tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-111477262011-12-31T17:41:55.679+01:00One American woman. Twenty acres and a 1650 farmhouse in Tuscany. Random introspection and hilarity, depending on the day.Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.comBlogger2751100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-47243850206159312112007-03-31T21:32:00.000+02:002007-03-31T21:42:26.494+02:00

Ahem. Well, there, I've said it. The Tuscan hilltop chapter of my life has ended, and this here blog is only here for posterity and memory. But new chapters in life have opened, new adventures beckon, and my fingers are itching to write about them. And, geez, I've gotten FAN MAIL! Saying Nice Things! From people who Miss Reading! People who are Not Blood-relatives! (A sucker for a compliment,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-84120561626101698542007-02-13T09:09:00.000+01:002007-02-13T14:39:56.548+01:00

To borrow a phrase, 'I came to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.' And live deliberately I did: I found my soul here on this Tuscan hilltop, a peace of spirit that I cannot find words adequate to describe. I also found a clarity of voice. An ability to articulate Things That Matter. The magnetic power of love. The transformational power of nature. The importance of Being Genuine.

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-15362883683543722692007-01-17T23:04:00.000+01:002007-02-13T17:32:39.802+01:00

I met a man this month who sucked me into (his words!), "the vortex of love." He is almost 70 years old, if my calculations are correct. And he is the most brilliant artisan, hand-hammering copper pans in his workshop in Montepulciano, a stunning hilltop town about 45 minutes south of here.It was a blustery, foggy January day. The visiting Rosmarino and I drove up to the tip-top of Montepulciano

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-75571042603160745512007-01-14T00:35:00.000+01:002007-01-14T14:31:41.081+01:00

Girls weekend out, Beatrice and Rosmarino and me. Kicking around in the fog and the windy country roads. On our to-do list: Shop for food for tomorrow night's party. Refill wine bottles. We were very busy.On our way home, we stopped at the local restaurant. It was crazy early, 6pm, and though they were closed, their door was open, taking deliveries. Since it was a Saturday night, I wanted to

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-78730136475718451882007-01-07T19:19:00.000+01:002007-01-07T22:50:01.211+01:00

I know, I know. It's been a few days. I'm sorry. Trust me that even in the hustle of the first week of the year, there are stories backed up against stories in my brain, all clamoring to be told to you: Christmas day lunch at Il Cavalieres! Wine Tasting with the Cutest Farmboy In all of Tuscany! The Befana - the 'witch of the epiphany' who brings stockings for all the boys and girls on 6

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-22937784572569994502007-01-01T16:29:00.000+01:002007-01-01T16:56:04.610+01:00

I had given a lot of thought to the idea of making resolutions this year, and decided against it. Resolutions can get overwhelming, too many intentions and not enough action. Recycle more! Be more patient! Go to the gym! Call my grandparents more often! Leap, the net will appear! This year, maybe it can be enough to live every day as if it were the last. Asking about everything - "do it

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-17182193082879930792007-01-01T15:24:00.000+01:002007-01-01T16:09:48.466+01:00

When we were kids, New Year's Day and Superbowl Sunday were the two days in the year that football was ALWAYS on in our house. That's not to say that it wasn't on at other times, but without fail - those two days it was the absolute center of activity. Mom would magically produce a giant spread of enormously fattening food, including 'snippets' (buttery sesame toasted triangles of goodness),

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-26468710610272219772007-01-01T02:55:00.000+01:002007-01-01T02:56:55.043+01:00

“We must not, in trying to think about how we can make a big difference, ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee.” – Marian Wright Edelman

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-86708499452921639282006-12-31T16:16:00.000+01:002006-12-31T18:37:52.711+01:00

(If you've seen it, you know the scene. The scene that, every New Year's Eve, gives the soft, mushy side of me hope that the 'big romantic gesture' is still alive in the world): Harry: I've been doing a lot of thinking. And the thing is, I love you. Sally: What? Harry: I love you. Sally: How do you expect me to respond to this? Harry: How about you love me too? Sally: How about I'm leaving.

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-18325854369784066092006-12-30T23:44:00.000+01:002006-12-31T01:17:41.108+01:00

Is what I said, casually and yet excitedly, to my friend il Cavaliere -- the closest thing I have to a guardian angel here -- my 'adopted Italian father,' as we refer to him. "Come, and bring your wife... we'll have drinks here, then go to Il Cacciatore for dinner, and have a wonderful night, our own version of New Year's Eve. Stay over and make a night of it in the countryside!" And so it was

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-89721746133393958182006-12-30T01:38:00.000+01:002006-12-30T01:05:53.452+01:00

Yes, kids, it's time for another adventure of the Chameleon Mouse! So settle in with a glass of something that makes you happy to drink, and sip away while we check in with our heroine. When we left her last, she was pondering what would be on the other side of that impending calendar page-turning. And as you all know, sometimes looking back can help you to look forward: ... 650 square feet,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-23608890267015589572006-12-27T19:41:00.000+01:002006-12-27T19:56:19.353+01:00

Pensieri is the Italian word for 'little gifts.' Technically translated, it comes from pensare, the verb 'to think' ... so I always think of them as "little thinking of yous". When I come back from a trip, for example, I bring a pensiero to the woman who feeds Sisi. This time of the year, pensieri are everywhere. And what's amazing is that even the smallest of businesses have logo-printed

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-73800867891438943602006-12-24T19:01:00.000+01:002006-12-24T21:34:53.573+01:00

English speakers call him Santa Claus, Italians call him 'Babbo Natale' - literally, Father Christmas (I think actually a slightly-more-affectionate, 'daddy christmas' ... which makes sense, I mean, any man sneaking into our rooms in the middle of the night we should be somewhat affectionate with, right?)It's Christmas eve, and instead of waiting alone for Babbo Natale to appear down my chimney,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-51367090333930318552006-12-24T17:54:00.000+01:002006-12-24T22:02:56.754+01:00

On Christmas eve, when D.S. and I were young, we got to pick a story out of the big Norman Rockwell Christmas book and have it read to us (or, as we got older, to read ourselves.) Being far away from extended family, it was just the four of us ... and so we created our own traditions. The story was one of them. The 'pass the present' during the reading of 'Twas The Night Before Christmas was

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-64997107058160773612006-12-23T19:52:00.000+01:002006-12-23T20:16:07.441+01:00

My brand new blackberry/cellphone had a meltdown last week. Though I do generally have a bad aura with all things electrical, 40 days from out of the box to totally dysfunctional is a new record. It MUST have been defective from the start (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) So I packed it, lovingly, up into a small box, nestled with a bunch of styrofoam wrap, and send it back to HQ at

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-27274026772446911192006-12-22T20:21:00.000+01:002006-12-22T20:27:43.043+01:00

The waxy paper wrapping from the six giant hunks of butter you used to make holiday shortbread for all your friends in town. I'm just saying: Try it. One at a time, though, if you think eyebrows will be as hip and in-fashion in 2007 as they were in 2006.

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-15507482783867328202006-12-22T14:25:00.000+01:002006-12-22T15:59:42.258+01:00

Each time I return from a trip to the States, I stick a few things in my suitcase that are hard-verging-on-impossible to find here in Italy; you've heard me babble on in almost mythical reverence of Bounce dryer sheets and Advil. Often, friends make requests: N.Terza asked for a specific brand of deodorant and REAL orville redenbacher popcorn on my last go-round. As for me, my secret imports

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-76324324614274200832006-12-21T19:28:00.000+01:002006-12-28T01:58:30.933+01:00

UBlend mused about 'his' version of the witch on the forest path (which sounded suspiciously something like a character in the Devil Wears Prada ... a black leather-clad gorgeous platinum blonde sipping a martini... wait, UBlend, you have me confused with Virgin Blogger!!!) But, yes, that reminded me that there IS this crazy dichotomy in my life: I am equal parts urban chic, globetrotting,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-23112235426401051282006-12-20T22:14:00.000+01:002006-12-20T22:26:16.211+01:00

Italy has a notably less-commercial approach to Christmas than the US. Of course, there are sales and promotions and all that, but they don't start at Halloween ... (rather, after the Immacolata). All the towns seem to be decked out in holiday finery (pics of my darling, lit up town square coming when the sun comes out) ... but generally, I would say things are more tasteful and traditional

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-75203251990953887762006-12-18T00:10:00.000+01:002006-12-18T00:44:16.034+01:00

There are magical places in my life that hold special memories; places that I love to return to and feel ... content. Like my life is as it is supposed to be, that things make sense. They are talismans, these places, and they weave together the as-yet-unfinished story of my life, following possibility. Going where doors open, learning to listen to my heart. To name a few of these places: my

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-63029505180735866332006-12-17T00:33:00.000+01:002006-12-17T01:25:15.589+01:00

A voice carries a looooooong way on clear day in open land in the quiet countryside.This afternoon, a beautiful clear sunny one ... too warm to really be early winter ... I set off to follow what was a loud grouping of voices, clearly on my land. They were neither moving nor hunting, just ... carrying on. And so, in need of a hike anyway, I headed down the drive... through the field... and onto

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-38595888809673102532006-12-15T18:10:00.000+01:002006-12-15T18:37:44.923+01:00

... since I'm sure you're wondering ... Is how long it takes one average-size woman with relatively small but mighty hands to stack 4 cubic meters (just over 141 cubic feet, according to my handy online conversion chart) of firewood. Stacked in three separate locations, including 1/4 of it hauled up a full flight of stairs. That's a looooooot of wood. Yes, I could have paid someone to do it ...

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-88471046928620749862006-12-15T10:35:00.000+01:002006-12-15T11:45:07.265+01:00

My Italian is pretty darn good for the basics; getting things accomplished: I can make appointments, conduct transactions, follow commands with the best of them. I no longer have to translate the words in my head when someone responds to me; I can think in Italian, which is a huge accomplishment.Or so I thought. When I had a problem with the well pump this week, I called Roberto the plumber,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-14215754300619899072006-12-13T18:38:00.000+01:002006-12-13T19:53:17.405+01:00

It hits me at the strangest of times, grief over the death of my father, who has been gone for nearly a decade. The triggers are varied ... a joke, a phrase, a long-unused nickname, a song (invariably country/western).Today, it was by the side of the road.The telltale loud flapping noise coming from my right rear tire was what made me pull over on the windy hillside road. I said a silent prayer

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-92114031729202321812006-12-13T00:28:00.000+01:002006-12-13T00:42:59.209+01:00

Do not grocery shop when you're hungry. Do not bathing suit shop when you're leaving for the beach in an hour. And do not realize, at 10 pm at night, that you haven't eaten anything since toast and cappuccino when you've been cooped up working next to the fireplace all day. When you finally stand up, you will be ravenous and just a little dizzy (at least partially from the smoke fumes). You

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-38925598706366275452006-12-12T17:26:00.000+01:002006-12-12T17:50:47.359+01:00

As a gorgeous, clear, colorful fall comes to an end, I knew it was coming. And today's the day. I'm moving my office. That is, from the bedroom to the living room. This is one of those things that I would never even THINK of doing in America. But here, there comes a point every year in the late fall/early winter when it's simply too f***ing cold (and really, that's as polite as I can POSSIBLY

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1812540850939471812006-12-11T22:45:00.000+01:002006-12-12T02:36:29.846+01:00

Living in a language you aren't totally comfortable in creates a level of psychic stress that it's hard to accurately explain.Not being able to casually toss a reply to a question, approach a stranger with ease, or overhear what's taking place at the table next to you: it's the little things that make navigating daily life much more challenging. It's turned me into a much more cautious person. I

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-3908211636019474612006-12-08T18:45:00.000+01:002006-12-09T01:09:52.845+01:00

I'm bound to offend someone here (what else is new?), but thank goodness I went to the grocery store yesterday, because today was yet another 'stealth holiday' here. They sneak up on me all the time. I'm sure people arriving in America think the same thing when we have, say, the ever-so-confusing Casmir Pulaski Day off (showing off my midwestern roots here). Whereas most American holidays have

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-32689761148717069072006-11-26T16:55:00.000+01:002006-11-26T17:23:48.518+01:00

Contrary to rumor and sometimes-popular beliefs, I am not an evil witch with a crusty black lump of coal where a heart should anatomically be. Occasionally, the sharp-tongued, quick-witted, potentially-abrasive, edgy and cynical Viaggiatore goes on vacation and leaves the defenses unmanned. In those moments when the armor is off I am reminded that my heart is disturbingly fragile and tender; a

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-37399979921586090902006-11-19T23:30:00.000+01:002006-11-19T23:45:44.943+01:00

Sometimes, life tosses a pitch you simply don't expect. And no matter how it turns out, stretching to hit it throws you off balance for a while. I'm still coming out swinging, but it feels like I've been forced to bunt one too many times in the last few weeks. Somehow, I can't read the pitcher. And hence, I haven't had the opportunity to play to my strengths and really take a swing ... rather

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-53983431410690886222006-11-14T19:37:00.000+01:002006-11-15T03:55:02.674+01:00

While fall is my very favorite of all the seasons, as the days darken and the seasons change, I must admit that so does my spirit. It's always been this way. I turn inward, beginning the hibernation process. "Seasonal Affective Disorder", carrying the pathetic and pithy acronym SAD. Sure, I can personally bear witness that this winter malaise is real. But geez, do we have to NAME everything?

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-84991888109706145422006-11-09T23:39:00.000+01:002006-11-10T13:55:23.415+01:00

The road to hell, and all that. I know. Sometimes it's what you ACTUALLY do, not what you INTEND to do that matters. Sometimes, what you ACTUALLY do reveals the true character of your heart. Sometimes, the palpable sense of relief that comes from being honest with yourself, and sharing that true self with others is more than enough to make up for the shortcomings in the comparatively

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-62950895491437057082006-11-08T18:17:00.000+01:002006-11-10T06:39:23.404+01:00

Many of you don't "comment" ... you just email me. Here's a recent example... "Dear Ma'am,I am writing to let you know that here in the South we use ma'am in multiple applications. It is not only a term of respect (be it one that was beaten into us from the ripe age of 2), but also a term that we use in reference to those that we feel are more intelligent, better qualified or someone that has

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-74537385777500961782006-11-07T22:45:00.000+01:002006-11-08T07:36:54.733+01:00

In "ye ole day job," it's sometimes unnerving for me that everyone seems to know me. I'm a pretty public figure at work, and it doesn't surprise me to have people who I can't quite place walk up to me and know my name, three random facts about me, and probably be able to recount some story from a past interaction. Minor celebrity would be overstating it, but I'm pretty visible to a broad

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-49525761080351261852006-11-06T23:03:00.000+01:002006-11-07T06:10:08.889+01:00

I awoke, in the middle of the night, to a tidalwave of stress and change that threatens to overwhelm me. And yet, I am strangely at peace. Paradox abounds. I breathe deeply, finding comfort in the littlest of things: The cold breeze coming through the cracked-open windowThe heavy down comforter that I am nestled under, as winter creeps in, signaling the passing of another year. The sound of

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-67220504928654982732006-11-05T21:51:00.000+01:002006-11-06T05:43:53.116+01:00

My sassy orange coat and I are feeling like this post-a-day thing is already starting to kick our proverbial ass, and it's only day five. Oh, geez. It's Sunday and even though I spent the morning daydreaming and lollygagging around in bed, I'm still feeling lazy. The cop-out post is "what I ate for dinner"... Italian food is truly SO easy to pull together, the rules being "SIMPLE" and correct

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-4912583235225237682006-11-04T17:50:00.000+01:002006-11-05T01:11:00.356+01:00

I'm pretty well a black and white girl. Meaning, that's mostly all I wear: Black. And a little white. Nine days out of ten, I'm pretty well head-to-toe in that palette, maybe with one of about 10 varied color scarves thrown in for effect. Even when it's "edgy," black and white is still... pretty basic. I was emotionally scarred about 8 years ago when, upon wearing a gorgeous olivey brown suit

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-31169045352430432982006-11-03T22:59:00.000+01:002006-11-04T23:58:33.880+01:00

What are you really scared of? What haunts you? Tonight, I'm here with Unassuming Princess and The Sports Fan. And that's the subject of conversation. What are you afraid of? In the quiet of a dark night, ... do you fear that you'll do something to ruin everything that you have going for you? ... do you fear what lies ahead ... the things that are different from where you are today? ..

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-3137071045163211252006-11-02T17:26:00.000+01:002006-11-03T00:14:59.597+01:00

Hello, you.Humbly, I realize that I've been a crappy blogger of late. And a pretty crappy friend, daughter, sister, employee. There are a thousand reasons for that, none of which matter to you in the least if you're lonely, bored, or just worried about me. Thanks for the vibes. I'm okay; just... preoccupied. There's a word in Italian for "everything tossed up in the air": soqquadro, (which

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-30030310949005511012006-11-01T21:38:00.000+01:002006-11-01T23:50:55.059+01:00

Do you know what amazes me? How one moment in time, one change in circumstance, one domino falling differently than you expected... how those tiniest imperceptible movements can turn around your mood, your attitude, your life. The last few weeks has brought a cacophony of disharmony between wishes and reality; a vast and daunting chasm between people's expectations and my ability to

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-88973930699402036962006-10-23T01:40:00.000+02:002006-10-23T23:26:49.772+02:00

This is an unscientific estimate, but I am at least 20 years older in America than I am in Italy. Must be some crazy aging process that occurs on the transatlantic flight from Rome to the US. As if flying didn't suck enough already? This, I mused, as I was recently standing in a bit of a daze in front of a gangly, acne-plagued teenage boy at the aptly-named Chicken Shack, a good-yet-fast food

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-23959627716381464282006-10-18T19:03:00.000+02:002006-10-18T19:15:26.010+02:00

(I'll take Famous Quotes for 100, Alex.) "I'll give you nothing before I'll give you crap." Okay, okay,... point taken, Elle. And you're just saying what others were thinking: Yes, Nine days is a little much. It's sweet that you've noticed. In fact, I've thought of you often, all you eager readers out in blogville, and I've even come into the dashboard a few times and started typing, but was

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155487515157747672006-10-18T12:23:00.000+02:002006-10-18T18:21:47.410+02:00

A Tuscan man. (Close second: a microplane).I'm not kidding. Maybe it's just my circle of friends, but Tuscan men are incredibly handy in the kitchen. As a matter of fact, as much as I love to tinker around in the kitchen (and create mostly-edible things), I have no ego whatsoever when it comes to turning my kitchen over to any Tuscan man who walks through my door. It's the great dichotomy of

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-63429720350657726822006-10-09T16:26:00.000+02:002006-10-09T16:31:33.284+02:00

I've been very musically inclined lately. The songs, all new, creep forth into my psyche from all angles ... a referral from a friend, from another writer, from Pandora. And most everything feels like a message coming clear out of the chaos. These were the messages I needed to hear today. Perhaps you did, too? "Some choices hold you down, some chances set you free. Right outta nowhereYou open

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1329288149950467792006-10-07T15:08:00.000+02:002006-10-07T16:01:13.660+02:00

We are full on into the beginning of Mushroom season here in my neck of the woods, and speaking of the woods ... my yard and surrounding forest is ripe and generous hunting ground, according to the locals.Mmmmmmmmmmm. Funghi. Porcini, specifically. Like golden nuggets emanating from the floor of the forest. And for what they cost, they might actually be worth about the same per ounce as gold!

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-57068384390820174782006-10-06T20:20:00.000+02:002006-10-06T21:23:36.611+02:00

This is Maxi, playing a stoic Goliath to the cricket's David, last year. You wouldn't recognize him anymore, except for the scars on his ear. After nearly a month of nursing, and repeated trips to the (cute bad boy) vet, I knew without a doubt this week that we were at the end. I had traded messages with The Diplomat & Renaissance Artist; "we have no other choices." In return, they left me a

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-72782670241828760932006-10-05T00:39:00.000+02:002006-10-05T02:19:02.984+02:00

Dear World: I know you're busy and all, but I'd like to ask a favor. Please, just for a moment, would you be able to stop spinning? You see, it seems to me that I lost about 3 and a half weeks somewhere along the way, and I've never quite recovered. And so while you keep spinning, little ole' me stays perpetually about that far behind. And I know I'm not the only one. 'Overwhelm' is one of

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-40240226852544418992006-09-20T22:27:00.000+02:002006-09-21T00:22:28.376+02:00

We've been together for thirteen years, Mark and I. We've been through two marriages, one divorce, countless moves, and the birth of four children. I nearly cheated on him, precisely two years ago this week, in London - because UBlend dared me to. But the stakes were too high, back then.But now we've been in a long-distance relationship for a year and a half, me constantly juggling my schedule

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-33690140289125628832006-09-17T17:52:00.000+02:002006-09-17T18:06:04.083+02:00

We are all mirrors to each other. And here – without the buffer of a lifetime of relationships to rely on or perfect language smoothing over the harshness - this reality is more glaringly obvious. Every time we interact with someone, we are holding up a mirror. It is how WE have chosen to see the other person. And the reflection we give back in turn becomes an almost indelible part of how she

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-36390689983169083602006-09-16T21:20:00.000+02:002006-09-16T21:36:16.820+02:00

On the agenda this morning: harvesting fennel seeds from the plants in my yard, to be dried and used this winter to season pork. And tomorrow, if it stops raining: I'll gather sage to make a large batch of sage/walnut pesto to freeze. And collect the spent lavender blossoms to make into smelly sachets for linen closets and drawers. I have totally been body snatched. Send help!! (Preferably

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-47089014047131022322006-09-16T20:32:00.000+02:002006-09-16T21:04:45.552+02:00

I'm the first to admit that my 'type' is usually* the clean-cut boy. (UBlend always teases me that he can spot my most-likely guy in a crowd when we're out together). It's the well-groomed, college-professor (usually bespectacled) type. It always has been. Without exception, all of my broken hearts have come from men who fit just that description. (*Well, except Johnny Depp, of course. But

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-6603225368705594642006-09-15T22:48:00.000+02:002006-09-15T22:57:30.898+02:00

Funny what you miss, being so far away. The last time I was back in the States, I realized I didn't know any of the new music being played on the radio in the rental cars (the music scene is completely different here, and mostly in Italian). And I realized, in a moment of sheer horror, that I have already become (with my old Norah Jones and Mary Chapin Carpenter and Counting Crows and Andrea

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-46987487889689891772006-09-13T18:24:00.000+02:002006-09-13T20:26:01.069+02:00

I have always been a namer of things. My car is Simon. My computer is Blu. Once upon a time, I had a grapefruit-sized tumor named Carl. I am now reassuring myself that the THING that is rapidly buying up real estate on my left eyelid must be some sort of vicious, oddly-placed, stress-induced adult acne. Because it CAN'T be a bug bite, right? I mean, how unlucky can one person be in a month -

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-8078968040856004872006-09-11T15:59:00.001+02:002006-09-11T15:59:49.770+02:00

Because I was in Washington DC, steps away from the US Capitol.Because that day is woven, forever, into the fiber of my being.Because living it once was enough; I do not need to watch it again.Because it was simultaneously five years, five minutes, and five lifetimes ago. Because there are no words, and yet ... not enough words:Moments of silence are insufficient, but they are all I have. I

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-29644923221334312552006-09-11T13:01:00.000+02:002006-09-11T14:09:47.937+02:00

This weekend was a veritable cacaphony of feelings, all smashed up together in something loud and impressive, but not even closely resembing harmony. I bet you can identify: With that feeling like you just want to grab someone firmly by the shoulders and shake him vigorously? Because you're standing there, watching, while that person does something colossally, immeasurably stupid and it seems

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-71232784983699809772006-09-09T16:52:00.000+02:002006-09-09T14:13:34.487+02:00

Billboards and bullshit got her downSeems like you need a little hill country,a little back roads driving, a little bit of that ole' top down.Everybody's gotta get away sometime.Forget about yourself for a whileSeems to be that all you need is a ragtop car and a ride with me ... Those are the lyrics to one of my very favorite driving songs (Carry On, Pat Green). And damn if life sometimes just

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-29499942901717790572006-09-08T00:02:00.000+02:002006-09-08T01:45:19.478+02:00

Maybe Unassuming Princess was right, that BiteWeek 2006 was supposed to teach me something.It did, actually. A lot of things.It taught me that people can surprise you. Turns out the slightly smarmy, slick-backed hair pharmacist at the top of the hill in town is actually incredibly kind, gentle, and patient. And more like a walk-in doctor's office. (CVS/Walgreens/RiteAid - eat your hearts out!

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-15942522947032462662006-09-06T01:20:00.000+02:002006-09-06T01:33:34.980+02:00

... or maybe it's all the meds.(I should not be blogging under the influence.)But I've gotta say thanks. (Momma didn't raise a rude child.)Between the comments and emails and calls that I've received, I really really can't thank you all enough for your good vibes and generally chipper thoughts during what I'm christening "BiteWeek 2006", and its' less-life-threatening, but

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-12546411384361481212006-09-04T14:09:00.000+02:002006-09-04T14:22:51.954+02:00

There's a light at the end of the tunnel. Swelling actually receding! For the first day in six, I feel like something other than death warmed over. My yelps of glee can be heard on surrounding hilltops, to be sure. Can't chitchat, though, since I'm going out to partake in an American Holiday Weekend tradition: mowing the lawn. Because, sensibly, when you've been bitten and laid flat out by

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-90500917334831793122006-09-03T18:09:00.000+02:002006-09-03T18:18:29.318+02:00

I know, you're tired of reading about my medical drama. (Not nearly as tired as I am of HAVING the drama, believe-you-me.) And so, eight inches became twelve.Fourth trip to the (very kind) pharmacist, who changed the dressings on the blister.Fever spiked. Second emergency room: in the "big city" this time.Three doctors having spider vs. scorpion discussion.Third set of injections.Four: total

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-86625519332247778182006-09-01T13:42:00.000+02:002006-09-01T14:08:44.426+02:00

(Oh, don't I wish that were nearly as exciting as it sounds.)So since I know you're hanging on my every word (hah!), here's the latest: Overnight, the "index card" of hot, inflated redness turned into the ENTIRE back side of my upper arm.Shoulder to elbow.(and of course, looking online it says "you should consult a doctor immediately if you have swelling 'across two major joints - for example,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-8232298423150585972006-08-31T21:20:00.000+02:002006-08-31T21:44:17.059+02:00

I’ve been muddling through a series of strange, relatively violent allergic reactions (Imagine funny hospital stories here: Hand flailing doctors! Medical Italian! Non capito! Aspetta! Wait here and try not to swell up more while we go have coffee!). Enter: the gradual development of a five inch by three inch giant red welt on the back of my left arm/shoulder. What started as two

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-83986692200293873012006-08-30T15:58:00.000+02:002006-08-30T16:15:38.915+02:00

... after last night's thunderstorms, today dawned sunny and blue skied.Because ... there are so many truly horrible things in the world. There is Sudan. There is the still-unrecovered, impoverished side of New Orleans. There are people starving and oppressed and fearful for their lives, all over the world, as I type this. So in the grand scheme of things it's hard to feel tooooooo sorry for

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-50067267171243528422006-08-30T02:03:00.000+02:002006-08-30T02:29:51.892+02:00

Greetings and Salutations, fine reader! FAIR WARNING: If you've dropped by looking for charming/witty/lighthearted Viaggiatore, she’s not in today. Feel free to leave a message or call back again later. Maybe tomorrow she’ll be back to regale you with the recent stories of the violent allergic reaction to the spider bite and the Italian medical system and/or her favorite kitchen utensil (a

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1156433391444900072006-08-28T22:15:00.000+02:002006-08-24T18:05:04.540+02:00

Meteorology: Dark and clear but windy, too brisk to have the bat-inviting windows open. Music: Shawn Colvin's cover of Dylan's "Lonesome When You Go". It's been on repeat for about 30 minutes now, very soothing. The simple repetitive guitar under-current is evocative of my folk-song-singing-childhood. The lyrics are simultaneously light and conversational and haunting and honest. "You're

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-70078360903366198242006-08-25T23:48:00.000+02:002006-08-26T00:45:24.742+02:00

I'm proud to say that I'm a pretty tough cookie in many ways.I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of me in a debate on something I really cared about, a business negotiation if you've screwed something up that you could have controlled, or a catfight in a dark alley. But the cookie DOES have a crumble point. (And I'd bet that I'm probably in pretty good company here:) I just can't get

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1156456423111781322006-08-24T23:31:00.000+02:002006-08-25T00:00:21.226+02:00

Orgasm in a bottle. Yes, that's my new fragrance.Okay, what it *actually* is... is a shower cream wash called I Coloniali, Strengthening Thailandese Shower Cream of Hibiscus. (catchy, eh??) It was one of the things I missed MOST while I was gone. It was a gift from Mary Ann (really, The Professor and Mary Ann, but come on, I'm not kidding myself that TP had anything at all to do with it.) It

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1156448262160672902006-08-24T21:17:00.000+02:002006-08-24T21:37:42.423+02:00

(Wiping tears out of my eyes). Well, it's official. Pluto is no longer a planet. As of today, according to the Powers that Be in the world astronomical.* Everything I knew to be true and good and correct and just and right in the world seems to be turning on its head. What's next?!?! The Pope not being Catholic? Two and two not so much equalling four? Real perfect love actually existing

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1156424355309300462006-08-24T14:31:00.000+02:002006-08-24T15:02:24.683+02:00

Wednesday is universally considered "hump day" in the 9to5, MtoF work world. It's Thursday. And I don't feel anywhere close to over the hump. Ye ole day job was indeed like a brick wall that I hit this week. So much to do. So little time. So little enthusiasm with which to do it. Reentry is, indeed, hell. I don't know where that expression came from, but it has never been truer. HOWEVER:

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155834278440429072006-08-17T18:54:00.000+02:002006-08-18T01:29:18.576+02:00

Not as in, "I'm snapping, I can't take it anymore". But rather, "I'm snapping ... out of it." Okay, I admit it. I've been seriously indulging my distractedness for the past 10 days. My introspective side. Those googly-eyed, teenage girl, "I'm the center of the world and love should appear at my doorstep" sort of feelings. And indulgent it was indeed. Oh, it's been quite a sight: I've lolled

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155735570800600372006-08-16T15:39:00.000+02:002006-08-17T11:31:42.696+02:00

Three years ago, when I was here on a hiking trip (con la bella Beatrice) and first stumbled onto the possibility of moving here, I sent myself a postcard as encouragement, as a "placeholder". It is a photo of a doorway. Today, it is still stuck to my refrigerator (by a magnet that says, "do one thing every day that scares you"). Upon the card, I wrote: “I went into the woods because I wished

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155735220512635472006-08-16T15:23:00.000+02:002006-08-16T15:36:41.166+02:00

Marketing guru Seth Godin riffs this morning on his new favorite word, "awkward." If I may say so, he's a little late to the party: awkward and angst have been on my best-words-of-all-time list for a long time. But his point is much more eloquently made than mine would have been: "The reason we need to be in search of awkward is that awkward is the barrier between us and excellence, between

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155734562431313342006-08-16T15:16:00.000+02:002006-08-16T15:22:42.446+02:00

Seems to make all the sense in the world.When breakfast is pasta with fresh tomatoes,and it's 2:30 in the afternoon before you get around to eating it,because "sleep" finally came, inconveniently, between 7 am and noon.Clearly, I'm living in the wrong time zone.

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155576394019390332006-08-14T19:04:00.000+02:002006-08-15T00:48:06.146+02:00

... that ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk in my head.... the feeling of wanting, desperately, to curl up in the fetal position.... the magnetic SWOOSH closed move that my eyelids do about every 12 and a half minutes. I am not normally a "whip up a pot of espresso at 7 pm at night" kinda gal. But desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures. I have a command performance at 8:30 for dinner

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155489070765037392006-08-13T18:45:00.000+02:002006-08-14T03:51:50.206+02:00

So, you've seen "Under the Tuscan Sun." (I make this assumption, by the way, because EVERY random stranger I run into who discovers that I live in Italy makes the completely asinine observation, "oooh, just like Under the Tuscan Sun!") You know the scene where she meets the guy, has the whirlwind romance, then leaves only to return and find that maybe "he just wasn't that into her"? That's the

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155482889841098532006-08-13T17:23:00.000+02:002006-08-13T17:42:00.003+02:00

I've developed a rule of thumb: for every week I spend on the road, I need a full day to pull myself back together into some semblance of a responsible, polite, enjoyable-to-be-around adult human being. (I suspect this formula has a multiplier that increases with age.) I zombied myself through ye-ole-day-job this past week. But this weekend finds me feeling all squashy and nesty. Cue the yoga

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155238806455446412006-08-10T21:27:00.000+02:002006-08-10T23:30:46.733+02:00

In response to my "Lets Make a Deal" post, I have received offers to trade a month in Tuscan paradise for everything ranging from a blue paper clip and undying gratitude, to an innovative "gift basket of goodies" including Larry McMurtry's phone number coupled with (my favorite) Moleskine notebooks and an orange fountain pen, in a Victorian house in the NC hills. In related news, an email was

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155230008179525802006-08-10T19:06:00.000+02:002006-08-10T20:54:08.653+02:00

No, kids, Viaggiatore is not normally a whiny sourpuss. In fact, I'm almost twistedly chipper most of the time (better living through chemistry, to be sure). But on rare occasions, I can be a whiny insufferable bitch. (No, we don't need testimonials to this effect, but thanks for offering, The Mom.) To finally be BACK and yet be trapped under the very large rock of

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155172164919627682006-08-10T02:29:00.000+02:002006-08-10T03:09:25.206+02:00

Just an average girl.In a very very big bed. Who cannot sleep. Because something's not right. Too quiet? Too hot? Too cool? The flailing of the moth?The stirring of the trees? The fullness of the moon?The feathertop mattress is lumpy in the wrong places. Her very own perfect pillow isn't squishing quite right under her head. Toss. Turn. Sigh. Tick. Tick. Tick. "Jetlag," you quietly

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1155047248946546032006-08-08T16:06:00.000+02:002006-08-09T16:33:12.096+02:00

One of the things that I miss the most when I am on the road is the chance to spend time over breakfast or lunch each day catching up on blogs and random happenings in the world. The go-go-go of life on the road doesn't allow for much rose smelling or aimless wandering out in the vast expanse of the world wide web. When I do go a-wandering, without fail, I stumble upon something that reinforces

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1154985969142674832006-08-07T23:20:00.000+02:002006-08-08T18:07:45.606+02:00

Seven long weeks on the road. And in that time, I am confident that I have learned more - about myself and others – than I am able to catalog here in one fell swoop. It shall suffice to say that while I am happy to be standing still for a while again, that in some important ways I am a changed person. When travel does not teach us something about ourselves, we should stop doing it. In the

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1154982145110557482006-08-07T22:08:00.000+02:002006-08-08T09:05:00.706+02:00

"Let's fly, let's fly away... " (if you don't have that Sinatra song in your head by now, shame on you... or happy 13th birthday). Random trivia; that song launched the glamour of travel to the mainstream US public. That was waaaaay back when it was still politically correct to say "stewardess" or "air hostess" and the general public didn't think that nylon workout pants, baggy logoed t-shirts

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1154714690578271632006-08-04T19:55:00.000+02:002006-08-08T09:45:19.486+02:00

2 hours 'til I'm back on that plane, Italy-bound. It's been a completely surreal seven weeks. The words of that John Denver song echo in my brain. (I'm leavin' on a jet plane: don't know when I'll be back again ... oh, babe, I hate to go ... So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you'll wait for me ... hold me like you'll never let me go...) I have been surrounded with some of the very best

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1153890047731409802006-07-26T06:05:00.000+02:002006-08-08T09:47:22.540+02:00

Cute guys who say "yes, ma'am" in a southern accent (even when I, disappointingly and suicide-contemplation-inducingly, find myself as the "ma'am" they are referring to.) Tearjerking country music on road trips through the midwest ("I know you're going to break my heart ... just leave the pieces when you go"). Witty satire on television. (Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert on a joint ticket in '08!)

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1153518518451874252006-07-21T23:00:00.000+02:002006-07-21T23:48:38.596+02:00

More than a handful of you have now written me offline to discover if I'm still alive, if I lost both of my hands in an unfortunate runin with a mountain lion, gone on a blog-fast in protest of the war in the Middle East, or what. (ASIDE: you like me, you really like me! You miss me when I'm gone! Golly Gee! Someone best get to work designing the Viaggiatore Fan Club t-shirts.)Long story

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1152115075467100202006-07-05T17:40:00.000+02:002006-07-05T17:57:55.500+02:00

It's been a long but exhilarating few weeks on the road. I've missed writing, but have been a victim of complete sensory overload on all fronts. Comparisons between my new and old homes abound; I just need a few moments of peace in which to categorize them. I suspect I'll be doing much musing over the next few weeks about what "home" really is. And if it's "where your heart is," how can I

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1150409725469029592006-06-15T23:24:00.000+02:002006-06-16T00:15:25.706+02:00

All your favorite shows - LOST, The Office, Grey's Anatomy - go on summer hiatus while they go make more shows. Your beloved Viaggiatore is also headed into "rerunland" for a bit, while the crunch of dayjob takes me offshore. This is my first trip back in a while, and the first since I've REALLY felt at home here, so compare-and-contrast opportunities should abound. The first such shock

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1150070985816226012006-06-12T00:29:00.000+02:002006-06-12T02:09:45.943+02:00

As an adult, I have not normally been a starstruck person. Ye ole' day job affords me the opportunity to work and brush shoulders relatively frequently with celebrities, both major and minor, and generally I find they fall into two categories: A) The majority of them are hopelessly over-handled - so it's difficult to discern what is the will of the "TALENT" vs. the interest of the Snooty

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1149834962112709042006-06-09T03:37:00.000+02:002007-03-31T18:33:34.159+02:00

Her name was Ivete. It is her voice that I hear in my head when I speak Italian badly, which is frequent. Because she spoke English badly, at times verging on incomprehensible for all but the most dedicated listener. She was a woman who cleaned my house, many years ago. She was a part-time nanny/housecleaner for my neighbor, so it was logical to turn to her, when I needed an extra hand, when my

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1149550550001686492006-06-06T01:34:00.000+02:002006-06-07T13:00:13.186+02:00

Let's talk about vacations. You've been on a vacation, right? It goes something like this: you're decompressing. Free from the stress of routine. No gym in the morning, no kid to pick up at school, no meals to plan, no day job at which to toil. You have a totally flexible schedule. Let's look at what you do: * You sleep in (why get up early? you're on vacation!) * You go out to eat every

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1149460803070142462006-06-05T00:15:00.000+02:002006-06-05T00:40:03.090+02:00

I cannot believe that I am about to post this. I debated not doing it, because it has bugger-all* to do with living in Italy, or really anything else remotely relevant to my life or any of yours. But I'm going to because I'm playing around with new blog technology (well, okay, new for not-tech-friendly ME which means it's probably already the internet version of the 8-track!!), and part of me

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1149201379075591122006-06-02T00:17:00.000+02:002006-06-02T00:47:06.273+02:00

The Old Soul said it to me once, in the context of a work situation (where we were hot and sweaty and tired and hauling stuff while our clients were showered and dressed and gliding off to evening dinner engagements): "It's not very often it's this obvious, but there is definitely an us, and there's a them."And, you see, that's the funny thing here: there is, most definitely, an 'us and them'

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1149080686785481102006-05-31T13:50:00.000+02:002006-05-31T15:04:47.023+02:00

Renaissance Artist and I spent a good chunk of the evening laughing hysterically about the fact that, if I were Frances Mayes, yesterday afternoon's chores-of-the-day would have been woven and fluffed into an entire chapter in a book. It would go into painstaking detail, something like this: "After waiting more than a year for our town's local blacksmith - a very talented, but overworked and

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1149032518169630332006-05-31T00:23:00.000+02:002006-05-31T01:41:58.200+02:00

Well, it took a year, but I've finally arrived. And by that, I mean I have officially been flirted with via "SMS". For US-dwellers, SMS messaging has been virtually nonexistent, at least among functional adults. After a year living here I barely comprehend it; it seems so... old fashioned, or the language of gawky teens. In the US, we went from carrier pigeon to snailmail right to blackberry,

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1148845455379787092006-05-28T21:26:00.000+02:002006-05-28T23:34:27.506+02:00

"How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?" (Plato) I have been, for a week now, inexplicably moody and introspective and generally out-of-sorts. So much so that I decided not to go out and about partaking in the "open cantina" day today (read: winery visiting with abandon, and on a SUNDAY - the one Sunday a year wineries here throw their doors open)

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1148737321654089032006-05-27T15:26:00.000+02:002006-05-27T18:55:28.680+02:00

I've gotta learn how to say that in Italian: I am CRANKY today. Like, cranky in an "I'd find a way to pick a fight with my grandmother - keep the cute puppies out of kicking distance" kind of way. Backstory: after an inordinately long week at the day job, I attended a lovely garden party evening/dinner at N.Terza & Ancient Historian's last night. Truly delightful, spectacular gardens and a

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1148641520910036102006-05-26T12:39:00.000+02:002006-05-26T13:05:20.990+02:00

This would not happen in my office in America.My printer is out of order. Sigh.It is out of order because a giant green beetle flew into the paper feeder. I saw it happen; he bbbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzed in through the open window, and plopped right into the slot. (Reason #2 to sleep with my mouth closed.) I tried to rescue him with tweezers, but he got spooked. A petulant child now, he will not

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1148635044823732762006-05-26T10:56:00.000+02:002006-05-26T13:12:04.283+02:00

I'm virtually certain that Italians don't have knock-knock jokes. I'll have to ask this tonight at dinner, but that assumption is predicated on one simple fact: AN ITALIAN HAS NEVER KNOCKED ON MY DOOR. Indeed, it took me a little thinking - but when people come by unexpectedly (the neighbor girl with a package that was left at her place, a delivery man, the donna delle poste, my cleaning lady

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1148502862842700012006-05-24T22:17:00.000+02:002006-05-24T22:34:22.896+02:00

[Ring, Ring!]Me: Pronto?[BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.]Me: hmmm. click. 20 minutes later: [Ring, Ring!]Me: Pronto?[BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.]Me: ARGH. click. 45 minutes after THAT:[Ring, Ring!]Me: Pronto?[BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.]Me: NOW this is getting ridiculous... click.2 hours later ... me, attempting to make a call out: Me: picking up receiver. [EMPTY SILENCE WHERE THERE SHOULD BE DIAL TONE]

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11147726.post-1148244637268261792006-05-24T17:12:00.000+02:002006-05-26T01:41:09.350+02:00

Had you been in my neck of the woods on Friday, I do hope you would have come for lunch. The six of us - all strangers before a few short months ago - laughed, drinking in the wine and the sunshine and the companionship, and it was delightful. I felt very, very lucky. You were missed. And damn, like always, we had food for every reader who's ever stopped in here to have joined us. (You would

Viaggiatorenoreply@blogger.com4