A Mediterranean Holiday

Alassio, a town on the Italian Riviera

In first grade, Marie-Juliette made a new friend.  Her name was Claudia.  She was a pretty little girl, with hazel, almond-shaped eyes, a pointed chin and a pixie face.  One day Claudia’s mother approached me as we were leaving school.  She invited Marie-Juliette to play that afternoon.  Her name was Sandra and we became fast friends.  Sandra was attractive, intelligent and had a good sense of humor.  She also took time to get to know me.

As those of you know, who have lived abroad, not everyone is open to a friend from another country.  Language is a big problem.  I could basically make myself understood in Italian, but I couldn’t effectively debate abortion or capital punishment.  I had neither the vocabulary nor the sense of syntax and grammar to speak with vehemence.  Some people probably considered me mentally slow.  I sometimes felt reduced to a child-like state. 

Sandra and Marie-Juliette,  Claudia and me.

A Picnic with Claudia, Renato(father) and Sandra.

Marie-Juliette and Claudia were best friends.  They played hours of Barbies and School.  Our two families went on picnics and enjoyed one alpine vacation in the Dolomites with a group of friends.  I’ll write about that trip in a later posting.  Several summers, Marie-Juliette was invited to accompany her friend to Alassio, a town on the Italian Riviera, where Sandra and Renato had a summer house.

The girls in Alassio when they were 6 or 7.

We drove down to pick Marie-Juliette up at the end of her visit and spent an idyllic weekend.  From the village of Alassio, a narrow road zigzagged up the hill along walls dripping with fuchsia bougainvillea.  Sandra’s villa had served as a small hotel for English guests back at the turn of the century. (1890’s -think A Room with a View). There was a parlor, library, and dining room.  Upstairs were 10 bedrooms.  As I remember ours had a little sitting room attached. A middle-aged couple lived on the premises keeping things going, cleaning and cooking.  A wide terrace wrapped around the house with mature, shade trees and a profusion of flowers. The Mediterranean sparkled below. 

Fuchsia Bougainvillea

This is not Sandra and Renato's house but this photo gives you the feeling of the area.

A day in Alassio was delightful.  We would have coffee and rolls at 8 or 9.  Then we got ready for the beach.  Sandra had a cabana where her bathing suits and beach necessities were kept.  A cabana boy kept it neat and swept out.  He prepared our chaises on the beach.  We spent the morning swimming, reading and lying around while the kids played in the water or went boating.

The girls a few years later on a boat.

At 2:30 we went up to the villa for a 3 o’clock lunch.  I remember  a delectable dish of spaghetti with a fresh tomato and basil sauce.  It was perfect on a warm afternoon.  At 4 or 5 we changed and went down into the town for a passagiatta (walk) and a chiacchierata (chit-chat) with acquaintances and friends.  Maybe we’d stop at the Cafè Roma where Hemingway hung out.  Across the street is a wall that is covered with 550 tiles signed by famous people.  Back in the 50’s Alassio was a hideaway for luminaries. The story goes that Hemingway was sitting in the cafe with an artist friend, inspecting the ugly wall across the street that enclosed the public gardens.  Together they decided to hang some tiles in the dead of night to decorate the wall in hopes that the town dignitaries wouldn’t object.  After that a slew of artists hung tiles signed by famous people.

Cafè Roma

The Wall of Decorative Tiles (Il Muretto di Alassio)

In the evening after our walk or shopping expedition we would dine under the trees. I remember grilled pork chops brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with garlic and herbs. They were accompanied by thick slices of eggplant which were similarly dressed.  I’ve tried to replicate this dish but it is never quite as succulent.  I think I’m missing the flavors of the Mediterranean, the gentle sea breezes, the smooth wine and the quiet murmurings and laughter that made for a perfect night. 

Spaghetti con pomodoro fresco e basilico

For 4 people:

3/4 lb.  Spaghetti.

3/4 lb.  Beautiful summer tomatoes  

2 Tablespoons  Finely chopped onion

1-2   Garlic cloves

5 Tablespoons  Extra virgin olive oil

8-10   Large basil leaves.

Salt and Pepper

1. Put a large pan of water on to boil for the pasta.
2. Cut  the tomatoes, remove the seeds, white and green stems. Then cut in small chunks.  Chop the onion.  Chop the basil. 
3. Pour olive oil into a large skillet, add the onion and cook for a minute or two.
4. Add the tomatoes and the garlic.  Add a ladle of pasta water and cover.  Cook the tomatoes about 5 minutes.
5. Salt the pasta water well and cook the pasta al dente.  
6. Drain the pasta saving one ladle of water.
7. Fish out the garlic.
8. Add the drained pasta to the tomatoes along with the ladle of reserved pasta water
9. Sprinkle with salt, pepper and 3/4 of the chopped basil. Toss the pasta and tomatoes.
10. Fill 4 pasta bowls and sprinkle with the remaining chopped basil.

Mandarin Oranges, Veal Scaloppini and Determination.

In the 1970s, Verona was the point of convergence of the agricultural industry in Northern Italy.  Fruits and vegetables arrived from warmer climes. After high-level bartering by grocery chains, the produce was loaded on to trains destined for northern cities: Paris, Berlin, Stockholm etc.  One morning I met with 3 friends at the cafe/bar in my building.  We were going to the Mercato Generale (wholesale market) to buy commercial-sized boxes of ultra-fresh produce to be divvied up among the four of us.  My friend, Anna, had a pass into the market obtained from a relative.

The Mercato Generale today.

That morning we set off in the ancient VW van. It was dirty, rusted and made indefinable noises as we bounced along the road to the market.  The fog was thick and I followed the tail-lights of the car in front of me.  At the gate,  Anna handed over the permit which was closely examined by a chubby guy in a green uniform.  After much discussion with another guard who was doing a crossword puzzle, we were permitted to enter the parking area.

The entrance to the Mercato Generale today.

We bumped over railway tracks and parked the van on the side of the warehouse by an industrial-sized scale.  The building was enormous - like an airplane hangar. At the entrance we obtained a metal flat-bed cart.  Locating the produce we desired and the exact box that met with Anna’s approval took much of the morning.    Anna had a neat cap of dark hair, blue-grey eyes and a brisk no-nonsense manner. She was a creative cook and taught me how to make arancini (rice balls stuffed with cheese, ham or ragù and fried) and veal scaloppini.

Arancini with cheese and ham.  See link to a recipe below.

We pulled our cart through the maze of stacked produce.  Around us, screeching forklifts were propelled up and down the wide aisles by operators in blue coveralls. We piled boxes of golden carrots, fennel bulbs, cipolinni onions, mushrooms and crates of dark green spinach, baby artichokes and pears.  It was freezing in the hangar.  Up near the roof wisps of fog  crept into the warehouse.

Cipolinni Onions.

Fennel Bulbs

We arrived at the citrus aisle.  There was a vertiginous stack of boxes of mandarin oranges piled up to the roof.  Anna walked over and inspected the boxes.  She decided the 5th crate from the bottom was by far the best.  We all groaned. There were 10 or so crates piled on top of it.  But she was convinced that she had found the best box.  She marched over to a fork-lift zipping by and waved her arms.  The driver stopped and she convinced him to help us out.  With the fork lift he moved the palettes of boxes to uncover the  perfect one.  Anna thanked him profusely while the rest of us stood back, embarrassed.

When we had rolled our flat-bed cart out to the parking lot, we headed to the industrial scale where we weighed and divided up the fruits and vegetables in equal portions.  It was a dirty business, especially the spinach.   But I’ll have to admit that those mandarin oranges were the best I’ve ever eaten. 

Here’s Anna’s recipe for Scaloppine ai Funghi.  Fresh porcini mushrooms would be best, but they are difficult to come by in this country.  I’m transcribing Anna's instructions as I scribbled them down years ago.

Scaloppine ai Funghi

1. Pound 4 scaloppine (breast of veal) until thin, but not too thin and flour them.
2. Melt some butter and oil in a large pan. Sauté the scaloppine quickly on each side.  Remove and keep warm.
3. Add a glass of white wine. (6 ounces ?)  Cook till partially evaporated.
4. Add four handfuls of mushrooms.  Cover and let cook 10 minutes for a deep flavor.
5. Beat an egg yolk with some cream or milk.  Mix in and add the scaloppine. Cook for a minute or two.  Don’t let it boil.
6. Serve with a sprinkling of chopped parsley.

Here is a link to a recipe for Arancini.  http://allrecipes.com/recipe/57844/arancini/

Tests, Riots and Scruples

Several times in the first year we lived in Verona, we arrived at the school only to find it closed. I never received a school calendar.  Everyone just knew there was no school on Saint Whatchamacallit Day or on National Carabinieri Day.

I checked out the current Italian national school calendar and it greatly resembles the US: 200 days a year starting about Sept. 9th ending in June with Christmas and Easter holidays.  But back then, school started in October and there were various holidays.

At the end of 2nd grade, Marie-Juliette took the Second Grade Exams.  These included a written test:  reading, writing, arithmetic and an oral drilling with 3 unfamiliar teachers. The Italian language is such that consonants and vowels are consistently pronounced the same with a few exceptions:  “ce” is pronounced “ch” like in “cello.”  “ch” is pronounced “c” like in “cat" or in Starbuck's Caramel Macchiato.  There are a few other combinations of letters, but on the whole, once you’ve mastered the alphabet you can read or write anything.  The students don’t need to spend hours memorizing spelling lists.  Wouldn’t that be nice?  So after passing the dreaded exam, 3rd grade students began to study history, geography etc.  I remember part of the 3rd grade curriculum was the Peloponnesian Wars (431–404 BC).

Charles wore a smock like these with a red cloth bow.

Charles’s first day of school was a nightmare.  He was to attend the public school 3 blocks away since “The School of the Angels” was for girls only.  He was thrilled that morning to put on his royal blue smock with a white color and a red bow.  (I wish I had a picture!)  We slipped on his backpack and headed to the school.  Outside the school building there was a mob milling around, parents with kids in tow and rabble-rousers. A man was standing on a pedestal shouting.  People were yelling back.  At some point I lost Charles’s hand in the mêlée.  It was terribly frightening for him and for me.  By the time, I found him and picked him up in my arms, we were both crying.   The Communists or Socialists had staged this riot because the city had not done its job preparing the building for the new school year.  The walls had not been white-washed and the building hadn't been cleaned.

We went back several days later when the school building had been properly prepared for students.  For weeks thereafter,  Charles was fearful to enter the school.  However, he had a wonderful, warm teacher who made learning come alive in a room with only white-washed walls, desks and a blackboard.  There were no decorative bulletin boards with fall leaves, flowers and bunnies.

I remember that the first story Charles read was a fable about a frog that wanted to be as big as an ox.  So he huffs and puffs and eventually he blows himself to smithereenes.  The moral being: accept what you are, if you go above your station in life, you could lose everything.

Another story mystified me.  A little boy tells the story.  His father has a pet shop.  He sells 3 parrots that are exactly the same.  He sells one for, let’s say, 200 lire, one for 400 lire and one for 1,000 lire.  The little boy tells us that usually the people buy the expensive one because his papà tells his customers it’s the best.  At the end the little boy says:  “My papà doesn’t always tell the truth but I love him anyway.”  This story confounded me. What was the message for first graders?   What about the epistle we hammer into our kids: Always tell the truth. Should we? Do we?  My great grandmother used to say: “The truth need not be spoken at all times.”

FACE BLIND

Francesca‘s world is up for grabs.   Heroin is pouring into the village of Banner Bluff.  A teenager dies from an overdose and hit men are stalking Martin Marshall after he witnessed a grisly murder.   Francesca plunges into an investigation that puts her face to face with the Russian mob.  Then there’s Governor Crenshaw who makes a suspicious visit to Banner Bluff.  His slimy advances make Francesca’s skin crawl.  Meanwhile her romance with Chief of Police Tom Barnett grows in fits and starts.   This is a fast paced mystery novel with complex characters, real-life situations and delectable food.  It’s a winner.

Eternal Gratitude, Truffles and Divorce

Tagliatelle al Tartufo

After we had been living in Verona for about 6 months, Vincent got a call from Mr. C.  Remember he was the landlord of our house in Cerro Veronese.  He called to ask if there was an opening at the Gelati Sanson plant.  Mr. C’s niece was married to a Peruvian fellow.  Let’s call him José.  Because of work laws and José’s immigration status, he was unable to find work.   Mr. C was wondering if Vincent could pull some strings.

Signor C. (right) and his brother-in-law.  Aren't they dapper!

Mr. C's niece.

Signor C's brother-in-law and José.

Vincent talked to Teofilo Sanson and found a job for José.  José was happy, his bride was happy and her father was very happy AND eternally grateful.  For the next few years we lived in Verona we got surprise gifts  on a regular basis.  There would be a knock at the door and a messenger would be there with a case of Amarone wine procured from a cousin of a cousin.  Several weeks later there would be a box of perfect, ripe peaches just picked from the tree.  Sometimes we received bottles of smooth, fruity olive oil from the uncle of a sister-in-law. Once it was a large white truffle, probably worth hundreds of dollars.  And of course there were many bags of polenta flour because José’s father-in-law owned a polenta flour mill.

Perfect, fragrant Peaches.

Northern Italian Winter White Truffles, most probably from Alba in Piemonte!

Here's a black French truffle.

I’ve been thinking about the intricate family relationships that seem to exist in Italy, more than in the states.  When you marry in Italy, you unite not only the happy couple but a slew of other people: cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers-in-law. These relationships form an intricate web.  Maybe that is why the divorce rate is much lower in Italy. (US: 4.95 per 1000 people, Italy: .27 per 1000 people). Unraveling these relationships would be complicated.

Tagliatelle al tartufo

This is a simple recipe.  All you need is one very expensive truffle: ours was a Northern Italian Winter White Truffle. (1 ounce $280).  Fresh tagliatelle, Some superior extra virgin olive oil or butter and a garlic clove.

1. Cook the tagliatelle in boiling, salted water.
2. Clean the truffle with a damp cloth.   Slice in paper-thin slivers.  Save a few nice slices for decoration.
3. Peel the garlic clove.  Smash slightly.
4. Slowly warm the oil or butter with the clove of garlic.  
5. Fish out the garlic.  Add the truffle slices.
6. Briefly warm the truffle slices.
7. Add the tagliatelle and a ladle of pasta water to the oil/butter and truffles.  Mix deftly.
8. Fill four bowls.  Sprinkle with remaining truffle slices. 

I’ve seen recipes where they add freshly grated parmesan.  Others feel that the cheese masks the delicate truffle flavor!

Don’t mix a woodsy truffle with a Tartufo di Gelato!  A delicious ice cream treat fabricated to look like a truffle.

Summer on the Lago di Garda, Pizza and Love.

A View of the Lago di Garda

In these postings of life many years ago,  I’m presenting you with a multicolored past.  It’s probably not all the TRUTH. We filter the past through the rainbow of the present.  Happenings and people take on a rosy glow in the misty past.

In the summer our friends and acquaintances all left town,  heading for the mountains and the sea. One summer we spent several weeks in an apartamentino: a very small apartment above the Lago di Garda.  The complex was built on a hill.  You parked at the top and walked down stairs and along pathways to your apartment.  We had a small living/dining room with a sofa bed and a table with 4 chairs.  There was one bedroom where the 3 children slept, a miniscule bathroom and a postage-stamp kitchen with the essentials.  From the front door, there was a lovely view of the lake through the trees.  There were lots of children running around and my kids soon found playmates.  We spent a good part of the day at a hotel/club with a swimming pool that was located up the hill from our complex.

We spent time swimming and sometimes had lunch on the terrace above the pool.  I remember so well sitting in the warm sunshine, drinking sparkling San Pellegrino mineral water and looking down at the panorama of the Lago di Garda shimmering in the distance.  I still like a bottle of San Pellegrino.  I close my eyes and transport myself to those times - à la Proust and his madeleines.

View from the terrace, lake in the background.

Boys swimming.

Christopher taking a break.

In the late afternoon we would return to our apartment.  While the children played I did a lot of reading.  I had gotten a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in English.   I had read it as a girl but I remember relishing the rereading on those warm summer evenings with the children giggling outside.  I also read A Farewell To Arms for the 4th time but in Italian.  I’d read it in English, Swedish and French.  I find that reading a favorite book in a new language is a great way to enlarge one’s vocabulary.  Even if I didn't understand every word I would plunge on because I knew the story.

Marie-Juliette dried off after a swim.

Vincent stayed in Verona during the week and came out on the weekend.  I’m sure he was hot in the Verona apartment.  We looked forward to his arrival. 

I don't have many pictures of Vincent because he was the prime photographer!  Here he is at work.

Here is Vincent, second from left, with his Italian colleagues.

One Saturday we were invited to the home of a colleague of Vincent’s.  The man was a jolly fellow, round and cheerful.  There were a couple of kids, maybe 10 and 7.  They were attentive to our children.  The wife, a sturdy woman, spoke very little.  Her smile was warm and generous, but I could sense something was not right.  She gestured to me to follow her into the kitchen where she was about to make pizza dough.  She dumped flour on a wooden board, made a well in the center and with her fingers mixed in olive oil, a yeasty mixture and an egg.  She did this almost mechanically.  Her children watched and patted her arm. My children watched.  No one spoke.  She kneaded the dough in a smooth, rolling motion humming softly. 

Later the pizza emerged from the oven.  It was about two inches high, brushed with olive oil, sprinkled with herbs and salt.  I don’t remember a heavy tomato presence.  It was more like bread or a focaccia, but they called it pizza.  It was delicious.  We ate it and our host hugged his wife and she beamed.  The gentleness of the husband and his quiet affirmation of his wife was a beautiful thing to behold.

The pizza looked something like this.

Corso Porta Nuova, Opera and Carabinieri

Corso Porta Nuova

Living on Corso Porta Nuova was exhilarating. In just a few minutes I could be on Piazza Bra, a central location in Verona.  From there I could take several pedestrian streets to meet friends for a cafe, a passagiata or window shopping.  One of the major pedestrian streets was Via Giuseppe Mazzini (famous journalist, politician and activist for the unification of Italy). There are probably scores of streets named after him all over Italy.

Piazza Bra with the Roman Arena where operas are held in the summer.

Via Mazzini with tourists.

I took Via Mazzini to wend my way to a ballet class several mornings a week. American tour busses dropped off their tourists on the piazza and they followed their guide down Via Mazzini towards Romeo and Juliet’s balcony - a trumped up, disneyland sort of spot for tourists: La Casa di Giulietta. Sometimes I would enter into conversation with the folks from the homeland.  Other times I would walk among them incognito listening to their conversations in espionage mode.  I had a silly, superior feeling of being a “native” among these American foreigners!

Juliet Capulet

Juliet's balcony.

On summer evenings the Corso was bumper-to bumper buses, cars and scooters on their way to the Arena to attend the Opera La Scala.  People came from all over Europe in luxury coaches.  The Dutch and the Germans would motor down, see the opera and head back home immediately. Our apartment was not air-conditioned. We had all the windows open on warm nights.  Oh là là! When the opera was over at midnight or one in the morning, the traffic noise was ear-splitting.

View of the arena on a summer's night in opera season.

Sometimes we people-watched from the balcony.  There was always something happening.  Once I saw a woman in a small, red car being stopped by the polizia.  You need to realize that people in Italy are a lot less impressed with governmental authority.   This woman reached over and rolled up all the windows of her car.  Then she pushed down the locks on the doors.  When the policeman knocked on the windows she wouldn’t look at him.  He walked around to the other side and tried to get in.  She blew her horn and shouted something at him.  Eventually, he climbed on the hood of the car and screamed at her while banging on the windshield.  We were all laughing.  It was like a comedy act right there on the street.

Driving a car in Italy.

Another time I was with a friend picking up our daughters from school.  My friend triple-parked, left the car and we walked inside.  I was feeling a little nervous about her parking job.  But she assured me all would be well.  When we emerged from the school with the girls, a policeman was writing out a ticket.  My friend ripped it out of his hands, dropped it to the ground and stamped on it.  She yelled, “Mi scusi, signor vigile, I had to pick up my daughter.  You have no right to give a ticket to a mother doing her job.”

The policeman was dumbfounded and walked away.  How about trying that with a Chicago cop?

Pretty cool police car - a Lamborghini!

There are various levels of police in Italy depending on their jurisdiction:  municipal, provincial or national.  There is even a Guardia di Finanza in charge of financial and economic issues;  think tax evasion, fraud and anti-mafia issues.  The carabinieri is a military corps with police duties.  They are called in as riot police.  For whatever reason, they are the butt of a whole series of jokes; think “Blond jokes.”

This picture would feed into carabinieri humor!

Here's two translated carabinieri jokes:

Q. How do you burn a Carabiniere’s ear off?    

A. Call him while he’s ironing

"Maresciallo (station commander) calls the appuntato (low level officer).

"Appuntato, have a look at the car's turning signals and check if they work."

"Maresciallo, they work. No, they don't. Yes, they do. No, they don't. Yes, they do…”