Totally Unsolicited Endorsements

Trying to apply method to madness, I wanted to have a semi-recurring feature whereby I can simply rave about how cool something is, or how much easier it's made my life, or... whatever. I hardly claim to be a trendsetter, but being "out there" as much as I am, I'm bound to stumble onto interesting stuff that you might want to know about. If we saw each other all the time, I would just mention whatever "it" is the next time we're out for a cocktail. As it is, I'm pretty much sitting here cocktailing with my computer for the forseeable future, so this is the next best thing.

Today's inaugural endorsement comes in response to a question that N.Terza asked the other night at her (belated) Thanksgiving dinner: "does anyone have a good recommendation for c-h-a-p-p-e-d lips?" (she spelled, so her five year old son would not know that she was indeed inquiring about HIS lips, clearly he's not happy with whatever solution she's found to date.)

Why, yes, (as I realized just this minute), I do. Courtesy of Delta Airlines. Now there's not much I love about the airlines these days, and indeed the list of a gazillion things that they should be doing differently is the subject of another rant entirely, but someone at Delta was smart enough to partner with L'Occitane cosmetics (or perhaps that was the other way around?) to provide samples of their anti-drying lip balm in their "overnight kits" in the business class seats.

I am a self-confessed lip girl. I once said in jest to the Unassuming Princess (on her first day of work with me years ago) that her only job was to tell me when my lipstick needed replenishing. I consider myself an amateur conneisseur of lip products, and my cosmetics basket is a graveyard of products that didn't work. So it comes with some authority that THIS is the most amazing lipbalm I've ever tried: Soft, silky (not waxy like Chapstick, not menthol-ly like Carmex or Blistex). Sort of buttery, liquid silk being caressed onto your lips. At $10 a pop, it's no small investment, either (and you can't just find it at the checkout at your local drugstore). But one swipe, and I'm totally hooked and will gladly shell out the $10 in the future. (As will the woman who was seated in seat 2F, a fact we spent at least 2 full minutes - a lifetime in idle airline chatter - discussing).

Mighty smart target marketing, L'Occitane. No one really "tests" lip balms in stores (eeeeew!) and virtually no one I know would shell out $10 a tube for something unknown. But put a free sample of it in a dry-air environment (airplane) with a marketplace that you KNOW can afford to buy it (biz class pax), and VOILA ('ecco la!'in Italian)... converted raving fans. I probably travel Delta and get upgraded often enough that I can keep myself supplied for life with free samples. But now that I've told all of YOU; their $$$$ were well spent. Go forth and be moistened.

Channeling Neil Diamond

Fair warning: those of you here for the lighthearted sidesplittingly funny stories of life in Italy may just want to skip this here post; it's the rare-and-seldom-seen "introspective" Viaggiatore here tonight. Must be the first snow last night (that or my wood stove is giving off carbon monoxide fumes. You make the call).

So I'm staring down the barrel at the first two solid months here in my new 'home.' The fatigued traveler in me couldn't be more ecstatic. Despite the fact that I still have unsettled visa dramas that are keeping me awake at night, I have officially made it through the first six months that I knew in advance would be travel hell (and it was.) There were stretches of weeks on end sleeping in hotels. Hopping from city to city (both in the US and Europe) on tours and at meetings. Less than two months of actual quality time trying to "live" in my new life here in Italy. Creating a life (not to mention learning a new language, culture) takes work; time and focus that I simply haven't had to give it.

I regret that in some ways. And in others - while I'm completely out of whack, I realize it was probably a blessing in disguise; it kept me from channeling Neil Diamond's "I am, I said" too early. For those of you with better taste in music than I have, here's the gist of it:

"Well I'm New York City born and raised...
But nowadays, I'm lost between two shores.
L.A.'s fine, but it ain't home;
New York's home, but it ain't mine no more

"I am," I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
"I am," I cried
"I am," said I
And I am lost, and I can't even say why
Leavin' me lonely still.

If I would have had the time to think about it, I probably would have felt this earlier; perhaps when I was weaker of spirit and more susceptible to 'going back' out of fear for what lies 'ahead'. But now, after my last trip 'home,' I know there is only forward. (Memo to Neil Diamond: "not even the chair" is a ridiculous reaching for a rhyme in an otherwise simple song. Leave the line blank next time. Or try "there's no one to care". But the CHAIR?!?!)

I'm characteristically overdramatizing a bit of this; I know. Reading that section back to myself (even with the melody playing in my head), it seems like I should be on some sort of pharmaceuticals. (And I'm worried about Neil Diamond talking to his furniture?)

In a "blinding flash of the obvious," it's just that Italy's fine but it's not yet home -- and DC was home, but it clearly isn't mine anymore. It's not that bad, really; just a 'be careful what you wish for' sensation. I had a few brief days transferring in-and-out of DC on this last trip, and was struck by how the city that I called 'home' for 12 years can feel foreign and odd and cold, and so quickly.

I was lucky to have a chance to connect with a few folks while I was there - the Old Soul and the Neighborhood Vigilante who were kind enough to open the "Inn" for me, though we had all of about 36 minutes of quality time together what with our schedules being so off kilter. Mr. Hospitality, who despite our star-crossed synchronization made it a point to come find me. Had a lunch with Frenchy Fashionista (who looks FAB and is a posterchild for later mommyhood!), a night out with the Unassuming Princess and the SportsFan, and a "life gives you what you need when you need it" chance encounter with the Sensitive Rebel.

I should have thought it through and planned more time. I have loose ends there that are desperately in need of tying up, and in person. But to spend too much time there just yet is to run the danger of slipping "back" in, when my energies need to be focused on carving a "forward".

Having to 'schedule' time with all these folks who I just used to happen upon in my everyday life is a reminder that I don't live that life anymore, and that makes me a little sad; thinking I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have when it was there. And the flip side of that coin is the "new life" which hasn't quite taken shape yet either ... so it is really that strange "lost between two shores" feeling.

When I met the Mom and Danza Sorellina in a hotel lobby in SanFran, DS put it best (to The Mom): "See, I TOLD you she'd look like an Italian". And to all my neighbors here, I'm simply "the American". Sigh. To eventually be comfortable everywhere, I guess first you have to fit in nowhere.

4 to 20 in ... 12 hours and counting

So here's the thing about my house: it's *really* well insulated - a great thing until you're trying to get it warmed up again after it's become a four degree icebox.

Fast forward through the heating dilemma: Renaissance Artist arrived and was just as helpless as I was (as much as I wanted the heat fixed, I was admittedly thankful that he didn't just walk in, shake his head, flip a switch and say, "silly girl - look how easy THAT was" - which is so often the case with me and things mechanical.)

But no. So we put in a call to Patrizio, the technician who had been out to service the unit a few weeks earlier. Bless his sweet heart, he calls back at 6pm on a Friday night. He tries to talk R.A. through some checks over the phone, and finally suggests that we check (and change) the batteries in the thermostat unit.

There are two AA batteries that are nestled into a panel on the wall thermostat. The digital display on the thermostat is functioning with no trouble, so my assumption had been that the batteries are a backup of some sort?

It doesn't make sense but I swap them out with two new batteries. And instantly, the heat hums on. After five hours of icicles in my brain (not to mention my toes and fingers), I literally shriek and do a little jig as I warm my hands on the radiator now creaking to life. R.A. looks relieved to say the least.

I went to bed that night dressed head to toe in warming gear, as EVERYTHING in the house (my bedsheets included!) had lived for many days at 4 degrees, and warming that up is no small or quick project. I actually blew the sheets with a hairdryer to try to take some of the chill off before getting in. When I awoke at 6 am the next day, it was about 18 degrees in the house -- not toasty warm but considerably more liveable and improving as the sun rose.

I laugh to think that THE ENTIRE SYSTEM was brought to a screeching halt by two AA batteries. How ridiculous; how Italian.

Typing with gloves on

It’s the day after Thanksgiving (more on that later). But at the moment, I am most thankful for Big REd. He gave me the gloves and fur hat that I am wearing for Christmas last year, and they are the only thing keeping me warm in my oh-so-frigid house right now. The thermometer *in* my living room says FOUR (39.2 Farenheit, but who's counting?)

Let me back up.

After 24 days on the road (DC, Sonoma, Sacramento, Seattle, DC again, Ireland and Northern Ireland), I flew back into Pisa last night. I had initially planned to stay the night in Pisa then train in this morning to meet il Cavaliere (Simon was staying with him while I was gone). When traveling, flexibility is key – when I arrived near midnight, I realized there was a train strike scheduled for Friday. So I jumped on the bus with all the other low-fare passengers and schlepped into downtown Florence very early this morning, where my friends at the Hotel Astoria found a room and a glass of wine for me.

Today, considerably refreshed, I met up with Il Cavaliere, was reunited with Simon and we drove the hour south back home. Weather here is coooooooooooooooooooold and rainy; not the ‘Bella Toscana’ that I left. Somewhere on that one hour journey, I discovered that Simon’s only problem seems to be that he doesn’t have heat. Hmmmmm. That’s a problem we’ll work to remedy on Monday. For now, I’m just happy to be home.

After 3+ weeks being gone, I knew the house would need a little love. I walked in immediately and noticed that – although I had left the thermostat set on a reasonable 15 degrees (59F) - I could see my breath.

And my olive oil is congealed.

Houston, we have a problem.

I play with the Caldaia for a bit, but to no avail. (and I did have it serviced 5 weeks ago). It may be the pilot light. Then again, today may just not be my day for heaters.

I laid a fire. Put the teakettle, a coat, fur hat, wool socks, and my winter boots on. I remind myself that this house was built in 1650 and that people lived here for HUNDREDS of years with only a fireplace to keep them warm in nights like this. (Which makes me feel spoiled and petulant and modernly bitchy for wishing everything was toasty warm). As I type this, I am waiting for the Renaissance Artist to swing by and take a look.

Heavy sigh. Which reminds me that I can still see my breath. I amuse myself first by unpacking, then by moving the computer in next to the fireplace.

It’s good to be home, but it would be better to be home AND warm. Yeah, yeah – beggers and choosers and all that.

If "you don't know what you've got until it's gone"...

... then it follows logically that you don't know what you've missed until you're back.

Today, that is a giant buffalo chicken taco salad with blue cheese dressing. It really should be washed down with a beer, but I'm at the office and the powers that be generally frown on afternoon drunkeness.

Like heaven in a bowl. Trust me on this.

Cinghiale and Mosche and Nebbia, oh my!

Today, I am enroute to France.

Aaaah, so breezy and casual sounding, "today I'm enroute to France". Yeah, well, let me just erase that picture of tranquility from your mind. A 5 hour drive that took 8 due to vicious traffic and driving rain, racing to get the car returned before they close, a marginal airport Novotel (oh WHY are those places so miserable?!?!), a 4 am wakeup call, jockeying for a seat on the 6:10 am flight to Paris, where I'm currently cooling my jets (bad pun intended) in the painful Charles deGaulle airport for 5 hours waiting for my flight to NY, then on to DC.

So it's another travel marathon starting. And truthfully, between the fruitflies and the regular flies and the giant holes being gouged in my lawn by the wild boar (cinghiale = pronounced cheen-ge-ah-lay), and the early onset of the weird fog season, that's not entirely breaking my heart. Sometimes even paradise is just a foggy place overrun by insects. They didn't name it "Under the Tuscan Fog... " (I'm sure that's the sequel, really...!)

That's the thing living with nature - you kinda take the good with the bad. The stunning sunsets and crisp fall days are always balanced out. I have become a champion flyswatter, and have basically become numb to the constant buzzing. Apparently it only lasts until the first freeze, which can't come soon enough for my taste.

The cinghiale, while endearing in so many ways as you hear them out the windows at night snorting around rooting for acorns, truffles, berries, whatever... they can do a BOATLOAD of damage to a lawn. Whole sections just ... torn up by hooves and snouts. Whew. Now that I've seen the darker side of the cinghiale, I don't feel the slightest bit badly when hunting season comes around. Hear me now, believe me later, cinghiale: tear up my lawn, and I'll have you stewed for dinner. And you'll be yummy.

And as for the fog -- nebbia: on a clear day, I can see for more than 30 kms off my ridge. On a foggy day, I can barely see my driveway. Thankfully, at my elevation it clears usually around noon, though the lower 'town' proper has been shrouded for days on end this past week. Creepy, really. The middle of the day in an otherwise charming medieval town suddenly seems like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe poem. People bundled in coats and scarves to stave off the damp, though the thermometer says it's actually quite lovely low 60s. I have never really lived somewhere in my adult life with a 'fog culture', and boy am I getting an education. It takes on a life of its own ... truly insidious, moving constantly, licking at buildings and trees. Looking out onto a fogged in valley in just the right light is like looking down on an ocean. And just as fast as it arrived, it can vanish. Turn a curve or go through a tunnel, and you're in or out of it. Fascinating, really.

The Renaissance Artist is home while I'm away; had a chance to have dinner with him the night before I left. Too much grappa and Irish folk songs later, it was good to see him. Funny, isn't it, how you enjoy people differently 'in couples' vs. 'out of couples'? But that's a subject for another post.

For now, it's my traditional offering to the travel gods: a double shot of Airborne and some Zicam, and I'm off.

Are we there yet?

I wonder when it is that I'll finally feel like I am completely confident that what I THINK I am saying is what people are actually hearing?

How long before words come easily - and easily confused words (pesche for peaches, pesce for fish ... sceglia, choice or scioglie, melt) don't play gymnastics with my mind and tongue?

How long before I can elegantly and kindly offer someone a glass of wine when they are a guest in my home, as opposed to the awkward equivalent of "Want wine, you??"

When will the elusive 'conditional' tense make SENSE to me?

How long is it before I can casually eavesdrop on a conversation at the next table?

(Heavy sigh.) Longer than I've been here.

No, Patience is not my long suit. (As blogdaddy Sean, The Sensitive Rebel, would say, um, have you met you?!?!)

Perserverance, however, is. Funny that. And I'm not afraid to make a total ass out of myself, which helps.

I heard through my neighbor that Biondo, our darling wood-man, said after meeting me, "She doesn't seem like an American. She must have been Italian in another life"

Oh, I could have kissed him!!!

I may still accidentally order peaches from the fish cart, but according to Biondo, I do it with an Italian spirit. And THAT is no small accomplishment.

Sometimes the little victories are the sweetest. Or so I tell myself because they're the only ones I have. That's kind of like enjoying MRE's when you have no other food source, I get it. But hey, self-delusion is a talent, too.