Francesco

Francesco is a first-level civil judge in Sassari, the largest city (about 120,000) on the west coast of Sardegna.  His family is from the nearby town of Bosa, on the coast about 40 miles away.  They have been here for generations.

 

Slight of build and balding, he is totally delightful with enough energy for five people.  Judges in Italy don’t have to put in 40-hour weeks as do our judges.  Francesco works about 3-4 days a week from 9 until 1 or so hearing civil cases.  He occasionally “rides circuit” to nearby Alghero.  He doesn’t make much money but he has plenty of time to devote to his true passions, travel and women.  And he has plenty of time to be our enthusiastic tour guide.  

 

The day we arrive he cooks us a pleasant, typical Italian dinner – pasta, meat (usually pork in these parts), salad and fruit (cherries from his family estate).  On Tuesday, we rent a bigger car so we all can go touring, first south to see the most famous nuraghe in these parts, Nuraghe Santu Antine.  (www.nuraghesantuantine.it)   These bronze age structures date from the 16th century B.C.  It’s a triangular bastion, about 60 feet high when it stood fully.  The top was razed sometime during the Roman takeover during about 1 BC to 4 AD.  It is circular in shape, with many interior, concentric rooms and a high parapet which would have made for a very difficult assault for aggressors.  Not one for antiquities, I am fascinated.

 

Later we drive to the end of the peninsula by Porto Torres (much Spanish influence is evident) for some beach time. First we have lunch in the pretty seaside town of Stintino.   Off the beach, a few hundred meters away is an island that once housed a penal colony.  Franceso never stops talking.  He is eager to speak English so Dale and I get limited Italian practice.  His accent is strong but he has good command and a large vocabulary.  After we drive back, we enjoy a nice dinner at our hotel, well prepared and very reasonably priced.

 

 

Wednesday we spend visiting Alghero, another nice waterfront town.  Francesco joins us for lunch after completing his jurist duties.  I’m itching to go sailing but can’t drum up much enthusiasm in the face of what would have been difficult logistics.  That evening, we decide that I should cook for us at Francesco’s.  Shopping at his nearby supermercato is interesting but I’m put off by the fact that all the vegetables come pre-packages.  

 

Cooking is quite the challenge.  First the water is off due to some utility work.  Francesco has an oven, but the sticker’s still on the door, suggesting lack of use, and when we try it, it promptly blows the circuit breaker.  Francesco’s townhouse is about 1000 sq. ft. and has but 10 amp service.  He usually cooks in his toaster oven.  This means my eggplant involtini are out.  Instead I make a lasagne-like dish using the same ingredients, only to discover the pan doesn’t fit in the little oven.  In the end it all comes together on the stovetop with contorni of roasted cauliflower and mixed salad.  By now I’ve figured out what fits in the little oven so the clafoutis made with his family’s cherries fits.  

Sardegna

 

We arrived quite bleary-eyed at 0500 but were treated to a spectacular sunrise as we took the long way, through Costa Smerelda, to our final destination, an agriturismo near Sassari on the west coast.  The Costa Smerelda is the playground of the rich with giant houses and fancy resorts dotting the coast and countryside.   The little towns displayed something I hadn’t seen in Italy before – urban planning.  Everything fit together, manicured and uniformly signed.  It looked like Scottsdale with a coastline. 

 

After winding through some very scenic roads for about 2 and 1/2 hours, we arrived in the general locale of our agriturismo.  An agriturismo is a farm that boards guests.  Sort of like a B&B with a barn and garden.  I first experienced one in Pulgia in ‘06 on the recommendation of several people.  

 

But my expectations based on the Puglia experience were soon dashed when we pulled up to a modern, but half-finished line of bungalows in what truly seemed like the middle of nowhere.  Ours was in an old casa that had seen better days, smelling musty with sagging beds.  Paulette, Dale and I looked at each other, no one wanting to be the first to say that it was bad.  After a few anxious moments, we assuaged Dale’s feelings (he’d made the arrangements), called his friend Francesco who was expecting us in Sassari and left.

 

  When we got to Sassari and found Francesco, we knew we’d made the correct choice. D&P had met  Francesco, a 40-something civil judge, when he traveled to Seattle last year.  We spent the afternoon touring the old town of Sassari including a most interesting church that was the base for a centuries-old Sardinian religious society, sort of like the Knights of Columbus. 

 

By 5 we were pretty tired, but Francesco steered us to a new hotel, beautifully done, that could accommodate us.  (Hotel Vittorio Emanuelle)  It was within walking distance of Francesco’s.  It even had internet.  It was a decided improvement over the agriturismo.

 

 

 

On the overnight ferry to Sardegna

 

Immersion Italian has done it’s wonders.  I’m certified as Intermedio Uno — I think that means somewhere around the end of 2 quarters of Italian which is pretty good for one week.  When I think about 65 hours of instruction in 5 days, my head hurts.  Fatica menta.  But my instructors, including la signora del albergo were great.  Now if I can just hang on to what I’ve learned and build on it.  

 

Dale and Paultette arrived from Roma late Saturday afternoon and our week together began.  A nice drive took us back to San Pietro a Monte and Joan’s where we enjoyed her place and a simple home-cooked dinner.  

 

This morning we met Joan’s neighbors who proved to be as friendly as promised.  Dale and I engaged first Lisa and then her sons in Italian conversation, mostly about renovating the derelict house across the road.  I held my own.

 

In the afternoon we headed for the ferry departure harbor at Piombiono.  The weather was just horrific, in places raining so hard that I had to slow to about 50 km/hr, gripping the wheel firmly and worrying about Paulette, crammed sideways in what passes for a back seat in a Peugeot 207cc,  

 

But after a 3 hour drive, we arrived, found the restaurant I’d picked out from the Michelin guide and had a great meal.  Bravo Dale for phoning ahead and getting enough of the directions to get us there.   

 

Now we’re aboard, humming and throbbing out way to Sardegna.  It’s dark. I can’t see much and we arrive at  0-dark-30.  But it’s great fun and another adventure.

Last day

Alora,  this was the last full day.  I’m looking at my notes and marveling at how much I’ve been exposed to in one week.  Now about retaining it.  Clearly, when you’ve immersed in one of these sessions, you have to keep it up.  I’m hoping that a week with my Italian speaking brother Dale and his wife plus 2 more weeks here will cement that which I’ve learned.

Francesca, my younger teacher, asked me an interesting question.  ”Do Americans  like Italy and Italians?”   I was surprised because no one I know has had much of anything bad to say about Italy or Italians and most everyone is effusive about how much they like the place and the people.  Seemingly, the Italians in Francesca’s group think Americans see nothing but Mafiosi when they think of Italy.  Too bad for all of us.  I tried to assure her that Italy is probably the most beloved country in Europe as far as Americans were concerned but I’m not sure she was convinced.  

Tomorrow I venture forth without my teachers.  The training wheels are off! This is a great, beautiful place.  I can’t wait to come back. Whee!!

 

 

Scuola insieme

Alora, after three days of “corso intenso,” I think I’m starting to get this Italian lingo.  Actually, I’m very pleased with my progress.  No, I’m not quite ready to discuss philosophy in Italian with Umberto Eco but I can construct simple “frasi” and make myself mostly understood to a patient listener who’s willing to talk r-e-a-l-l-y slowly. I can say for sure that the expense and effort have been worth it.  

Francesca, the younger of my instructors, has a more structured approach.  We do lessons with a workbook; she lectures; I respond.  She gives me a dirty look when I pronounce for-Ke-tta (a fork) as for-Che-tta and other errori” with c, ch and cc.  We read passages where these c’s appear and she says that if I make 5 errors, there will be no “cena.”  Luckily, I haven’t had to test her resolve.

 

Micaela has two young sons and the energy to deal with them . .  and me.  As the older and more experienced instructor, she has a more freewheeling style.  Today we drove into Todi (about 10 km.) away and visited the “mercato” where I bought “dentifricio,”  ”due bottaglie l’acqua” and some other items. 

Piove, piove, piove.  I’m glad I’m busy inside because the rain would make me nuts otherwise.  There’s barely been any sun since I arrived.  

The food here is pretty good and got better after I complained about successive meals of “pasta e carne” and “carne e pasta.” Tomorrow (domani) more instruction from my tag-team but a dine out experience is in the offing.  I’d better go rest.

 

Immersion Italian

My visit at Joan’s was way too short and I’m looking forward to the two weeks at the end of the trip. But yesterday, I packed up and drove to Collevalenza, a hill town south of Todi, at the south end of Umbria.  Here I’m scheduled for a week of immersion Italian language study – 65 hours of instruction in 5 days.  (Think about it. Do the math.) 

There are two teachers, Micaela and Francesca, and one student, me.  And after one day of this, I feel like I did 10 rounds in the ring against a tag team. This is work!  But if at the end of five days, I only remember what I learned today, it will have been worth it. My teachers promise I’ll be dreaming in Italian by the end of the week – right now I’m just having nightmares about Italian!  

Collevalenza looks like a nice town but there’s been no time to see it yet. Micaela promises we’ll take our lessons on the road for some instruction in situ.  The place I’m staying — Torre Sangiovanni — is a lovely restored “castle” that has just been open for guests since October. (www.torre-sangiovanni.it)  

I suppose I should be studying.  I’m going to sleep, and, perchance to dream.  A dopo.

 

San Pietro a Monte

I’ve known my friend, Joan, for over fifteen years.  She has unbelievable energy, is a fabulous, former professional cook and, now, is a tango addict.  She also has this amazing Italian style and flair.  I’ve seen it in her three homes she’s had in the years we’ve been friends.  So, when she said, why don’t you stay at my home in Umbria when you visit Italy this summer, I knew I was in for a treat.  I mean, after all, who do YOU know that has a home in Italy and says, “go, use it.”  Little did I know.

 

When I arrived after a nice drive from Rapallo, with a stretch down a tree-lined 2-lane road with the top down, I was tired.  I’d stopped in the town of Umbertide where she’d told me I’d find provisions.  Her directions to the gravel entrance road were perfect but I had a little trouble finding the actual house.  Mustering my courage and my limited Italian, I approached a man working in his yard, who pointed the way.  

 

The house was a beautiful old stone farmhouse. I was out in the country but Joan had given the house a complete exterior face lift and the grounds were manicured (and very luxurious).  When I walked in the back entrance she’d told me to use, I wasn’t surprised to find a fully outfitted kitchen, nice sitting area, bath, bedrooms ,etc.  I dashed off a quick email telling her how great it was.  Silly me.

 

I hadn’t actually entered the main house yet!  Upstairs (the first floor in Italy) and over a bit, I found a giant, completely outfitted, modern kitchen, dining room with a gleaming cherry table for 8 or 10, and a sitting room.  The latter rooms had a balcony that overlooked the grounds (vines, olive & cherry trees), a hillside and the setting sun. On the second floor were a  huge, thoroughly modern Italian bath, a bedroom and the master suite. I’d won the grand prize in a travel sweepstakes I never entered.

 

So tonight, I’ll relax and dine in the kitchen on the orecchiette with fava beans, peas and artichoke hearts I made.  Tomorrow, I have to start being a serious Italian language student.

On to Italy, pt 2

 

Got to Nice in good order and my car was waiting.  It’s very cute (Peugeot 207CC hardtop convertible) but quite dirty from the rain.  I still don’t know quite how they do this but the car is new and registered to me as the owner.  I think there’s some advantageous tax deal (no VAT?).  Driving was a challenge particularly when I hit the evening rush around Genoa. On the radio I kept hearing “traffico  intenso” and it sounded as though it was all over the country. Overnight in Rapallo, Portofino’s overlooked big sister. Had a nice dinner with a most interesting dish – gnocchi neri – colored with squid ink.   Today, to Umbria.

On to Italy, part 1

 

Settled into the continental time zone, I head for Italy — Italia — I now need to start thinking, speaking in Italian.  Two days in France probably are not the best ways to prep but I have a hard time passing through this part of the world without visiting Paris. I’m surprisingly comfortable there.  I easily found the store that carried the items left on my flight.

 

Yesterday (5/29) consisted of a couple very long walks sandwiched around meals.  Lunch a L’Atelier de Joel Rubechon was somewhat disappointing.  The service in particular was indifferent and, worst of all, rushed. My plat arrived before I’d finished my entree. (Both were good – an egg poached in a cup atop some pureed herbs and topped with a tobiko speckled foam — quail with an herbed potato puree with a slice of summer truffle.)  At dinner, I dined with an internet-arranged companion who gave me an ex-pat’s view of Paris.  She chose the restaurant – Repaire de Cartouche – in the 11th Arr. I enjoyed getting away from dining rooms full of English-speaking tourists.  A chilled fish soup with a lobster base, full of flavor, along with a terrine of veal “en croute” started us off  My plat was a pork chop with the fat that would ordinarily be bacon (this wasn’t cured) attached.  Visually interesting, but it didn’t add much flavor.  We finished with a soup of rhubarb and strawberries.

 

Now I’m speeding on the TGV to Nice where I’ll collect my Peugeot convertible. My fellow travelers include a party of 8 French who are as noisy a bunch of magpies as any group of American tourists.  And nobody seems able to sit still. The Americans in the car are rather quiet.  Perhaps we’re tired. 

D+1 Paris

Well, I made it further than Ike did on D+1.  Aside from leaving some desirable but unessential items aboard the airplane,  the trip was on-time and uneventful.  Pleasant.  I found out you can take the Underground from Heathrow into London for 4 pounds instead of a 45 pound cab ride that takes just about as long. I found out you get a pretty nice meal with wine on the TGV from London to Paris (salad, chilled salmon with soba noodles, pickled onions and strawberry pot du creme) in first class.  It was certainly more interesting and creative than the Premium Economy meal on Virgin Atlantic.

The weather’s dicey but no rain and warm.  Great for walking.  And Paris might be one of the best walking cities ever. Language barrier aside, i think that I am more comfortable in Paris than in New York or L.A.

Ironic that I’m in the place where they laid Jim Morrison to rest.  I often think of his lyrics when travel from home — “People are strange when you’re a stranger.  Faces look ugly when you’re alone . . . .”  But that goes away after a couple of hours, even in France.  Many Americans carry around the idea that the French don’t like us, are rude, etc.  My experience is just the opposite.  Just as rudeness begets rudeness, friendliness begets friendliness.  I speak about 10 words of French and can stumble through a menu, but “s’il vous plait” and “merci” work wonders.

Dined at a little traditional place in the 5th Arr.  Le Petit Pontoise.  Very pleasant, only about 40 tables and even the American tourists spoke French.  I started with a very agreeable tuna carapaccio, followed with a magret de canard (duck the likes of which you only seem to get in France) and a simple cheese place.  All washed down with a ‘04 Cotes de Provence Rouge.  Got in a conversation with some Angelinos, walked back along the Seine and had a Calavados.  I definitely got further than Ike on D+1.