UJ Memories

“Grazie, Perugia!” Such are the final words from international jazz superstar (obligatory adjectives around here these days) Herbie Hancock, as he and his band thank the huge crowd at Santa Giuliana Arena, a veritable mob that has crowded in front of the stage for his twenty minute encore, snapping pictures with their phones, dancing, smiling, groovin’ and rockin’, chanting “Air-Bee,” “Air-Bee,” “Air-Bee!” Airbee and his band shuffle off the stage and the crowd finally accepts the fact that the night is over. They clearly don’t want it to be.

Airbee Ancock is the perfect bookend to a run of several nights at the Umbria Jazz Festival that started with another international jazz superstar (I swear this term must be in the Italian section of the Italian-English dictionary), Sonny Rollins. The night before Rollins played the Arena was packed to overflowing to see Italian pianist Stefano Bollani and Brazilian superstar (and international jazz superstar) Caetano Veloso. It was an almost hometown concert that packed them in. But the crowd that came to see Sonny Rollins came to see a legend and they were not disappointed.

Rollins gave a great performance, but even if the 78 year old saxophonist had honked and squeaked all night the crowd would have loved it. They were there to pay homage to a jazz great and the enormous crowd was clearly well schooled in his music and style, applauding at a riff here and a motif there. And did I say the crowd was enormous? Well it was. Every space on the vast outdoor arena floor was covered with seats, each of which is attached to the temporary wooden flooring with screws and chains to prevent the notoriously “independent thinking” Italians from moving their Section D seats to the front row. We have actually been quite impressed with this group of Italians’ manners and groupthink. In most cases in Italy if you put an object of desire in front of a group of Italians (for example, a train station ticket window), mass chaos will ensue, as each one in the group believes it is his right to be the first one served. I have seen old women elbowed aside by middle aged men, shamelessly and without regret, to be the first to check in at the airport. Taxi queues? Fuhgeddaboutit!

So it makes perfect sense that each plastic lawn chair bears a sticker with the section, row and seat number on it and is chained to the floor like a ballpoint pen in a bank. But at Umbria Jazz there seems be a civilizing instinct emanating from somewhere, the music perhaps, and during our days here we have seen few examples of the pathological desire to be first that unfortunately seems to be part of the Italian psyche. Not to say that the crowd has been completely virtuous. We have arrived late several nights to find people sitting in our seats (if you can’t take your seat with you, get thee to anotherseat) and who made us feel bad for making them move. The 15 minute interval between performers during the concerts featuring more than one artist also seem to be a period of reversion for many, as the throng mobs the refreshment tents lining the perimeter of the arena to get a porchetta sandwich or a glass of wine, pushing and jostling to be first in line even if they are tenth in line. And as each concert ends, the crowd rushes forward to the stage, chanting the name of the performer to coax him or her back on stage for an encore. It is an enthusiastic and respectful gesture, but be careful not to be in the aisle when this human wave crests, or you may never come up for air.

* * *

Herbie Hancock and Sonny Rollins are arguably the two biggest headliners here at this 10 day festival that features a main performance nightly at the outdoor Arena Santa Giuliana, a venue which, when fully set up with chairs, will probably hold 4,000 or so spectators. The opening night concert of Bollani and Veloso was packed and completely sold out as was the Sonny Rollins concert. As the week wore on, fewer seats were set up for performers with lesser drawing power, making the arena seem large and empty. The Cassandra Wilson/David Sanborn concert evening was slightly sad, as only half the seats were set up in the arena and the bitter cold temperatures sent much of the audience heading for the exits after each song. By the time David Sanborn gave his final encore after midnight (“Thank you, Perugia!”) the crowd that rushed the stage could have fit in a night club. Era una peccata, it was a shame, however, because his performance had more energy and raw power than any of the other performances. Until Airbee.

Herbie Hancock is a jazz god. His performance last night was the best performance I have ever witnessed anywhere. The man is so talented and magnetic that we should all be grateful that he chose to go into music rather than staring a cult. Incredibly his performance followed a young pianist that has recently burst onto the jazz scene named Gerald Clayton. Clayton absolutely wowed the audience for over an hour with his virtuosity and style, but his youthful excitement really captured the crowd. Everyone in Santa Giuliana could tell that he loved playing, that there was nowhere he would rather be than at that piano in front of that audience, playing that number with that band. And oh, how he can play.

This young fella may not realize how lucky he is to be opening for Airbee because he is learning from a master. Hancock has it all. Great numbers, an absolutely awesome talented band, undeniable virtuosity, energy, vitality, vigor and showmanship. This guy and his band not only performed flawlessly over an hour and a half, they made everyone in the arena feel as though he or she was witnessing something special. And they were. It was a contrast to Sonny Rollins, who played brilliantly but a bit formulaically (the group starts with a theme, then hands it off to one another as each member is featured as a soloist), a concert showcasing (rightly) Sonny Rollins, the performer that the audience paid to see. Hancock’s performance was about much more than himself. At various times he introduced a member of his band, the bass player or the guitar player from Africa, and left stage as the spotlight shined on the one soloist for ten minutes. And oh, how they could play. Each of them could be headlining in Perugia himself. Hancock brought in two singers as well, a black woman with soul who could belt it out and who mesmerized the audience and a white singer who he probably should have left in the dressing room. While her voice was good, it was hard to tell after a few minutes whether her moves were real or written for her by Saturday Night Live. She reminded me of Molly Shannon as a lounge singer.

Herbie spoke to the audience throughout the concert, telling long stories, or introducing a band member. Most of the audience, non-English speaking as they are (when will they ever get with the program? They better watch out if John McCain is elected president), couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but they bobbed and reacted to the sounds coming out of his throat, enjoying it like music. This is a guy who has a real talent for communicating with sound.

* * *

In general, the American musicians at Umbria Jazz had difficulty communicating with the largely Italian audiences. That is in the rare cases where the American musicians seemed to care to try to communicate. “Thank you, Perugia” really doesn’t cut it when you spend 90 minutes with an audience that has paid somewhere in the neighborhood of €50 for a ticket. We have been treated to such complicated Italian phrases as “Molto grazie,” “Grazie, Perugia” and the linguistically challenging “mille grazie.” Whew! It is hard to imagine where these busy, hardworking musicians have found the time to study at Berlitz or listen to their Italian tapes.

Not every musician should be expected to maintain a running commentary in the native language as Caetano Veloso did. The Brazilian, whose native language is Portugese not only spoke in good Italian between every number, he sang “La Mer” in perfect French from memory, after introducing the song as one he was dedicating to his mentor and first manager, who had recently died. That’s a lot more for your euro than “grazie.”

Why doesn’t one of these international jazz superstars put his crack publicity department to work writing up a simple set of welcome comments in Italian, which the performer could read? Even if he mangled it badly, I expect the Italians would applaud him or her for trying. It’s not that hard to try. We make fools of ourselves every day for our simplistic language skills when we order at a restaurant, make a reservation for the hydrofoil or buy a pair of pants at the clothing store. And I’m talking about when we’re home in America.

* * *

And while I’m at it, they might think about playing a few more pieces with Italian themes. Jazz fans love jazz music and in many instances the theme is just a starting point and is completely lost as the performer launches into ad lib solos that bear only a tangential relationship to the original. But God bless Sonny Rollins, who for his second encore played a straight ahead rendition of some well known Italian popular song. Well known to the audience, evidently, who gasped and then cheered after a few notes and who hummed along with Rollins every time the theme would return. A few days later when watching a tribute to Nat King Cole by singer Allan Harris over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres at the Brufani Hotel the crowd went crazy when he crooned a song starting “Non Dimenticar” (“Don’t Forget”), one middle aged Italian woman shouting “bravissimo” so enthusiastically I was afraid she was going to throw her panties on the stage.

* * *

Perhaps the most interesting cultural experience for us this week has been scalping our extra tickets in front of the Arena Santa Giuliana. When we began planning to attend this year’s Umbria Jazz festival, we thought we might be bringing a group of 6 or 8 friends or guests with us. Unfortunately the late start in planning this adventure and the weakness of the dollar left us with a smaller group. I had gone online the day tickets became available and snapped up at least ten tickets to all of the events in seats generally in the first 10 rows of the arena. Rather than have the extras go unused, we decided to sell them at the arena’s entrance before each concert started.

Our first difficulty was in determining whether we could scalp our tickets legally or whether we might spend the night in jail. Seems like a simple question but, as we have painfully learned through our home buying experience here, even the simplest, black and white legal question in Italy is unanswerable. It is not that there is no answer to this straightforward question. It is simply that no one will give you a simple answer or any answer at all. It is impressive indeed to observe an Italian respond to a direct question without answering it. They summon up all their skills in body language to avoid a direct gaze while yammering and mumbling about something and before you know it they haven’t answered the question. They somehow mesmerize you, however, and within a few minutes you are so confused and exhausted that you have forgotten your original question. When I was young I would jokingly avoid answering a tough question by excitedly pointing over the questioner’s shoulder, requiring him to look backwards, and shouting “Look! Halley’s comet!” I wish I had mastered the Italian art of sidestepping back then. It’s much more effective.

So, completely confused whether we could do so, we decided to start dumping our tickets on the very first night, targeting the huge crowd of concertgoers looking for tickets to the Bollani/Veloso concert. We were fortunate that we bumped into our Italian friend, Adriano, just outside the trailer that serves as the box office, a few yards from the arena entrance. Adriano, a professional photographer who is credentialed to take concert photos from the area just in front of the stage, didn’t hesitate to take our tickets and walk into the large crowd trying to sell them. I followed him into the melee so I could learn how he directly he offered up the tickets. A quiet man generally, Adriano seemed to pick his marks, looking for couples that might pay for the high dollar (euro, actually) ticket, and approaching them slowly, quietly saying only “biglietti” (tickets). He was often rejected or ignored, but on several occasions a beautiful dance would ensue with information about the price and location being exchange without anyone appearing to say or do anything. The Italians have an interesting way of communicating without using many words (they seem to supplement this with the use of their hands), but that first evening at least we sold all of our inventory quickly and for full price. And we didn’t end up in jail.

The next night, the night of Sonny Rollins, there was a very small crowd at the ticket window looking for night of performance tickets. The few stragglers who wandered by generally already had tickets but occasionally a couple would approach the trailer looking for tickets. The €80 ticket price was a difficult mountain to climb, however, and Adriano, who had showed up early for the express purpose of helping us sell our tickets refused to reduce our price in order to sell out. Italians are always looking for bargain (un sconto) but Adriano, on the other side was holding firm. As the evening drew later and later and desperation began to sink in, we held a fire sale and sold nearly everything.

The next night’s draw – Cassandra Wilson and David Sanborn – was a desert. The arena was only set up with half the seats of the previous two evenings and it seemed unlikely that even this lower capacity would be filled. This time with our friend Javier we went low early, offering substantial discounts to anyone who appeared remotely interested. But if you show weakness to an Italian, he will try to take advantage of it. The following night as we were trying to scalp tickets to Gerald Clayton and Herbie Hancock, one of the festival’s biggest draws, my offer (by this fourth evening we were comfortable enough to plunge into the crowd ourselves, without the aid of an Italian friend to do the dirty work for us) to sell these prized tickets for about half price, €30, was countered by an offer for €20. When we compromised at €25 I was given a €20 bill and a handful of coins that totaled somewhere just south of €23. No wonder the dollar can’t keep up with the euro.

But after all the commerce is done, you have made a friend for life, especially if you are selling front row seats. Italians are able to compartmentalize so many things in their lives and seem to be able to live with great contradiction. If you ever watch a group of old men in a piazza late in the afternoon, you can safely bet that they will be engaged in Italy’s favorite and most accomplished sport – arguing. Old men in dark suit jackets and plaid caps, their faces within inches of each other like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire, their hands stabbing the air in a menacing fashion, their voices raised and expletives streaming forth. It is a sight to behold. But look back within a few minutes and that same group of men is hugging each other and kissing each other on the cheek before departing for home and dreaming about tomorrow’s arguments.

So before each concert we swear and frown and argue about ticket prices, but when we enter the arena and take our seats around the people to whom we have just moments earlier cursed, we are treated like royalty. And rightly so, for my hard advance work has netted us the best seats in the house every night. Maybe it is the natural suspicion of the Italian mind, but I don’t think they really believe that they are buying good seats until they sit in them. They expect that we have scammed them somehow and when we arrive at our seats there is a sea of smiling faces to whom we have sold a half hour earlier. One younger guy to whom we sold fourth row aisle tickets to Herbie Hancock saw me enter and shouted “Forza America” – “go America” or “America rocks” and hugged me. Two shy girls to whom Suzy sold said “grazie” so many times we began to wonder if they had some sort of speech impediment.

A particular favorite was a family to whom we sold Sonny Rollins tickets. The mother and father of a teenage boy were extremely cold and harsh buyers, agreeing to buy three of our €80 for €75 total. It appeared that they didn’t have much interest in the concert, but their son seemed beside himself that they might be sitting in the front section. They consulted with him and without ever cracking the faintest smile shelled out the euros for him. When we arrived at our seats the family, who had another two small children, had taken six of our seats, despite paying for only three, and the ones they took were not even theirs – they were ours. When we asked them to move out of our seats they looked at us like we had done something wrong and moved a row behind us where the two younger children proceeded to play patty cake with their parents throughout the concert, standing in front of their mom and dad and, consequently squashed up directly behind Suzy and me, jumping up and down the entire time and generally shaking our entire row. But throughout the concert the teenage boy sat entranced by Sonny Rollins. What a horrible little family except that one magical kid. Seeing him completely lost in the music and the evening made all the jostling worth it.

One of our buyers, a particularly drunk Italian man who bought second section, second row seats for Cassandra Wilson and David Sanborn decided he didn’t like Sanborn’s Italian imported horn section and proceeded to scream obscenities at Sanborn for having the gall to hire such a talentless group of locals. It was a sight to behold as he would blurt out insults every few minutes and eventually he was shouted down by his neighbors. Before he got up and left, with a few choice hand gestures, he turned to our friend Javier, who was sitting next to him and from whom he bought the ticket and said, only half jokingly, that he should give him back his money.

And then there was Forza America guy. He and his buddy agonized for twenty minutes before buying Herbie Hancock tickets. We had three for sale and they spent twenty minutes trying to convince their friend to come down to the arena to join them. They appeared either extremely drunk or just plain simple, their friend on the other end of the phone even more so, not being able figure out where the nearby bus station was, despite being a native of Perugia. After the hug and sitting through having to listen to the two friends talk to one another throughout the opening act they pulled one of the classic moves we have seen. For the first few minutes of each act the credentialed photographers are permitted to stand directly in front of the stage and take photographs. No photography is permitted after that time, although you see plenty of pocket cameras and camcorders in use. As Airbee Ancock began his set I looked for our friend Adriano, the photographer, in front of the stage taking his photos. He was there in his photographer’s safari jacket, surrounded by a couple of dozen other photographers and videographers, many of them similarly wearing safari jackets, donning cameras with enormous telephoto lenses. It was then that I noticed a younger photographer join the crowd, not wearing the usual safari jacket but just a plain t shirt. And in his hand he held not a digital Nikon or Cannon, but a camera phone, the tiny flash popping every couple of seconds, getting the greatest photos of the greatest night of his life. When the photographers were told to leave he returned right to our section, taking his seat right behind me.

Forza, Italia.

Italy in the Key of Si

As we have been writing for years, the Italian experience is an incredibly powerful and multifaceted one. It is simply impossible to identify one single experience or image that completely sums up this country – the food, the warm, friendly people, the art, its history as a worldwide empire and as a leader in a political, artistic and cultural renaissance that transformed the western world, Italian design and style, the passion of its artisans. When we set out to design a logo for our Italian import company, Bella Italia, we found it impossible to find a single image that captured the many facets of the Italian experience. If you use a hodgepodge of architectural icons – the coliseum, the leaning tower, the duomo – then you miss the beauty of the countryside or the food. Focus your image on olives or grapes and you miss out on pastas and cheeses or beaches or the Romans and Etruscans.

No, no one single image captures the entire sweep of this fascinating country and its way of life. At Bella Italia we finally settled on the emblematic cypress trees and a meandering road, the trees designed to trigger a flood of memories for those who have spent time in their own villa here and the road symbolizing the journey of discovery that makes visiting this country such a pleasant adventure, its windiness symbolic of the joy of the unstructured, unforced itinerary.

Throughout our many visits here over the years, we have supped at the enormous table that is Italy, trying a little bite here, a few morsels there, trying a little of that unusual dish tucked back there. More often than not we have overindulged rather than grazed, and while there is still much to see and experience, we have seen a lot, from traditional festivals with grown men dressed in colorful medieval costumes engaged in activities from jousting to horse and donkey racing to hauling enormous wooden logs up a mountain path. We have dined in fancy restaurants, tourist traps, humble trattorias and at the family table of friends of ours. We have sampled cheeses from goats, sheep and cows, watched donkeys being milked and have eaten meatballs made from the same. We’ve travelled by car, bus, train, bicycle, funiculare, aliscafo and vaporetto. I think it is safe to say that our experiences in Italy have been nearly as varied as what this country has to offer.

Until Saturday.

Saturday marked the opening of the thirty fifth annual Umbria Jazz Festival, held in, or more accurately, overrunning Perugia each summer in July. Quite simply, it has been the most amazing experience we have had in Italy.

Perugia is a great city. It is important historically and artistically and remains today an important tourist town, but at the same time it is a living, breathing city with one foot as firmly leading it into the future as its other is anchored to the past. At any time of year its main street, the Corso Vannucci, named after its favorite son, the painter il Perugino, is alive with young people who fill the enrollments of the many faculties of this university town, smoking, drinking a beer on the sidewalk, talking, arguing, kissing and smiling, all in large groups (except the kissing). They share this city respectfully and courteously with their older counterparts, many of whom look like they came from central casting, strolling down the Corso with a tweed cap and stylish jacket, hands clasped behind them as they not quite saunter but slowly glide down the street during their traditional nightly passagiata. Tourists, too, scurry by, followed by businessmen and women, lawyers and accountants, two by two as if on their way to some professional arc, deep in discussion about the problem of the day.

Once a year Perugia hosts a great international chocolate exhibition, thanks to its position as a leader in the confectionary business boasting a number of the world’s preeminent chocolatiers, none as well known as the world famous Perugina. Our very first overnight visit to Perugia was unknowingly booked during Eurochocolate, which made our arrival into the historic center of town, where both our hotel and the ourdoor exhibition take place, a real ordeal. But oh how it was worth it. The excitement of stumbling upon something as joyous and delectable as Eurochocolate guaranteed our lifelong love affair with this city.

* * *

Our first exposure to Umbria Jazz is a jazz brunch held at the Ristorante la Taverna (Via delle Streghe, 8, tel. 075 5724128), an elegant restaurant just off the Corso Vannucci in the historic center of Perugia. This year’s international festival is featuring such household names as Sonny Rollins, Herbie Hancock, Gary Burton, Cassandra Wilson, Pat Metheny and Alicia Keys, but our first event is brunch, not exactly an Italian tradition, featuring Rockin’ Dopsie and the Zydeco Twisters, not exactly household names.

The moment we arrive at La Taverna we know that this festival is going to be special. We arrive a few minutes before the scheduled 1:00pm start and the restaurant is already filling. We are greeted by the manager, with whom we had booked a table months ago in order to get a good seat. We are not disappointed as one of the pretty waitresses escorts us to our front row table, my seat actually partly at our table, partly on the stage area. Within minutes wine is being served, this being Italy, and a few minutes later an unmistakable group of monolingual (English only, please) musicians sets up less than a foot away. When the first note explodes from their instruments and the speakers it is as though some sort of high tech wave has been unleashed, immediately transforming the entire audience into a joyous mass. Dopsie’s energy and enthusiasm, their love for their music and their audience and their impressive talent wins over the audience by the end of the first measure. They certainly won over the women at our table even before they started performing!

The lead singer, a chiseled black man from New Orleans, wearing all black and sporting a mane of impossibly long flowing hair immediately sings and dances his way into the audience’s heart, picking out diners to sing to and dance with. A mixture of classic rock, sock hop and zydeco, Dopsie has the place pumping.

All the while the waitresses are delivering and clearing plates of food as only the Italians can. The first plate, which we all assume to be the complete brunch, looks like an Italian version of an American breakfast, the centerpiece of which is a pile of scrambled eggs served with prosciutto and pancetta that are about as close to a strip of bacon as we have come across in this country. Flanking the eggs are some less traditional offerings, something akin to egg salad, potato salad and a bread salad. It is an American-type meal with American-sized portions.

Our plates are cleared and the music thumps on. The lead singer is dancing with every woman (and man) he can pry away from their food and the energy level is growing. Now he dons what looks like a cross between a gladiator’s armor and a trash can lid, the metal breastplate hanging over his shoulders and covering his chest. He attaches some metal objects to his hands and begins playing himself, literally, raking the styluses in his hands over the washboard, becoming a human noisemaker. And what a noise it makes. The up tempo scraping and scratching, together with his brother’s virtuoso accordion playing and solid guitar, bass and drums is quickening everyone’s heartbeat and the room is beginning to rock. But not before the waitresses bring us a bowl of pasta al pesto Genovese. It’s New Orleans meets Genoa.

A short while later a large plate of meat and potatoes is served, aromatic slices of roast pork and gravy along with slices of roast turkey. This hybrid meal, not quite of America but not quite of Italy either, is a perfect compliment to this concert, quintessentially American music and musicians in a place that couldn’t not be New Orleans any better. Music is all about dissonances and consonances and this is a delicious combination of the two.

What a sight, as Dopsie comes to close, seeing this audience largely made up of Italians, standing on their chairs in one of Perugia’s nicest restaurants, waving their napkins in the air as a black American donning a trashcan lid on his torso hollers “when the saints go marching in,” the crowd singing along in their best English and forming an enormous marching line that snakes its way through the restaurant, between tables and back to the stage. Rockin’ Dopsie and the Zydeco Twisters may not be household names, but for today in Perugia, they are king.

Grazie, Perugia. Grazie y’all.

* * *

As we emerge from La Taverna to the mid afternoon sun, we have been infected. Infected with music, with joy, with Dopsie. With the Umbria Jazz Festival. The ten day festival is only a few hours old and we are already hooked. We fight our way back to the Corso Vannucci, fighting against the crowd that has grown sizably since we had entered la Taverna. The crowd, too, although not as fortunate as we to have kicked off the festival with Dopsie, are feeling it. Small groups and bands are performing in alleyways and doorways, ad hoc bars having sprung up at these venues, the spectators sipping a beer or wine, listening and appreciating and clearly enjoying life. Several official stages are set up on the street and are acting as magnets, drawing more and more people. The game is on.

* * *

The evening program is a doubleheader concert at the Arena Santa Giuliana, the main venue for the festival, which is located a ten minute walk from the center of Perugia. You get to Santa Giuliana by taking an escalator through the subterranean Rocca Paolina, a military garrison that was built by the Pope in the 1500s to keep the uppity Perugians, who had a history of disrespecting the Pope, in line. After conquering the city, the Pope confiscated the properties in this area, which consisted of a number of upper class medieval towers, cut off the tops of the towers, and built the garrison on top of this whole mess. What survived below are the bottoms of the towers and the original streets, a sort of medieval museum in a basement. Today you can enter or exit the historic center of Perugia by walking through these old streets (which are indoors thanks to the Pope) and riding an escalator down through this complex, emerging from a tunnel that leads to the main bus station. On the other side of the bus station is Santa Guiliana, an area that houses a monastery, a park and a sports complex where the outdoor arena is assembled annually for Umbria Jazz.

We arrive at Santa Giuliana a few minutes before the concert, which tonight features Italian pianist Stefano Bollani and Brazilian singer/guitarist/composer Caetano Veloso. The crowd outside the entrance is enormous, with hundreds of fans looking for tickets. We bump into our friend Adriano outside the gates (Adriano is one of the credentialed photographers for Umbria Jazz and is working tonight) and he tells us not to worry about rushing to our seats. “Tonight we hear an Italian and a Brazilian. Neither are much known for their punctuality.”

We make our way through security, which doesn’t even check my bag which holds a videocamera and a digital SLR. Things are pretty relaxed in Perugia. The evening is perfect. It is just after 9:00 and the sun is still in the sky, a few thin clouds can be seen as the stars shake off their sleep and strain to illuminate once again. Ahead of us is an enormous stage, its big rectangular opening framed with walls of speakers and stands of lights revealing inside a simple black floor and walls, a few chairs, some microphones and a big sign in yellow proclaiming “Umbria Jazz 2008. Welcome.”

After the organizers welcome the audience, which must be three or four thousand strong, the lights dim and in walk Stefano Bollani and his band. For the next hour and a half the audience, extremely knowledgeable, attentive and appreciative, follow his every note, trill and rest. I won’t pretend to be knowledgeable enough myself give a review of the performance but I have seen and listened to enough jazz enough to be mightily impressed by the three woodwind performers in his band. The three, on soprano sax, tenor sax and clarinet, alternate solos throughout the set, passing melodies from one to the next when not playing together. Under the moon and stars, with the belltower of Santa Guiliana behind us and the skyline of Perugia to our left, a cool evening breeze carrying the sound to the cheap seats and beyond, it is a truly memorable experience.

But Bollani is the star of this set and he holds the audience in rapt attention with his spare, clean style. He is delicate but not cutesy, his fingers moving a mile a minute but the sound that emerges is a soft, gentle sound. He favors the melody and the right hand, but at one point bangs the bass keys as far down the keyboard as I have ever seen, not sure if I can even hear notes that low. But as good as he is, the real treat is when he and his guitarist duet.

I imagine that the organizers paired Bollani with Brazilian Caetano Veloso because Bollani, despite being Italian, is inspired and trained in Brazilian music. I believe Bollani’s guitarist may be Brazilian and when the two of them, both so gentle and understated, play a couple of numbers together it is sheer magic. The notes do not blare from the speakers, but seem almost to float from the stage and settle into our laps. It is a few moments of tranquility and calm that is shared with four thousand complete strangers. What a feeling.

Caetano Veloso is hard to describe. Odd is too strong a word, but definitely untraditional. He scuffles slowly onto stage in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, pulls up a chair, crosses his legs and rests his guitar on them, draws the microphone close to him and says a few high pitched words to the audience in Italian, the words coming agonizingly slowly and without any emotion or cadence. He seems uncomfortable and shy in front of the crowd. And then he begins to play. And to sing. His playing is gentle and soft. His singing is plain, without affect, as though he is singing to himself. And it is indescribable. It is so without pretention, so stripped of any affect that it enters you completely and finds your heart. Simple. Direct. Powerful.

For an hour and a half the only thing that moves in the entire stadium is Veloso’s hands and his lips. He never uncrosses his legs, shakes up and down, taps his feet. During that time the audience doesn’t move either. But it is moved. For an hour and a half Caetano Veloso gives four thousand private concerts to everyone in Santa Giuliana. He speaks to you directly. He plays for you alone. And he sings to you. What an amazing performance.

* * *

For many the highlight of the concert comes when Bollani and his group return to the stage to play Brazilian songs with Veloso. He has enormous respect for Bollani and his guitar player, as well as the rest of the band, and the audience goes crazy over some of the standards they play together. Here Veloso becomes more of a showman, performing to the crowd rather than to the individual and although it is more entertaining, it is not as powerful has his solo performance. The group finishes a little after midnight but returns for a couple encore numbers. By then the entire audience has left their assigned seats and are crowding the stage. Bollani and Veloso are called back for a second encore and then a third. As the mob exits Santa Giuliana and heads to the parking garages for their drives home or centro for some more music and drink they have clearly reached nirvana. And so have we, from the moment the first note exploded from Rockin’ Dopsie’s instruments until the last haunting Brazilian chord faded into the early morning dark. The festival has begun.

Summertime

A week ago we arrived at Rome’s Fiumicino airport, relatively fresh considering the long, multi-connection flight that brought us from Asheville, North Carolina. The travel had been smooth, however, and without much ado we arrived in Umbria a short while after landing.

As I mentioned in an earlier posting, it has been some time since we have been in Italy in the summer. Our import business, Bella Italia, has been bringing us to Italy several times a year for nearly a decade now, but we have avoided the crowds and high prices by coming in the fall and spring as well as during the winter. Our trips, reports of many of which are archived here, typically combine some visits to existing suppliers, searching for new products and discovering and exploring a new region. Over the years, however, our trips brought us back more often than not to Umbria, the region from which a majority of our ceramics come from and many of our food products as well. As we have returned over and over again, we have deepened our relationships with our suppliers, who have become dear friends as well as business associates. When we began to think seriously about establishing a villa rental business, Umbria, so full of charms and a place where we had put down some roots, seemed the logical place to look. After this week living in and really getting to know our villa, la Fattoria del Gelso, biking around the countryside and visiting the nearby hilltowns, eating the local food and drinking the local wine (excessively), we know that we made a very good choice.

In the nearly year and a half since we first started negotiating to purchase la Fattoria del Gelso we have visited the area seven or eight times, going back to when we first saw the villa in March 2007. By October we had decided to put an offer on the property and then the fun began. Italians are tough negotiators and the owners here had no intention of giving away at a bargain price the business that they had developed and invested themselves in over many years, especially to a couple of upstart Americans. But we were eventually able to come to an agreement on price and all other terms, which in America would mark the beginning of the end of the process. Here in Italy, as countless books and blogs attest to, this was just the beginning of the beginning of the process. If Italian home sellers are a tough bunch, you ain’t seen nothing until you’ve dealt with a notaio (lawyer). Those stories are being saved for another book!

The point is that over this year and a half we have spent a great deal of time in Umbria – so much so that we rented an apartment in nearby Ponte San Giovanni where we could stay while we finalized our purchase – but as in the past, we spent our summers elsewhere. During those non-summer visits the weather has been great – it is hard to find a more beautiful and comfortable place than Umbria in September and October, with its warm days and cool nights, and we have had our share of excellent spring weather here as well, even if the spring weather is unpredictable.

In general, we have avoided Italy during the summer, fearing the crowds and sweltering weather. Memories of a summer week in Rome with my mother and father many years ago still make me sweat, the Roman streets like a blast furnace and our hotel, the Flora supposedly with air conditioning but in fact furnished only with a metal box with coils that blew hot air into the room unless you placed a two-by-four just so and positioned your face in front of the exhaust that wheezed a weak puff of cool air like an asthmatic. (Even before the air conditioning problems the Flora had earned a place in our Pantheon of family vacation busts, from the moment we arrived in Rome – “driver please take us to the Hotel Flora on Via So-and-So.” “Flora? Flora?” “Yes, the Hotel Flora at (looking up the exact address) 256 Via So-and-So.” “Flora? Flora? . . . Oh, the Flor-AH” to the moment we checked in - “So sorry Mr. and Mrs. Menard (my 70+ year old parents), the elevator is not functioning this week. You can take the staircase or walk several miles through the kitchen to the service elevator.”).

Another indelible summer experience that haunts our memory occurred during a weekend visit to Venice one summer when I was a student in Florence. That weekend excursion brought us into contact with the greatest concentration of humanity ever assembled in one place at one time. The same day that we arrived by train and boat at our little pensione along a quiet canal, nearly half of the population of Czechoslovakia (this was before the division of the country) had been given a weekend pass by their government, part of the easing of restrictions in the communist world that led to the disintegration of the Soviet empire. An early Czech entrepreneur seized on this opportunity to organize a massive bus tour of nearly every Czech man, woman and child with more than $5 to his or her name, and those busses unloaded at just the hour we emerged onto Venice’s narrow streets. For two days we were carried through la serenissima by the hordes of Slavs, swept along by this human tide that filled every public byway, finding peace and solitude only when we were able to escape into any establishment requiring the outlay of money. No wonder Venice is sinking.

* * *

We have braved the Italian summer this year for two reasons. The first is so that we could experience firsthand what Umbria is like in the summer, in order to be able to honestly represent the experience to potential renters. But the main reason for this summer visit is to attend the Umbria Jazz Festival, which begins in Perugia this Friday and runs for ten days. Being raised by a former (amateur) jazz musician, jazz promoter and owner of a jazz format radio station this trip is more like a kind of pilgrimage, featuring renowned jazz greats such as Herbie Hancock, Sonny Rollins, Cassandra Wilson and Pat Metheny. Alicia Keys, not a jazz musician per se, is another highlighter that will doubtless pack the house and I am especially looking forward to seeing and hearing Brazilian star Caetano Veloso. The festival, which is celebrating its 35th year in Perugia, is one of the biggest and most well known festivals in Europe and overlaps at least for a few days with the famous classical music festival - the Festival dei Due Mondi, held annually in Spoleto, just twenty minutes down the road.

* * *

As we await the start of Umbria Jazz, we have rediscovered the magic of the Italian summer and understand why the entire world comes here every summer. The heat may be oppressive in Rome, but they still come. The crowds may still be huge in Florence, but still they come. The restaurants may vie for the tourist dollar by appealing to the lowest common denominator, but still they come. Simply put, even with the crowds and heat, Italy is a magical place.

As we wind up our first week here in Cannara, we feel fortunate to have been spared much of what is wrong with Italian summers. Here in Umbria and particularly in our little corner of it a gentle breeze really does cool the summer blaze, as the sellers promised us when we were negotiating the purchase of our villa. Our friends in Rome, who for weeks have sweltered through a heat wave tell us that what kept up their spirits was the promise of escaping to the cool, fresh countryside over the weekend. They were not disappointed.

And when they were here they enjoyed not just the weather, but longer days that encourage a Mediterranean style relaxation, the culture of domani. Large combines harvest the fields of this incredibly bountiful land until the wee hours of the night, as we linger over dinners al fresco, that start at 10:00 when the sun finally disappears and end when the last bottle of wine has been tipped over. Here in Umbria in even the most touristy town there is room to breath and plenty of authentic Italy to experience.

* * *

When is the best time to visit Italy, we are often asked. The autumn offers beautiful weather, lower prices and smaller crowds. Harvest time for the grapes in Tuscany, Umbria and Piemonte offers up unforgettable scenery, the firey colors nearly bursting from the hillsides. A little later in the fall the olives are harvested and pressed, and fresh, fruity oil can be tasted straight from the press, its taste evoking the heat and dusty dryness of the summer that is locked inside the fruit. As the nights grow longer and pass into winter what can be more memorable or comforting than enjoying a glass of red wine (or maybe even a grappa) in front of glowing yellow fire or wandering the quiet(er) sreets of Rome under a deep blue sky in shirtsleeves, wondering if this city ever experiences bad weather? The springtime, with its unpredictable spells of cold, rainy days, punctuated by the most glorious sunshine, warming the body to its soul, making one happy just to be alive. And now, for us, the rediscovery of the summer, with its hot days and cool nights, the pleasure of a cool dip in the pool and a crisp glass of white wine on the terrace as the sun sets late at night.

I think at last the answer to that question is clear. The best time to visit Italy is whenever you can.

Testi Cicli

On only the second day of our October visit to Italy we did something very un-us-like. We went on a daylong bike excursion from Florence to Fiesole, a hilltown seemingly located about 4,000 miles straight up a hill from Florence. I’m pretty sure if you glance up toward the noonday sun you can catch a glimpse of Fiesole - slightly to the right and below. At the time, surviving this physical ordeal seemed like an epic achievement, but with over sixth months to recover, its memory has been transformed from its original Guantanamo-like ordeal into an almost romantic ideal. So as we begin our three week sojourn here one of our goals is to buy bicycles and to discover the countryside near our new home in Cannara.

Generally, once Suzy and I make a decision, there is little messing around on the implementation side. I think the fact that I am writing this little memoir from a new couch sitting on a Persian carpet in the newly painted living room of our farm house in a little farming village in central Italy is pretty much a testament to us not gnashing our teeth, not pussyfooting around. Once we make a decision there is only one speed. Full ahead.

So on our second day here we fight off the jetlag and begin crossing items off our to do list, compiled on multiple pages during our 3 month absence from Cannara. High on that list is “buy bicycles; go cycling.” (This somewhat modest entry on our to do list is not nearly as impressive as the all-time great shopping list that one of our bosses carelessly left out for all of our co-workers to see some twenty five years ago – “milk, cereal, orange juice, chicken, BMW . . . “). Off we go to buy bikes and a few other things (no BMW, thank you very much) along the road to Magione, a journey that takes us beyond Perugia and along a familiar stretch of stores that are the Italian version of the big box store (la grande scattola), Gran Casa, Mercatone Uno and others that feature pretty nice furniture at a reasonable price, if you don’t translate the price back into dollars.

We literally have no idea where we are going, except that our associate Javier, a longtime resident of Ponte San Giovanni, the bedroom community at the base of the hill on which is situated Perugia, has mentioned that he is good friends with the bike store owner there and that he will give us a good discount if we mention his name. We’re not sure that this is actually the case, but we head first to Ponte San Giovanni and, as seems to be the case more often than not with us, we stumble upon the bike store within minutes. Unfortunately it is chiuso per ferie, closed for a summer holiday, and won’t reopen for 10 days. Ten days is eternity for Suzy and Bill, so we pull up anchor and head toward Magione, again recalling from Javier that there is a big cycle shop that organizes bike tours somewhere near Corciano. We arrive in Corciano, passing the office of the lawyer who handled our real estate closing, as stores are beginning to close and, as fate would have it, pass right past Testi Cicli, one of the larger bicycle store in the area. Despite its size, however, it has about 6 parking spaces directly in front of it, only one vacant and more the width of a bike rack than a parking space for a car. So we make several lazy swoops around town, in ever tightening gyres like a majestic falcon (not really, but the allusion overcame me), getting closer and closer to Testi Cicli until we find a space, illegal, but this is Italy, across the street and in front of a gas station.

Then, as usual, the fun begins. Over the past six months we have been in Italy five times, negotiating the purchase of a house, establishing an Italian corporation to effect the purchase, arranging the transfer of utilities into our name, buying furniture, installing satellite TV and high speed internet, all with an ability to speak Italian at about a second grade level. There are Italians all over Umbria that must be thinking, gee, that little boy seems awfully gray.

So armed with zero bicycle vocabulary and a complete lack of knowledge about bikes in general, we throw ourselves into the hands of the wonderful man who now owns half of our assets and who is no doubt planning his move to the US where the masses of Euros we paid him could likely provide him a very comfortable retirement. Actually, this gentleman provided us with sound advice and a very reasonable price, as well as a few laughs (surprisingly with us, not at us, we think) and before closing time we were the owners of two new bikes.

Despite our years of travelling and doing business here in Italy, we will never seem to learn, however, that unlike in the U.S. where business is a transaction, in Italy business is a process. A relationship. A lifetime. So of course we leave Testi Cicli the owners of two new bikes. We just do not have use of them. Until tomorrow evening. After they can change the tires, adjust the brakes and put on the little holder for the water bottle.

So we return to Cannara for the evening, count down the hours until the next day when we can make the return trip to Corciano to pick up our bikes. That next day we stop along the way at some of the big box stores in Magione, buying a little something here, a little something else there for the house. By the time we arrive back at Testi Cicli the entire back of our car is full of our purchases – pillows, fans, kitchen utensils, furniture. When our newest bestest buddy proudly presents us our new bikes he offers to help us stuff them in our car and his cheery expression vanishes as he sees the tiny shaft of light that represents the only uncluttered space in our car. But he is a good man and immediately starts helping us remove all of our purchases to make room for the bikes. By some sort of miracle (this is the land of the saints), the bikes fit into the car, all our purchases find a space and even the pillows come in handy, cushioning the bikes from one another. Within a half an hour we are budding Lance Armstrongs.

* * *

The next morning, after the excitement of the hunt has subsided, we have to figure out what to do with the body. We own two nice bicycles. Now we have to use them. So, with a little apprehension we decide to take an excursion from Cannara to the nearby town of Bevanga, a beautiful walled town with some great restaurants and scenic buildings whose main advantage is that it is connected to Cannara by a road with absolutely no hills. In anticipation of the bike ride we have noted the distance, hoping that we have the stamina to make this epic journey. The odometer in the car, which for some strange reason is a Fiat set to miles, tells us that the trip is a little over 4 miles. We prefer to use kilometers, which at 7 sounds much more impressive.

So off we go, our water bottle (Suzy’s bike does not have a water bottle cage, so she’ll have to be nice to me) filled and our helmets strapped on. Within a few feet (slightly more meters) I begin to feel how appropriate it is that we purchased our bikes from Testi Cicli. It is often said that certain activities, such as golf or waterskiing use (and make sore) certain muscles that you don’t normally use in everyday activity. This is clearly the case in cycling. How much though has really gone into developing a comfortable bike seat? I, and my sore rear end, say it is time to build a better mousetrap.

But through an intricate series of tricks played on the subconscious, within a few minutes we are both pedaling at a regular, albeit slow rate, our minds off our nether misery, enjoying the morning air, the warming sun, the beautiful, bountiful farmland and an altogether overwhelming sense of contentment. Until, at least, the first tiny car bombs past us at 200 kilometers per hour (again, it sounds better in metric) about 10 centimeters from us. Italians drivers, who don’t enjoy the highest reputation among American travelers to Italy, are in fact, remarkably conscious of and courteous to cyclists. But courtesy only dictates what we might consider a not-so-comfortable personal space between car and cycle. After a few strafings we grow accustomed to the traffic and enjoy the flat, nearly-effortless trip to Bevagna.

Arriving in the walled city in the (for us) early morning is almost a reward in itself, but dismounting from the hard bike seat is a true joy, only surpassed by the sight of the open door at the handmade pasta shop. We have visited Bevagna a dozen times, discovering this artisanal pasta shop on one of our early visits. It is seemingly never open, however, and we always salivate and imagine what could be, as we stare at the trays of gleaming egg pasta behind the counter and behind the locked front door. Today the door is open and we have a difficult time deciding what to buy before deciding upon some fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta cheese.

It is then back to Cannara with our booty as we await the arrival of our friends Frances and Allison from Rome.

* * *

Since that first day of cycling we have religiously adhered to a schedule of at least one hour long excursion per day. The roads around Cannara, a small farming hamlet situated in the shadow of Assisi and on a vast fertile plain between Monte Subasio (on which Assisi and Spello are situated) and another ridge of mountains to the west, are amazingly flat. This is indeed a plain and our excursions to Spello and Santa Maria degli Angeli, the former about a 30 minute trek, the latter just slightly longer, are leisurely and not too taxing. Along the way the roads are surrounded by fields of everything that grows and it being harvest time, men and machines are toiling everywhere we look. Here a vast field of hay is being cut and bailed by enormous green machines, the freshly shorn field giving off a shiny gold hue. Next door, vast fields of sunflowers sway in the gentle breeze, these bizarre, almost alien looking plants facing the same direction in unison and then bowing as if in submission as we return. Birds chirp and flutter and, despite the blazing sun overhead, a cool breeze makes it all pleasant and comfortable. For years we have heard American tourists argue the relative merits and demerits of travelling by car or by train in Italy. As we discover the Umbrian countryside and make a new connection to it on bicycle, it is clear that neither side had it right.

* * *


About a year ago our good friend Letizia Mattiacci, the proprietor of the Agriturismo alla Madonna del Piatto and cooking teacher extraordinaire told us about two cheese shops in the town of Santa Maria degli Angeli, a short distance from Cannara. Despite our efforts to drop in, we had never made the time to do so, so armed with our new bikes we determine today to ride to town and buy some cheese. On these hot, lazy summer days in Italy, that sounds like a good project for the day. On the way, and always thinking ahead, we decide to stop at the local bike store in Cannara to buy a basket for Suzy’s bike, so we will have something to carry home our loot. Once again our second grade Italian suffices and the owner helps us install the basket on the front and sends us along our way with a smile and a wave. We couldn’t detect or translate the words spoken under his breath.

Armed with her new basket (cestino), I can’t help but whistle the Wicked Witch of the West theme song, all that is missing (other than the green complexion, pointy hat and pointier nose) is the little dog in the basket. I think briefly about turning back and getting the stray cat that we inherited with our house. I call him Dexter, but that’s just me. I don’t know if he is even a boy cat, only that he is missing one eye and recently had three kittens, one of which died. OK, I guess I know that he is not a boy cat. But Dex is field cat, happy to chase (and presumably eat) the unseen things that wander among the roots and stalks of the life that springs from our very own farmland.

Sans cat we make our way along the road to Santa Maria degli Angeli, a road that rises no more than a few feet (and even a fewer meters) as it crosses two bridges. About 40 minutes after departing the bike store we are at a caffe a few doors down from the Caseificio Brufani, one of the two cheese stores recommended by Letizia. In a piece of stunning good luck, the other cheese shop is right next door.

Without going into more boring detail (and even more boring detail in metric), let it be said that we have found a little slice of heaven where they slice little pieces of curdled milk. We enjoy a local cheese on a salad at lunch, as well as some buffalo mozzarella in a pasta with vegetables. We save a gourd-like hunk of scamorza for grilling at a later date. Reason number 153 (276 in metric) that I love Italy.

Day 1 - Arrival

It has been a whole two months since we’ve been in Italy we think to ourselves as we disembark from our airplane at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport, a little draggy from a day of travel that has begun nearly a full day before in the mountains of western North Carolina. The summer sun, searing through the morning haze, cooks the air conditioned jetway as we step off the plane. Like the summer heat we have left behind, you can tell that it is going to be a scorcher.

Two months. Not surprisingly, little seems to have changed. The people here still seem to speak in that sing-songy language, conducting every staccato phrase with a wave of the hands. They all seem to still have that improbable and unteachable sense of style, where everyday clothing and accessories look anything but everyday. And they still seem to have not mastered or even tried to learn the art of queueing up. Despite all of our similarities, we Americans and the Italians are just plain different from one another. It is these differences that have drawn us back here for the fifth time this year.

Well, not exactly. Our first three visits this year had a little something to do with the great big farmhouse that we are now speeding toward along the Italian autostrada. Well not exactly speeding toward at first, more like inching toward. As quickly as we exit the airport in our too big rental car, watching the needle edge past 140 on its way to 160, our minds dusting off the miles per hour to kilometers per hour conversion algorithm we are cursing and waving our hands like natives, nearly rear ending the pile of traffic that has ground to nearly a complete halt on the two lane spur that leads to the G.R.A., the grand ring road that is anything but grand but does ring the Italian capital. We spy an exit for a new road that was under construction in April, an express lane that leads directly to the G.R.A. only to make the same ludicrous mistake that we did back then, driving parallel to the airport road for a few miles before being diverted right back where we started from. Only this time the express lane is crawling even more slowly than the main road.

After this inauspicious start, we finally pass the bottleneck that has caused all of this commotion, a few cars with rumpled fenders on the shoulder. Not surprisingly all of the passengers are facing off with one another on the side of the road, arms waving and tempers flaring. This is the Italy we know and love!

As traffic returns to its normal supersonic velocity our too big rental car starts to drive itself to Cannara, our destination in central Italy’s Umbria region, about a two hour drive from Fiumicino airport. We have driven this route so many times in the past year that it is as though the car can drive there by itself, which in the past as we arrived groggy and jetlagged, was not a bad thing. Today, however, with the searing sun beating down on us, it is providing us a boost of energy that we have not experienced in our non-summer arrivals.

Indeed, it is a little strange to be arriving here in July. Summer tourism is doubtless one of Italy’s major economic activities and Americans taking a couple weeks in the Italian countryside or visiting Rome-Florence-Venice plays an important role in this. But it has been nearly two decades since we have been here in the summer, with its blazing sun, long days and hordes of tourists. It was during those summer visits, studying in Florence, traveling with my parents and our infant children, that we fell in love with this country. We have returned so many times since then, but always deliberately off peak, during the lovely springs, the relaxing autumns and the less hospitable winters. It will be an interesting homecoming and one we are anxiously looking forward to.

* * *


Ah, the tomato. Il pomodoro. We have avoided them for the past several weeks at home, no one quite sure why or if they are responsible for the salmonella outbreaks across the country. So it is with relish, well actually with an enormous ball of buffalo mozzarella, that we tuck into them our first days here. At our first lunch, at a small bar and restaurant in Bevagna which we stop at on our way to Cannara, our menu options are rather limited. Upon arrival in town we are surprised that all of our usual favorites are closed for lunch this day. Italian restaurants generally have a specific day of the week on which they are closed and it seems that many of the Bevagna eateries have chosen to close on the same day – Wednesday. Today is Wednesday.

So we are surprisingly happy to find available a small table pushed up against the wall of a local bar/restaurant that is more akin to snack bar, the kind of place that we normally wouldn’t give a second look. Its little chalkboard menu lists a few humble lunch items and on this day, happy just to be here in the shade, on a historic piazza, watching a group of laborers no doubt distantly related to the Keystone Cops operate lifting equipment and heavy trucks to dismantle stages and sets that have been set up for the town’s medieval festival that has just ended over the weekend. We happily settle on an Italian version of tuna salad and a sliced meat appetizer. The salad is everything that is good about Italian food. A few leaves of fresh lettuces, each leaf a little different from the next, with a simple but distinctive flavor, this one nutty, that one a little peppery, the next one crunchy. On top of that are chunks of tuna that clearly come from a fish, not a can. Lightly coating the lettuce and the tuna is fruity olive oil that was made from olives that were raised and gave up their lives so that we could eat well, on trees within sight of this little restaurant. And here and there little slivers of bright red tomato bring color and depth to this simple creation. Welcome home, they seem to be saying.

A short while later, as we turn off the Strada Cannara-Bevangna onto the tree lined dirt road that leads to la Fattoria del Gelso, those trees and the giant mulberry tree (gelso) just inside the villa gates also welcome us home. It is blazing hot at midday, and the air is still. But as we unlock the heavy wooden and metal doors to the main ground floor entrance and as we swing open the upstairs doorway to the main sleeping area, the cool air inside beckons us inside, welcomes us back. The word casa in Italian means house, and goosebumps erupt on our arms and legs as we re-enter our house, our villa in Umbria. But casa also means home. And although we have been away for just two months, it is a magical feeling to tornare a casa.

Day 10 - Urbino-Gubbio

You, dear reader, have suffered through too many dripping descriptions of fried this or grilled so and so, served by a charming man who would give up his life to defend your right to eat a particular dish so long as it was garnished with extra virgin olive oil from trees growing within view of his restaurant, which his family has run since the time of Pope Leo. Of course you are bored to death with all this culinary minutae, thinking to yourself when will these people stop eating and go do something worthwhile? We hear your complaints and have resolved to do something about it. We have decided to completely omit any references to food from today’s report.

Except that we had a fantastic three hour lunch today in Urbino, despite our resolution to rise early and visit the National Gallery of Art of Le Marche.

A confluence of forces led us to swear off food, if only for a day. When we arrived in Urbino late the previous evening, we were entranced by the town even before we had a chance to fully get the lay of the land. We knew we would only have a day in this renaissance jewel and resolved to learn everything we could about this fascinating, little visited corner of Italy. And, on the heels of our umpteenth unforgettable meal, we felt as though our spleens and our psyches could and very much should take a break from the trough for a day, substituting cultural sustenance for our usual caloric over indulgence.

Suzy has a round stuffed pasta, called medaglioni, tossed in a cheese and walnut sauce; Bill has a plate of fried scamorzza cheese covered in strips of prosciutto.

We spend the morning catching up on business and enjoying our comfortable room at the Albergo San Domenico. As we make phone calls and reply to emails the wind is howling in the courtyard outside our window. However, we cannot see how foul the weather may be, as the windows are sealed tightly with pairs of hyper efficient Italian shutters. Window shutters are something that the Italians do extremely well. They come in a variety of types, some consisting of giant metal slats, rolled up outside the window casing like an overhead garage door, summoned closed by pulling on a fabric strap that when released eases the slats downward, where they fit one on top of another, eventually closing off the entire window. The shutters at the San Domenico are of the multiple interlocking wooden type, the closing of which requires some level of engineering smarts. With this type of shutter, a pair of simple outer shutters, which in their natural state are secured against the outside of the building, can be swung shut on the outside of the window, partially darkening the room with their partially closed horizontal slats. The full darkening effect comes from closing the inner shutters, which are full window affairs that fold inward and clasp together with a metal rod that attaches the two halves to one another and, at the bottom, contains a spur that rotates around a small stud at the bottom of the window casing, and pulls the two connected inner shutters flush with the window casing. The inner shutters contain a pane of glass, however, so to completely darken the room another set of panels must be closed over these shutters, which requires lacing these outer flaps through other tabs before the two inner shutters are hooked together and pulled shut, a process that requires great thought and deliberation but the effect of which is a completely dark room. This super effective darkening encourages oversleeping, as it always appears to be the middle of the night inside a shuttered room, even when the rest of Italy has been awake for hours, awash in bright sunshine. And because your room is pitch black, it makes for a difficult time finding the shutter hardware and figuring out how to reverse the closing process in order to open the windows.

The result of this is that while we get ready to start our day, the only inkling of we have of the weather outside is the sound of gusting hurricane force winds, which keeps us from rushing headlong into the day. When we finally throw open the shutters all is calm, all is clear. There are wind gusts to be sure, but these are rushing over the top of the hotel, far from ground level so that the only people affected by these gales are window washers and chimney sweeps. Because Urbino is built on a tall hill, the winds rushing across the valley buffet it constantly, but perhaps because the town is laid out in a bowl shape, with the center of town at the bottom of extremely steep streets, the wind seems to blow over the top of the city, leaving the main streets relatively unaffected. When we climb up to the city walls, we feel like Al Roker reporting from some Florida hurricane, barely able to keep on our feet. Below in the main square, however, we are warmed by the bright sun and warm gentle breezes.

Urbino itself is quite small and we walk from our hotel through the main square and a couple of blocks beyond to the house where Raffaello was born. Urbino, we learn, is the birthplace of the great renaissance artist Raffaello Sanzio, who along with Michelangelo, Leonardo and Donatello make up not only the fab four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but also four of the great artists of the Italian renaissance. In addition to Rafaello, monuments to Piero della Francesca and Bramante (of St. Peter’s fame) honor these local hometown heros.

The casa di Rafaello is an interesting museum that is part gallery, part monument to the artist and part restored renaissance home. We wander up the stairs from the ticket office to the bedroom of Giovanni Santi, Raffaello’s father and himself a noted artist of the court of the Duke of Urbino. In his room are a number of paintings by Giovanni who died when Raffaello was quite young. Nonetheless, our highly trained eyes see that the son inherited much of his skill from the father. Across the hallway is the room where Raffaello was born and a fresco, painted later in life and elsewhere by the artist has been added to the room. The window has two small seats built into a recess below, where presumably young Raffaello sat each morning, spying across the street at the Paneficeria di Raffaello (Rafael’s bread store), to check out the day’s specials. When we leave we, too, look in the window and several loaves that may have been baked in Raffaello’s day are displayed behind the counter.

Of particular interest to us, who run a ceramics store, is a display of some renaissance ceramic pieces. The pieces on display include several patterns that are still being produced or which have been adapted, either by using similar shapes or animals designs or color combinations, in many of the popular patterns that we sell today.

Not a great deal is made of the house itself, but to wander through the rooms and to imagine how they might have been used and furnished is itself worth the price of admission (€ 3). The bedrooms in particular are larger than we would have imagined, spacious enough for an Xbox 360, an iPod with speakers or any of the other necessities of the renaissance adolescent. A kitchen, on the lower floor, includes a hearth with some protruding chains and spikes looking like devices of torture, but we imagine them to be some sort of device for hanging cauldrons or joints of meat.

We leave Raffaello’s house and head back to the main square. The day before classes and exams have ended for the students at the university and a number of handwritten signs have been xeroxed and posted on lampposts or columns, each written by a friend of a student who has just graduated and making a joke and congratulating farmacista (farmacist) or dottoressa (doctor) on their graduation. It is a sweet gesture that makes us look even more kindly on the hordes of students that are milling around the square.

After a brief search we find a nice place for lunch. [Editor’s note. This section has been removed pursuant to editorial policy].

After our delicious lunch we wander back toward our hotel, our final destination being the Ducal Palace, which houses the National Gallery of Art of Le Marche, as well as an archeological museum. We pay our admission and expect to spend an hour or so wandering around the museum, but are asked to wait until a group assembles for a tour. We dread this prospect, imagining that it will be a half day affair focusing on the difference in palettes used by the painters of the court of Urbino as opposed to the Sienese or Florentines, and are already planning several escape routes. The tour begins a few moments later and is not a tour at all, but simply a way for the museum officials to watch over all the visitors at once, presumably in order to reduce the security payroll.

Perhaps what is most memorable about the museum is not the works of art themselves, although they are truly amazing, but the building that houses them. While everyone knows of the wealth and power of the Medici of Florence, few realize how much influence the Dukes of Urbino, particularly Federico da Montefeltro, exercised over the development of renaissance art, and the size and glory of his palace is overwhelming. The place is massive, with marble staircases wide enough for two Hummers to drive through and apartment after apartment in which to show off the Duke’s latest acquisition. We admire the paintings, chapels and furnishings, which could fill an entire freshman art class curriculum and once again are wowed by the exhibition of antique ceramics, which includes not just plates and other tableware, but a number of intricate sculptural pieces such as naked figures leering at one another. Our biggest disappointment is that we are unable to find the famous Piero della Francesa portrait of Federico da Montefeltro, in which the Duke is shown in profile with his horrible hook nose, this side being painted because the other side of his face is so disfigured (why would the Duke commission a painting of his disfigured side?). Perhaps we missed the painting because it is hanging (and has for hundreds of years) in the Uffizi gallery in Florence.

As the sun creeps toward the horizon we retrieve our car from the parking lot of the San Domenico hotel and head out of town. But if getting a car into a renaissance walled city is difficult, it is nothing compared with attempting to leave. We exit the car park and ease into the square directly in front of the Ducal Palace, the Piazza Rinasciamento, one of the two most important (and pedestrian clogged) squares in Urbino, the other being the main square, the Piazza della Repubblica. Avoiding heading in direction of the Piazza della Repubblica we scare a handful of pedestrians and find a street leading away from the square. Spotting what appears to be a street leading to the city gate, but for the fact that it is a one way road heading into, and not out of town, we do what any red blooded Italian would do – we ignore the Do Not Enter signs and drive the wrong way down the road, an old Italian man gesturing at us with his hands which is either an Italian version of a thumbs up sign or, more likely is an Italian version of a middle finger up sign. We make two more quick turns, once more salmon-like swimming upstream and presto, we find ourselves in the Piazza della Repubblica, which at this hour is mobbed with students and local residents, out for their late afternoon stroll, once again proving that all roads do indeed lead to Rome, or at least to the Piazza della Repubblica. In any event we patiently wait for the sea of humanity to part, spy a direct line to the city gate, follow the interference of an orange painted city bus which is only slightly larger than our car and at last slip out through the city gates, leaving Urbino behind until we visit again.

The hold that so many places in Italy have over us is difficult to explain and perhaps it is best not to try to analyze this phenomenon. But consider this for a moment. We live in Washington, D.C. and have visited the great city of Philadelphia on several occasions. When there we have visited the Philadelphia Museum of Fine Art, which houses a truly great collection of art from many periods. We have eaten in a number of outstanding restaurants in that city as well, and our memories of our time there is very positive, very pleasant.

Over the course of less than 24 hours we have just visited two museums in Urbino and seen a few works that are truly memorable. We have eaten at two restaurants where we had excellent meals, great wine and glass or two of grappa. Yet as we leave Urbino we rack our brains for some excuse to return as soon as possible, even if just for a day or two. We would gladly visit Philadelphia again if business or some other reason necessitated a return, but feel no such imperative to return. Why is it that these Italian cities have such an attraction to us? Is it simply the grappa or is it more? We ponder that question as we weave down the winding highway toward our next destination, another ancient hilltown, but this one in neighboring Umbria. We will arrive shortly at the studio of our hosts for the next day, the Biagioli family of Gubbio, a family whose lives and fortunes have been tied to the ceramics industry for three hundred years. Tune in tomorrow for that story.

Day 14 - Erbusco

I’m sitting here, writing this piece under a beautiful blue sky, the convertible roof open and the sun streaming in. It’s a glorious day as our trip winds down to its final two days and our plan for the day is simple. Do nothing.

With the top down it is a bit chilly, so I get up and walk into the closet and get a sweater, returning to the bed to continue reading internet stories of last night’s Red Sox World Series clinching victory. But how is this possible, without veering off the road? Our convertible is not a car, but our hotel room here at l’Albereta (Via Vittorio Emanuele, 21, Erbusco, tel. 030.776.0550). With a push of a button the domed ceiling above our four poster bed slowly retracts, making a its fifteen foot journey in about five minutes, leaving a similar size opening above our heads and exposing nothing but clear blue sky. On a day like today, with cool temperatures and a clear sky, this unusual room feature will get a real workout.

We had tried the roof the night before, while having our truffle picnic in our room. While allowing in the fresh air, the effect was not the same as it is this morning, as it had been pitch black and mostly cloudy outside. Every few minutes or so, however, an airplane would pop through the clouds just over our heads, its navigation lights illuminating the clouds and its flashing beacons creating a light show which, while not quite on par with the aurora borealis, was at least quite mesmerizing.

So this morning we slide open the roof once again, surfing the internet for more stories about our beloved Red Sox. This, of course, is overkill, as we had set our alarm for two o’clock the previous night in order to wake up and watch the game on our computer. When we tuned in the game was in the second inning and the score was 1-0 Sox. We proceeded to watch through the last out, or at least I did (Suzy tends to fall asleep as soon as the power on button is pressed on a TV), over three hours later. It was a fabulous game, and being able to watch it live on my Slingbox was nearly flawless, the only problem being that we had to use our high speed UMTS card to connect to the internet, which is a much slower connection than wi-fi. As a result the Slingbox spent a great deal of time buffering its video stream, which would slow down and speed up like an old time silent movie, occasionally cutting off a pitch or two, including Mike Lowell’s home run and Mike Timlin’s inning ending strike out. On these occasions it was clear enough from the context of the game to figure out what had happened and the hours I spent watching highlights and replays afterwards filled in the rest of the blanks. The bottom line is that we saw the Sox win a World Series and got to witness the celebration live, even if it was nearly six o’clock in the morning here. Good thing we don’t have any activities planned for the day.

In all my years of baseball fandom I have followed just two teams, the Boston Red Sox and the Atlanta Braves and for many of those years being a fan was a frustrating experience. Then things changed in the early 1990s as the Braves ascended to the top of their division and remained there for 14 years. Around this time the Sox shook off their slumber and began to challenge the Yankees for dominance in the AL East, reaching the playoffs on a regular basis. Through all of their success, however, the two teams had only two World Series titles among them. I had not been present to watch either title, having a work obligation when the Braves beat the Cleveland Indians for their title and being here in Italy, and without a means of watching the game on TV or computer three years ago when the Sox swept the St. Louis Cardinals. So, I was not going to let a little fatigue get in the way of watching this game. Today I am bone tired from staying up all night. But to paraphrase Winston Churchill, “when I wake up tomorrow, madam, I will be well rested and the Red Sox will still be World Champions.”

* * *

So what to do when you are staying at world class resort and spa, with nothing to do? This feeling is so foreign, so unusual to us, that we frankly don’t quite know what to do. For those of you who read our daily accounts, I hope that it appears that we glide effortlessly from mouth watering meal to a life altering experience to soul affirming moment of cultural discovery and connection. But let me let you in on a little secret and a literary term I learned in high school. It’s called “poetic license.” In writing these stories I take a little liberty to emphasize some facts and details and to deemphasize others. The result is a little like my Slingbox account of last night’s game. Some portions are speeded up, others slowed down, but in the end you get the essential gist and most of the details. Like making sausage, you are spared some details you don’t really want to or care to know, such as the amount of time we spend each day simply writing and posting our stories. But beyond that there are the mundane or unpleasant details of the long drives from place to place, the inevitable missed turns, on the fly change of plans, interminable meetings with suppliers, oversleeping, hangovers, stomach aches, coughs and colds and general malaise. We try to spare you these details and I only mention them because today we don’t have to consider any of them. We simply get to do nothing.

Unlike Seinfeld, I don’t think I’m so good about writing entertaining story lines about nothing.

So I will simply say that our story about nothing may not be all that entertaining to you, but I know of two people who would love to replay this episode over and over again. Especially the part where the nice bartender in the white jacket serves lunch for the two of them on a semi-private terrace balcony overlooking a garden blazing with fall colors, starting them off with a couple of glasses of cold, crisp chardonnay that is grown in the field just beyond the garden. Or the part where they get to wander around the grounds, surprised as they come across a particularly beautiful vista or a strategically placed sculpture. Or where they sit in silence in the sauna, sweating out the impurities of two weeks of overeating, overdrinking and undercaring for their bodies, and then get to sit around the quiet indoor pool, reading, napping and reflecting. Or how about the visit to the spa, where the woman’s face gets squeezed and contorted for an hour while the guy is asked to put on a paper thong bikini before being kneaded, pushed and prodded by a guy named Jordan. You probably have no interest in these mundane things, preferring to read about the cooking classes, the meals, the ancient city festivals and the like. But there are two who like the other story, too.

On a day when we are full of mixed emotions, a two week journey coming to an end, the baseball season coming to an end, much business done successfully and some incomplete, this is a nice story.

And as the couple plays a final game of backgammon on the four poster bed under a chilly, clear sky that is as much a part of their room as the couch or bed table, they prepare to face the final day of packing up and travel, happy that on this day they have had a day to do nothing.

A presto,
Bill and Suzy