Turn your head and cough!

The Italian Healthcare System is ranked 2nd in the world. Impressive, yet I'm not sure what it means. It seems everyone gets what they need out of the system.  They get to choose their own doctor, receive treatment, obtain meds, undergo surgery, etc., all courtesy of the Italian Government.  I haven't used the system yet, but today I signed myself into it.  No exam, no questions, I just handed over my Codice Fiscale (SSN) and my Carta D'identità (ID), chose my doctor and signed my name twice.  I received a print-out of my Doctor's hours and a temporary health card; the plastic one arrives by mail within a month. 


Then, it hit me. . . 


I'm not working; I have no income; no job; no job prospects; I'm waiting for my state teacher's  pension to start in July 2012, yet, my healthcare is covered by merely claiming my Italian heritage through  jure sanguinis and becoming a citizen. 

The Boys in Rome

You won't hear many complaints in this blog about life here or there,  even though there's always something rubbing me the wrong way or amusing me to no end; it seems that much more can be learned from what works well--either here or there!  A nation's challenge is applying the knowledge of "what works" as needed, so that all may benefit from what is good and right!


Bravo Italia!

Sister Supermodels

Thanksgiving comes early!

Mom's Arrival in Nice

Mom's been here since October 22nd and we've had a great time so far.  We shopped in Sanremo on the 23rd and attended the Chestnut Festival on the 24th.  We drove in the scioneri to La Spezia on Monday to pick up our car which just arrived after a four month transatlantic crossing; the crossing didn't take four months, it's just that the shipper's estimate of 45 days, door to door, was a bit optimistic (a subject I'll blog about when I calm down enough to be objective).  She had her hair done at a local parruchiere on Thursday and shopped for a jacket at the only clothing store in Ceriana.

Hot Stuff!

Salute!

Festa di Castagna

Early in the week she mentioned how nice it would be to plan a few dinner parties, most especially one for the Zappia family, our home's previous owners.  The Zappia's threw a bash for us three years ago and mom wished to thank them with a dinner at our/their old home; not just any dinner but a traditional "American Thanksgiving Feast!"

Since Italians don't celebrate Thanksgiving; in fact Pino had never heard of the holiday, it didn't matter that we'd planned the event for Saturday October 30th.  Mom and I decided to keep the menu as traditional as possible with the exception of her stuffed zucchini and onions she learned to make from my Ligurian grandmother and which are, arguably, as good if not better than the one's Giovanna makes right here in Ceriana.  The verdure ripieni were our only antipasto and the only Italian dish of the evening.  The Zappia's gobbled them up with gusto; a sign that they were authentically Ligurian!  I announced that there'd be no primo and that the rest of the meal was, "an authentic 'American Thanksgiving Feast!'"

Creating this "american tradition" was anything but easy out here in West Italy!  First step:  tracking down the star attraction! 


I've never seen a whole turkey displayed in a butcher case here. Turkey breasts and legs are always available and I've seen ground turkey but I wanted to present a whole roasted bird with stuffing pouring from its cavity. . . "cavity" is such a polite term isn't it? Long before mom's arrival I had planned to have a little turkey dinner before she departed on November 22nd so I asked the macellaio at Ekom if he could obtain a whole turkey (tacchino intero), "volentieri," was his reply, "come vuole" . . . basically "no problem," "whenever,"  "order today we'll have it tomorrow," etc., etc., etc!  He then asked, "quanti chili, otto. . . nove?" After a quick calculation, eight or nine kilos would be a perfect size with plenty leftover!


When the day came to actually order the bird, the friendly enthusiastic butcher had been replaced by a less encouraging gentleman who suddenly imposed a minimum 13 kilo size to place an order. My mind went immediately to turkey-hash, turkey-soup, turkey-Tetrazzini and who knows what else to do with leftovers! Worried, but it didn't show, I replied with a cheery, "va bene!"  That was Wednesday. We arrived at 10 a.m. that Saturday to pick up the bird, our bird; the only whole turkey on the entire Riviera, it weighed-in at a whopping 16+ kilos; almost 36 pounds!  We were instant celebrities as we wheeled the body through the crowded Ekom shop and out into the parking lot towards our elegant Panda/Scioneri;  I, worrying all the way, "is this gonna fit in the trunk?"


Mom laughed all the way up the scorciatoia as I attempted to discuss the task of cooking this monster.  I fixated on the presentation while Mom, between chortles, was being practical and suggested cooking half the bird or maybe just the breast.  When we reached Ceriana I dropped Mom and "Tom" at the square and drove off to find parking.  As I approached Mom and her "companion" sitting patiently on a stoop, I broke out in a cold sweat. Surprisingly, we managed to carry the corpse down all the carrugi without being noticed.  I mentioned the cold sweat because I fully expected to be stopped by curious Cerianaschi along the way and I wasn't prepared to explain the absurdity of our plan.

Bob and Tom

In the kitchen, finally, I heaved the behemoth onto the cutting board and immediately started massaging and manipulating its huge rigamortised legs hoping that I could set them into the "position" we all know and love.  This was a stubborn bird; a very naughty, stiff, and stubborn bird. The damn legs wouldn't budge from their sprawled pose no matter how forcefully I pushed his missing head against the backsplash!


And then, an epiphany. Even if I could achieve a fully dressed and trussed turkey, this particular specimen would never, ever, under any circumstance, fit into an Italian, Nardi oven.  I collapsed under the pressure and reluctantly grabbed my steel and sharpened my boning knife.


Sometimes being a son-of-a-butcher is handy. I boned-out the whole breast and butterflied out some thicker portions into flaps to flatten the thing.  Next, I placed the stuffing onto the center of the breast and rolled the breast meat around the dressing.  I then excised the skin from the turkey's back and used it to help close the stuffed breast as I tied it with butcher's twine.  Fresh herbs from the terrace, salt, pepper, olive oil and butter and channeling Jacques Pepin and Julia Childs the whole time, my capolavoro was ready for the Nardi!

Mom, Bob and Frankenbird

I could have blogged about the pumpkin pies I baked (try to find canned pumpkin in Italy) but, in fact, turkey is the main attraction on our most American holiday--Happy Thanksgiving!

You Deserve A Break Today . . .

You see them posted along the SS1 in coastal towns miles east and west of Sanremo. At first you think, "there's one here, too?" then you realize it's just an ad for the “one and only” in Piazza Colombo. Once in Sanremo it's hard to miss, especially with a larger than life Ronald greeting visitors at the door! The first and famous one in Rome is, at least, respectfully hidden a few paces to the right of the Spanish Steps, but the one at the Pantheon is boldly opposite the great dome--to be fair, that location and dozens of others started out as a Burgy, the Italian answer to American Fast Food. Eventually, Burgy was "made an offer they couldn't refuse" by Ray Krok and his boys; all Burgy locations either succumbed or converted. Americans have their mafiosi too!

I ask, "why?" Why do Italians want American fast-food when they have some of the best fast-food and have had some of the best fast-food long before Ray and Ronald ever flipped their first burger? 

In Sanremo, just off the Piazza and just a few places beyond that “other place” is la Tavernetta the best focaccia in the world--sorry Liguria Bakery in North Beach, yours' used to be this good! You go in la Tavernetta. . . elbow your way to the counter. . .they ask you what you want and if you'll be eating it, "subito?". . . they hand it to you on a plate or piece of paper. . . you eat it. . .  usually you order more. . . you eat that. . . then you pay!  Fast-food?  It's even "Faster-food" than fast-food because you eat it before you pay.  Why take up all that time paying while the food is cooling off? And who wants to handle money before you eat with your hands?  Fast-food?  The Italian's have it down!  

Here it's Focaccia, Farinata, and Torta di Verdure, in la Sicilia it's Arancine and Cannoli. Each region has their special variety of fast-food and all of it can be consumed on your feet, and before reaching for your wallet!  Italy is fast-food heaven!

On the other hand . . . 

The next terrace over from ours is owned and occupied by Beppe and Marisa from Bra. Bra is located in Piemonte and is on our list of places to visit! Besides being a beautiful Baroque town, Bra distinguishes itself as being the headquarters of the "Slow Food" movement! In a nutshell (pun intended), Slow Food promotes excellent food and drink; grown, raised and prepared by traditional means in an effort to sustain food products threatened by convenience foods and industrialized farming. The movement has reintroduced varieties of vegetables, fruits, meats and cheeses our grandparents ate. If you've eaten "heritage tomatoes" you've eaten Slow Food.  It's beyond organic and it started here.  It's delicious but it takes time, lots and lots of time, like a good polenta! 

If you've made polenta, real polenta and not the kind that comes in tubes, you know it takes an ample amount of work. Boil the water with a fist-full of salt, whisk-in the corn meal then stir continuously for 45 minutes. Use a long wooden spoon to avoid the burns that bursting bubbles of polenta can cause. Pour it out and enjoy in countless ways! We, the Ghiorzi's,  pour our polenta out onto a board and let it harden, then, cut into squares, we layer it with sauce and cheese and put it in an oven to bake (polenta al forno). There are instant varieties of polenta and there is a "microwave method" I've used many times, but there's nothing like the slow-stirred kind. I think la polenta is proof that Slow Food is a good thing!

Italian food culture is complicated, it's a culture of contrasts. Fast-food vs. Slow Food; the two can live side by side as long as the ingredients are top notch. Ironically, Italian fast-food is often prepared with Slow Food ingredients and techniques--the only thing "fast" about it is how it's eaten! There's nothing like grabbing a piece of focaccia or an arancina and gobbling it up subito. . . and. . . there's nothing like savoring a slow-stirred polenta! Goodbye "microwave method" I'm in Italy now where we "eat first-pay later" and take our time when it matters most; "hand me the spoon Ma, it's my turn!"  Unless you have one of these . . . 

God bless Italian ingenuity. . . it's not about saving time it's about having more time to prepare more! Buon Appetito!

Before and After. . . a garden update!

I haven't blogged for a week or so. . . ' been too depressed.

Beans Before

I planted my Fall/Winter garden in August in part to have fresh vegetables for the winter, but most importantly, to see if I could! Here we are in Italy and that's what Italians do; they plant their orti and eat fresh verdure! We priced a motozappa (roto-tiller) and decided our budget couldn't handle it so, with hoe in hand, I turned the earth myself. . . just a plot or so a day. By the end of the first week our land looked more like a grave yard than a garden. I then sowed my beans and broccoli, my lettuce and celery, my zucchini and cabbage and four baby artichoke plants, and all was well. With gentle daily watering the plants sprouted and turned their little green heads to the sun! Our beans worked their way up the poles; the lettuces began forming heads; the zucchini were outgrowing their plot and had to be thinned. I was re-learning about nature and how she works and a feeling of contentment dawned.

Cabbage Before

Artichokes!

Now that the garden was established I turned my attention to the mechanics and hardscape of the land. There were drystone retaining walls to rebuild; walls that had fallen a century or two ago. We had eroding and ever-lengthening slopes to address or we'd lose part of the upper terrace to the lower terrace. I rolled up my sleeves and dug out a few stones then convinced Rich to join in the fun!  In a few days we had a good start on a section of wall between two ancient and still-standing parts. We argued about the best ways to build this wall but, regardless, the work steadily progressed. We were pleased and Rich was a little less "overwhelmed" with the all work a terreno requires. Things were starting to take shape, we were proud of our accomplishments!  We took a break from the garden during a rainy couple of days and focused our attention on the "fresco" work in the guest room of Casa Zappiana.

tap tap tap!

While we were happily "chipping away" at our guest room some uninvited "guests" were "chipping away" at our garden!

&                               &                             &                      

Finally, the weather cleared and we decided to clear our dusty lungs with some country air. We drove out to the land with no specific agenda; perhaps a bit of weeding, or wall building, or both! On the drive we had convinced ourselves that our plants were happy in their beds and we shared our anxious desire to see if the rain and run-off might have toppled the restored section of wall. We hopped out of the Scioneri and I rattled the chains and unlocked the padlock of our "sturdy, but needs proper hinges," gate. I surveyed the land and . . . ,"oh!"  "Oh!"  The wall was in place all right; those rocks were heavy, they didn't budge, but the garden. . , "my garden. . . oh!"   "S**t!"    "Oh!"   "Son of a f@#$%@#$%^!" "Damn cinghiali!"   "I broke my back for this?"   "How 'n-the-hell did they get in?"   "Damn those cinghiali!"    Etcetera.   Rich quietly picked up a few of the scattered plants and re-earthed them knowing that there was nothing he could say to quell my temper and stop my toungue.  Okay, perhaps I'd exaggerated a bit, the damage was not that bad. . . that day!

Beans After 

I had heard about the ruin that boars can bring but somehow I thought our perimeter was secure and, knowing how Italians like to "embellish" their stories I guess I always thought, it can't be that bad!  It's that bad! Obviously not satisfied with their first visit the boars came back again and again, night after night, "rooting" only where the ground was soft and moist, i.e., my planting beds! Battle lost, Rich gave up replanting the scattered remains. In the end the beasts had destroyed the entire lettuce and zucchini beds; the artichokes were no more; the cabbage patch succumbed on the third day; they left one bush-bean plant and gingerly destroyed the pole beans without toppling the flimsy poles I rigged. I'm still marveling about how they managed that, did they think I wouldn't notice? Smart bastards!

Cabbage After

                                                                        

Artichokes?

At this point we've decided to work only the  hardscape of our garden. We need to complete our walls and address the erosion issues. We plan on mending fences (not with the cinghiali) and replace our gate hinges. I'd like to put in an irrigation system with timed watering when, eventually, there's something to water.  There's some work ahead and I suppose winter's the time to do it. Winter's also the time to enjoy cinghiale . . . in a stew!

Through it all the wall grew . . .

Wall Before

And now!

End of Spring

29 Settembre 2010

So Ligurian!

We're known, here in Liguria, as "penny-pinchers". . . to use a polite term. Being thrifty is cherished and respected here. Here, if one accumulates wealth one doesn't boast or brag. The outside of a Ligurian home might appear plain and even run-down but don't be too quick to judge the occupant's taste or wealth by the home's façade! I've been in several of these homes and have been impressed by the quality of the appointments. Paradoxically, the habit of "hiding of one's wealth" doesn't affect the extreme generosity of most Ligurians. Be very careful when complimenting a particular object in a Ligurian home, or you might be leaving with it!

In 2008, my sister Linda accompanied me to Ceriana for Holy Week, an "over the top" experience one must see to believe--I'll write about it next Easter. One day while eating at En Tu Furnu, its propriator, Dario, told us that he'd recently inherited three apartments in Sanremo. The owner of these appartments had died in the arms of Dario's son, Matteo. The man was Matteo's godfather and was a well-known ballet dancer who had toured the world and collected many fine objects along the way. Dario, being much more interested in real estate than artwork, was anxious to clear out the apartments as soon as he could. He described the apartments as being filled with, "vasi e quadri e tappeti ecc." (vases and frames and carpets, etc.) and he wanted us; my sister and I and a few other friends, to see them before the apartments were emptied. He kept insisting that this was something we must see! "Incredibile!" With my limited comprehension of Italian, I wasn't quite sure what Dario intended but, being on vacation, we were primed for adventure.

Nothing, even if Dario spoke "the Queenes English," could have prepared us for what we encountered when we entered the apartments! "Vasi e quadri e tappeti, ecc!" The rooms were "standing room only" with:  paintings, porcelain, ceramics, crucifixes, icons--both Russian and Greek, oriental carpets, bolts of fabric, candelabras, china, figurines, framed photographs, pewter plates, and rosaries. There was no theme.  From the ceiling hung Venetian glass chandeliers; several in each room!

 Our mouths dropped open and our expressions were frozen for what seemed an eternity. And Dario started to grin! Just as Dario's grin reached each of his ears, he started doing what he had intended to do from the start. While we, in our stupor, were exploring the rooms and the artwork Dario took note of the objects which gave us pause.  Before any of us could utter a syllable our arms were being filled with treasure. Icons--I have several now, a crucifix, pewter plates, two capodimonte urns. In Linda's arms were bolts of fabric, an icon and an oil painting of the Madonna. I glanced at our friends as they hugged (again) icons, photographs and candlesticks. I forced myself to stop looking at things for fear that they too would end up in my already capacitated arms.

I cannot properly describe what we had, just then, experienced except to say it was both, frenetic and fantastic in the true sense of these words. Dario; victorious, grinned and glowed!

Dario, moving too fast to focus!

Later that day it hit us:  in a matter of seconds, we were clutching objects of art that took Dario's friend years to collect! Sadly, we discussed how part of a man's life could be dismantled and carried off in an instant. How could Dario do such a thing with such great cheer? Dario's generosity stems from the very heart of this rugged region. Here, people share their wealth, whatever "wealth" is and however it's defined:  money, if need be; crops; time; talent. They give and give again; assured that in their time of need someone will be there giving back.

God, I love this place!

Matteo's Godfather, Dario's Friend.

Thanks Dad!

As a boy, and wanting to please my dad, I joined little league baseball. I practiced batting, running, throwing, and catching. My batting was good when I connected bat with ball. My throwing was good if someone was near enough to catch my toss. My catching was good when I didn't wince, close my eyes, and turn away from the projectile heading towards me. I won't mention  the running part. Dad came to one game and afterwards, in so many words, said I didn't have play to please him!  Thanks Dad!

As a boy, and wanting to please my dad, I got a hunting license and a Mossberg 20 ga. shotgun. I took the required gun-safety course which was held in the staff room of Roos Atkins, a men's apparel store in San Francisco. For our first actual hunt Dad created a kind of "tent" for the bed of the truck; this was to be our home for the night so that we could drive to the Sacramento Refuge the evening before and get a good "place in line" for the morning. It rained that night; I guess paint drop-cloths aren't designed to repel water so we were soaked through and through. I was excited and couldn't sleep. I stared at the phosphorescent hands of dad's "Baby Ben Travel Clock" and counted how many "ticks" were in a minute. The alarm was set for 4:30. "We gotta get up early Bobby if we want a good number!" We were driven out in an open bed truck to our assigned pond and dad set-up a make-shift blind of sticks and burlap. We drank brandy to stay warm and ate turkey sandwiches Mom had prepared and wrapped in foil. I got to shoot my gun a couple of times. Dad killed some ducks, he said I hit one but I'm not sure I did. We hunted several times together after that. Dad never had a hunting dog, Dad had me! I had no problem wading into the pond to retrieve ducks if they were properly dead; however, I never cared for "ringing" the necks of the half-dead ones. Being brought up in a butcher shop, dead animals didn't frighten me, but nothing "half-dead" was ever brought into the shop!  "Meat is food!"   Thanks Dad!

As a boy, and wanting to please my dad, I helped him terrace the slope behind our fence so that we could grow our own vegetables. This meant tearing down the old "fort" he built for me (when I was more of a child) and "stepping" up the hillside with thick slabs of timber, then back-filling the boards with top soil. "Nothing like fresh vegetables Bobby!" We grew chard, zucchini, tomatoes, lettuce, corn, beans and we tried to grow more exotic veggies at times but we, pretty much, stuck with the standards. I learned how and when to water, fertilize and harvest and I learned that carrots don't get very big in hard ground, or if you pulled them up too soon. One day I learned how frightened my dad was of snakes. It seems, two garter snakes, found their way into our garden. Dad was working on one terrace, I was on another, when something caught Dad's eye. He yelled out one of his favorite curses and wielded his spade with great aplomb. These serpents didn't stand a chance! In an instant each was chopped to bits and the pieces continued to writhe and quiver and would continue writhing and quivering, "until sundown," Dad informed me. He buried the pieces in a quickly dug and surprisingly deep pit. We continued gardening that day, mostly in silence, occasionally interrupted by a kind of "vocal shiver" Dad made. We brought our "crops" into the house, Mom cooked, and we all gathered at the dinner table just as Dad expected.  Thanks Dad!

Dad raised us: "Italian-first;" and here I am in Italy. . . as a man! At times I feel like a boy but the mirror doesn't lie; I'm there. I no longer have to prove myself by playing baseball, although Bocce is starting to appeal to me and I'm trying to get the town to refurbish the court. I've planted a Fall/Winter Garden and I'm trying to remember the things I'd learned from my dad about soil, water and fertilizer. I haven't seen any snakes in our campagna, but I discovered "evidence" of wild boar (cinghiale) yesterday when I arrived to a freshly "rooted" garden (Rich attempted to save some of the scattered plants).  Sometimes at sunset I hear the hunter's guns and I often think, could I kill a boar?  I'm sure Dad would encourage me to,"try it sometime Bobby!"  Cinghiale is quite delicious!   Meat is food!   Thanks Dad!

Dad as a Boy!

Don't come to Ceriana. . .

We just got back from a weekend in Umbria and Tuscany. We stayed in the beautiful town of Montone where two friends are planning to buy a home, in fact, we helped them contact a seller and got to see a lovely place built into the town's wall with beautiful views of Umbria out each window. Inside the mediaeval walls of Montone you'll find a very "done" town with a main square and all of the amenities required by residents and tourist alike. There are bars, restaurants, a  tobacconist (by the way, Umbria grows much of Italy's tobacco--ironically, a beautiful plant) a post office--once a Roman temple, and a town hall--complete with a mediaeval prison. Speaking to a "local" named Luigi I learned that Montone was recently "restored" with lots and lots of money from the region. Every bit of pavement which was "difficult" for the old folks to walk upon has been replaced with beautiful granite slabs and an elaborate drainage system has been added. The electric and phone wiring has been neatly tucked and discreetly "hidden" in special troughs and the light fixtures have been rewired and repaired. A waitress in a neighboring town described Montone as the place, "where leaves are not allowed to touch the ground." We were told that Rick Steves sends his private tours there but is not allowed to publicize it or he will not be welcomed back!

Our hosts escorted us to the hillside town of Anghiari and we toured the Museo della Battiglia commemorating the famous battle of Anghiari--mostly famous because of Leonardo's failed attempt at depicting the battle in fresco! Anghiari is impressive when viewing it from the road below; a proper rampart! A long, straight and steep road leads back to the valley floor. 


We stopped in Monterchi to pay our respects to the Madonna del Parto by Piero della Francesca. Here the Madonna is depicted pregnant, a hand rending her gown, and a look on her face as if to say, "this is gonna hurt!" 

We lunched in Sansepolcro; Rich and I gorged ourselves on Bistecca Fiorentina. We snuck a peek at another famous fresco by Piero della Francesco of Christ exiting the crypt. 


On the second day of touring we were taken to Cortona the town made famous by Frances Mayes's book, Under The Tuscan Sun. A lovely town; a boutique town; beautiful views; rude waiters. The only hill town I've seen with outdoor escalators leading up from the parking lot. I remember seeing a sketch by Leonardo da Vinci of an "escalator" so, in this way, I guess Cortona offers a nod to her famous brother. The first and longest escalator was out of order and it was fun to watch American tourists stand at its base and wonder if it was worth the climb.


Along a winding two-way road, wide enough for one average-sized car, we found our way to "Le Celle" di Cortona where St. Francis spent part of his monastic life. His "cell" is carved into the mountain where he desired to become "one" with the rock! Its setting, its serenity, its significance makes "Le Celle" a most moving and memorable site.

After a journey of two, three and a half hour "legs" seperated by a one and a half hour lunch in Sarzana, a typical Ligurian town, we arrived back home in Ceriana. Here, the streets have not been repaved for centuries, water drains where it likes, or not, and wires hang in "function over form" fashion. Our street lights work but many of the glass panes need replacing. We don't have famous frescos or famous authors living here; our church bells are not turned off at night. What we do have is a vital community surviving the way it's survived for years; independent of tourist dollars. It's a commune, nothing more, a lovely, lovely commune. Be Advised: There are no escalators in Ceriana!

Ancient Roman Arch holding up Casa Zappiana!

Buried Treasure. . .

Living in an 800 year old house in Northern Italy sometimes stirs my imagination. How many people were born in our rooms? How many died? Did the plague ever creep over our threshold? We're bodies piled up outside our door? Okay. . . I'll stop with the gore!!! But, think about it. . .  although he was far too busy, Columbus could have knocked at our door. If the family occupying our home during the 15th/16th centuries were rich enough they could have commissioned Michelangelo to fresco our ceilings. Sometimes I spend a sleepless night pondering what might have occurred in Casa Zappiana.

The Zappia family lived here for 54 years before vacating 3 or 4 years before we purchased it. They sold it "as-is" yet everything was functional. The kitchen and bath were a bit dated but worked. The furniture was part of the deal and although it's old, we're happy to have it. The only room of furniture we had to change out was the living room which, for 54 years, was the only room in which Pietro Zappia was allowed to smoke. I thought we had an amber chandelier in there until I cleaned off the nicotine to discover it's really a crystal chandelier! We kept the chandelier, dumped the hide-a-bed and particle board wall unit and gave the dining table back to Mafalda Zappia. We furnished the smoke free room with items from Ikea in Genoa. The only other area we renovated was the terrace which we use as an extension of the living room.


Until yesterday, the bedrooms of our home would be the most recognizable to the Zappia family. Until yesterday each was intact, complete with the floral wallpaper which, I'm sure, Mafalda herself painstakingly selected to adorn the rooms. For 6 years now Rich and I have had an ongoing conversation about why I think the wallpaper should stay. Our Master bedroom with, what Rich calls, "Barbie Furniture" and "period" wall-paper looks like something out of a 50s Sophia Loren movie. It has the old world charm of a classic 4 or 5 star Italian hotel room and I think Rich finally accepts the logic in leaving it alone!

The guest room. . . well that's another story.

Yesterday, while I was blogging Rich said, "I think I'm going to pick around the crumbling window in the guest room." I stopped blogging and offered, "are you sure you want to do that, you might be beginning a project that neither of us have the know-how to finish?"  With that, he began to pick away. I started blogging again and a few minutes into it I heard, "I found something." I stopped blogging. Rich and I spent the rest of the day in the guest room.


Just above the window Rich uncovered what he and I both convinced ourselves was a fresco! We've heard that many Ceriana homeowners have discovered these long hidden gems. Usually nothing of great artistic value, but interesting nevertheless. Frescos are magical; they spark the imagination. We romanticize the lives of the people who lived and loved under frescoed vaults. We think of Charlton Heston as Michelangelo in "The Agony and the Ecstacy;" paint dripping in his eyes and Rex Harrison shouting, "when will you finish?" Could our fresco be a masterpiece?


To be a proper fresco the pigment must be applied to fresh plaster and then it dries with the plaster becoming a single entity. First off, we discovered that only a small ceiling border of burnt-orange and black might be durable enough to be a fresco. The line above this border appears to have been painted over dry plaster and was effaced as we chipped away at layers and layers of paint. Undaunted, we continued chipping away; thinking we might unravel some of the mysteries of the house. Perhaps we'd find a family crest or someone's initials. Perhaps there would be religious paintings which might tie our home to the ancient monastery next door. We found nothing else on the ceiling! A bit disappointed and covered in dust and paint chips I decided to "peak" under a raised corner of Mafalda's wallpaper. And then it appeared. The original walls were covered with color. Greenish top band, painted cornices decorated with small green leaves and blue bells in each corner, lower bands of contrasting colors. We chipped and hammered as the layers of paint fell away. We were excited until we both realized that none of the "art" was frescoed. The paint was applied directly to the cement wall which covers the stone walls of our home. With just a bit of spit the paint dissolved onto our fingers! Alas, we don't have priceless frescos in the guest room and now there's no wallpaper either.

We're deciding what to do with our uncovered walls. If we can, somehow, seal the paint to the wall without destroying the designs we might display a corner, revealing what the room once was, and plaster and paint the rest. We might keep the only bit of true fresco, the ceiling border, and paint out the rest of the ceiling to compliment burnt-orange and black. We've worked like dogs both yesterday and today but we've learned a lot about own home. At one time there was a doorway between the two bedrooms which explains why our room has an antique built-in wardrobe set in a two-foot thick wall. The ceiling and walls have rather large patched-over cracks, probably the result of the famous and rather devastating earthquake of 1887. Deducting from the colors and layers of paint the artwork predates the wardrobe and the earthquake.

I wonder if the Zappia family ever saw the bluebells? Which layers of paint did they add to our walls. . . the green, the blue, the ochre, the white? I'll have some questions for Mafalda the next time I see her on the Corso.

On the up and up!

Our Cumberland Street home in San Francisco, an Edwardian built in 1914, was considered old and a "fixer-upper" when we purchased it in 2001. The living area, approximately 80 feet in length, sat upon the ground floor garage of similar dimensions. Once up the stairs the house resembled a pretty typical "railroad" or "shotgun" flat:  a collection of rooms, right and left, off a common hallway. Our living room and bedroom shared a common wall; the kitchen was "all the way" down the hall. I remember complaining how far I had to walk (thirty-five paces) to retrieve something I'd forgotten at the other end of "Howard!" We named our house Howard.

Howard sat off Dolores Park in a pretty flat area of San Francisco, a city famous for its hills; some very steep! I often marveled at family homes built on the steepest streets like Filbert and Lombard on Russian Hill or 21st Street in Noe Valley; streets so steep that many have stairways instead of sidewalks!

"Who'd want to live on the side of a hill like that?"

The vacationing motorist, with guidebook in hand, might drive through Ceriana without ever considering a stop. He's probably on his way to the picturesque hill towns of Baijardo or Apricale. There's something quite romantic about a town perched upon hill. The traveller sees an Italian hill town in the distance, it appears, disappears and reappears as he drives the curvy roads; he's tantalized by it--almost there, almost there! Ceriana is not that kind of a hill town. As you drive up from San Remo you have but one clear view of Ceriana and if your attention is diverted for a second or two, or if it's a bit hazy, you might miss it entirely. Driving through the town on Corso Italia is a bit of a "ho-hum"  experience; one sees very little of this amazing place! Ceriana doesn't perch itself upon a hilltop, it's built on a valley wall; each structure's foundation is the building below. The homes cling to each other and hold each other up and have done so for ten centuries! At one time, before the top road was carved out of the mountain, one would approach Ceriana from below on a mule trail leading up from Taggia. The traveller of times past would see Ceriana in its entirety from a great distance and as the vision of the town grew in scale so, too, grew his desire to stop and explore. Sometimes I'm grateful that this town is so easily missed! Both Baijardo and Apricale have become what Rich and I call "boutique" towns, while Ceriana remains an active and living Italian hill(side)town.

The concentrically ringed streets (caruggi) of Ceriana are paved with a center stripe of brick surrounded by stones; not cobblestone, but stones, rough and natural, and set in cement. There are a few caruggi on which expert Serianasci drivers maneuver their scooters, Apes, and Pandas, but, for the most part, caruggi were designed for asses (proper ones) and humans. Being built on a steep valley wall, most of the caruggi are a combination of ramps and steps. At one time, businesses lined these streets; however, sadly, only En Tu Furnu (Ceriana's only restaurant) and Severina's Parrucchiere remain in caruggi. All other businesses have located upon the Corso Italia--the main drag! Now, if you live in centro storico, as we do, you must really "plan" your shopping to correspond with the shop hours and the amount of energy you'll need to get there. It's always a climb, so rest-up! Never purchase more than you can carry and make sure to bring up your trash on the way to the shops--garbage is an individual responsibility in Ceriana.

The homes in Ceriana mirror the verticality of the town. Many "homes" here are a collection of rooms off a common, usually very steep and uneven, staircase. A home may have several owners sharing the common staircase. Ours is a good example of this concept.

At one time our 13th century home; we call it Casa Zappiana, was a "complete" house with one owner, the last being the Zappia family. Today, we co-own the building with another family we'll call the "others." To get in Casa Zappiana one enters a "shared" external door at carrugio level and encounters the first internal door. This door, belonging to the "others," accesses their kitchen and living room. To the right of this door is a short staircase leading to the first landing. There are three doors on this landing, the first two belong to the "others" and conceals their bedroom and bathroom respectively. Yes, the "others" must enter the common area to access each of their rooms; and, yes, on more than one occasion we've seen them in their nighties! Awkward. Ours is the fourth and final internal door one finds after entering from the carrugio. Once "in" the staircase continues and leads to our two bedrooms off a landing then, windingly, up to the kitchen, bath, living room, and terrace. Once in Casa Zappiana, there's a strong desire to remain in!

I used to complain about walking the level thrity-five paces from living room to kitchen in poor ol' Howard! Ha!