. Eat. And fortunately, the Rome airport had a pizza parlor to weep for.

But eventually we were packed into our cute little Fiat Panda, following Google Maps north to a town that barely shows on any map.

I don’t know why I was surprised, but the trip up the coast from Rome looked almost exactly like driving the inland route off the California coast – golden-dry grass dotted with sturdy trees (stone pines rather than live oaks) and low stucco buildings. California’s Mediterranean climate really is just that.

But like California, Italy gets greener as you go north and more so as you gain altitude. Boccheggiano is just 38 kilometers (24 miles) from the sea but quickly rises 675 meters (2,215 feet). Once you leave the coast highway, it makes that climb on twisted roads that scream for a sportscar. For obvious reasons, “Panda” is not a sportscar name.

Entering Boccheggiano was breathtaking for us even without the altitude. It’s gorgeous. And there to meet us was daughter Gillian, her husband Will, daughter Evelyn and her friend Nata. It had been Gillian’s dream to buy an Italian house, a dream she easily roped us into. Gillian, Cecile and Evelyn went to Tuscany last summer and discovered Boccheggiano and an enthusiastic realtor named Giulio Martini. The rest is quickly becoming history.

Gillian and family had been in Italy about two weeks and would share a few days with us before returning to Oregon. They were excitedly ready to show us all the Italian wonders they had discovered.

It had been about 40 hours since we rolled out of bed in Columbia. But, as Gillian pointed out, the Medieval festival in nearby Massa Marittima happens only twice a year. So, we bundled into our tiny cars, swished over the winding roads and arrived in time to pack the courtyard as people have been doing annually for hundreds of years. 

The Balestro del Girifalco features a crossbow competition between historical neighborhoods. Before the amazing archers, however, each district stages an incredible performance of flag-tossing ancient pageantry. It’s sort of a Renaissance breakdance slam.

By 11 p.m., the day had truly become a blur. Trying to navigate those twisting roads in the dark woke me up just enough to get home, have something to eat and collapse. With a smile on my face.

La vita è molto bella.

Our Italian Adventure Begins

 The adventure continues! 

Sunday, Cecile and I will depart for Italy, where we will stay for two months in a tiny historical village in Tuscany. Boccheggiano is a hilltop village of less than 400 people that has roots that go back to the pre-Roman Etruscans. 

Our daughter, Gillian, has long dreamed of having a place of her own in Europe – ala “My Year in Provence.”  But rather than France, she focused on Italy where small towns are losing so many people that the country encourages “ex pats” to buy property.

So, with Gillian, we bought a small-but-comfortable apartment in a town that is aggressively working to make sure it is around for another few centuries. The town welcomes folks like us and produces a constant stream of cultural events to draw interest. This weekend, for instance, it is producing a tribute concert to Pink Floyd, a “peace theater” production and a festival of medieval fantasy. At least that is what Google Translate told me.

Gillian and her family are there now, but leaving a few days after we arrive. We will enjoy some time together (really together in this apartment), then take the handoff. While our grandson minds our Columbia house, we will explore a simply gorgeous part of Italy.

Meanwhile, between now and mid-October I will be posting updates on Facebook and on-and-off-again travel blog “Heard from Afar.” Ciao.