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!

Billy Goats Yumm!

From the terrace, I'm hard-pressed to find a bit of wild, untouched, land as I gaze up the valley wall. Italians have been cultivating this part of the world for centuries and have terraced the entire entroterra. We (speaking as an Italo-Americano) can't leave nature alone; we must tame and sculpt and primp each plant until it wields to our will! In front of our San Francisco home we had  a unruly New Zealand Christmas Tree (bush on a stick) which tore up the sidewalk twice and was always dropping something to sweep-up; daily! Being Italian, I sculpted it into an Olive tree one day and maintained its fronds for years!

The Brits call it a "strimmer," Americans prefer "weed-waker," and here it's called a decespogliatore! (best guess spelling!) Each morning eager contadini fire up their strimmers (easier to spell) and begin their "dance to tame nature." The erbe are then piled, doused with an accelerant (gasoline works just fine), and burned! It's hard, backbreaking work, keeping one's land "clean," but there is an alternative just as effective at getting rid of erbe (and any other plant within their reach), cheap, cute, and delicious!

For as many years as I've been coming to Ceriana there have been a minimum of three goats "cleaning" a portion of terraces across from me. Some years they're white, some years they're brown, sometimes black. I can spend hours watching them as they frolic about; munching their way up and down the terraces. Their bleats are pleasant reminders that we're not in a city anymore. Sometimes they sound a bit distressed in the morning and I "bleat" back--that seems to calm them. I love the goats, they're a constant in my life now; but one thing's certain, every time I come here I notice that the goats who entertained me last year have been replaced by a brand new cast!  Where did last year's goats go? Do goats have that short of a natural life span? I've heard that you can "rent" goats to "clean" your land. Not in this case, for when his land is cleaned and there is nothing else for his poor creatures to eat, this kind contadino, serves them huge amounts erbe; coming from somewhere other than his clean compagnia. It's not really that much of a mystery. . . especially if you've gone to any of the feste in the Piazza Marconi!

Nearly every summer weekend night, the grills in the square are fired-up and brought to the proper temperature to cook up the famous Souissa de Serianaca  and a delicious "meat-on-a-stick" selection called "Rostelle!"

Now, I've got to admit, the first time I ate rostelle I asked, "is it beef, or lamb?" It was doused with a bit of oil and herbs and was delicious, so delicious I wasn't shocked when they told me I was eating goat. I'm told that the "dish" was introduced to this region by Southern families who settled in this area during a bit of a mass-migration in the early to mid-20th century. Rostelle certainly was an instant hit! Cerianaschi and Cerianese alike are passionate about their "goat-on-a-stick!" At le feste they're willing to stand in a long purchase line where they receive a hand-written ticket with the a number representing the number of rostelle they wish to bring back to the common tables--it's not unusual to order dozens at a time. The happy ticket holder then walks across Piazza Marconi to the adjacent Piazza Rubini; his jovial mood quickly plummets as he approaches the grills and pushes to the front of an enormous crowd. That's when the real chaos begins. It's difficult to hand over the ticket because of the over-animated and over-gesticulated argument ensuing:  "who was here first" and "who's been waiting longer" and "that's not the way I would organize this" and "not her again, she's so slow" and "why should I wait. . .  I only want 12?" Eventually the ticket is taken, it's pierced by one of several nails attached to a long board. There is a system but no one has yet to crack the code! Eventually the order is filled, the rostelle are piled on a plastic plate, doused with sauce, or not, and handed over. Everyone waking back to the square wears the same smile and feels, a bit, victorious!  

   Wait. . . are those the same goats I saw yesterday?

Tell one, tiny lie . . .

Before purchasing our home here in 2004, I went through a couple of life-changing experiences. My dad died in February of that year after a difficult 15 year battle as a stroke survivor. The other life-changing event was joining a weight loss program designed by alcoholics wanting to deal with their weight-gain after giving up the booze. The program was strict.  The food plan was never written down, but given to you by a "sponsor" after the first meeting. "No flour, no sugar and avoidance of all individual binge foods." "Three meals a day with nothing in-between." "A given meal could not be consumed until 4 hours had past since the last, and one must eat the next meal before 6 hours had past from the last." "Sugar free beverages were fine; coffee, tea--decaf only"--alcohol was never mentioned, of course! All meals had to be weighed and measured and "committed-to!" One "commits" their daily meals the night before by writing down precisely what they're going to consume the next day. My daily commitment might look like this:

Breakfast
1 oz. Oatmeal
8 oz. non-fat plain yoghurt
apple

Lunch
6 oz. beef
6 oz. spinach
pear

Dinner
6 oz. chicken
6 oz. broccoli
12 oz. salad w/two tbs. oil and vinegar

The next morning I had to call my sponsor at 5:45 and "give" my food to them by telling them precisely what I had committed to eat the night before. Then, after 30 minutes of "quiet-time," I could start my day. The goal was to remain abstinent and rack up the days. After 90 days of "abstinence" you were allowed to "speak" or "share" at a meeting; three meetings a week were required as part of being abstinent. If you broke your abstinence the 90 day count would start again!

I followed this plan to the letter. I called my sponsor daily, "gave" him my food, did my "quiet-time," ate nothing in-between, etcetera etcetera, and went from 217 lbs to 153 lbs in three months! Then, I spoke/shared at meetings and even "chaired" a few to share, "what I did then and what I do now."

Then, we bought a house in Ceriana. . .

My Sponsor allowed me to come to Italy if I was committed to following the food plan, writing down my meals the night before and calling him daily, which meant I had to call him at 2:45 p.m. so that he would receive the call at 5:45 a.m. and, therefore, I'd retain my abstinence! For meetings I had to promise to find where A.A. meetings were held in Italy and "try" to attend those in lieu of our "official" food meetings. I didn't "try" too hard and I was allowed to skip meetings if I promised to "do" more "quiet-time!" The day before we arrived in Ceriana I was at my lowest weight in my entire life--150!

. . . insane?   . . . a bit!

I got good at the practice of eating properly in an Italian restaurant. I would simply order from the secondi and contorni. . . grilled meats or fish. . . grilled or steamed veggies. I would ask for a second plate and take just what I estimated to be 6 oz. and leave the rest to "god," (sponsor-speak).  Occaisionally a waiter would ask, "no pasta, ne anche pane?" "Non oggi," ("not today") I'd say and that, usually, was that  I had my 1 oz. packets of oatmeal, dozens of them, to make breakfast a breeze and if I couldn't fine plain yoghurt I was allowed two eggs; fruit was always available. One day, during this trip, I was "given" additional food by my sponsor. I began adding 6 oz. of either rice or potato to my dinner! This worked well. . . it was easy to stay abstinent in Italy!

"no pasta, ne anche pane, ma riso, va bene?"

When "non oggi" no longer convinced the waiters I took a more drastic tact. I first learned to say, "sono allergico di farina" and when their response translated to "try some of this; there's only a small amount of flour in it," I moved quickly to, "sono intolerante di glutine!" Wow, that worked! You see, here, not eating pasta or bread is inconceivable, but if you have a medical diagnosis, then it's acceptable and respected. I arrived in Ceriana, gluten intolerant; I was now a celiaco! 

It, "the lie," started the night we signed the compromessa (the formal offer to buy a piece of property) and our new,dear friend, Elena, noticed my date of birth which happened to be that day! Rich and I, feeling quite pleased that Pino allowed us to buy his father's house, offered to treat everyone at the signing to dinner that night at La Posta da Beppe, and what should appear at the end of the meal . . . A birthday cake. . . for me!!! Dear, dear, sweet Elena. Not wanting to hurt her feelings and not wanting to break my abstinence, I had to say:  "grazie, lei e molto gentile, ma non posso mangiare questa bella torta, sono intolerant di glutine." I could see the disappointment on Elena's face, not because I didn't want to eat her cake, but because no one had told her I was celiaco! The evening ended well enough, Beppe brought me some fruit and the cake was gobbled up by those without health concerns! I kept my abstinence!

And so it began. The next time Rich and I ate at La Posta, Beppe, proud as a peacock, presented me with special gluten-free crackers to accompany my meal. When dining at En Tu Furnu, Dario prepared dinner rolls and a pizza base with gluten-free "flour!" Elena has, on several occaisions, made me my own version of bruschetta with rice cakes and focaccia with faro 'cause she'd heard that some "celiacs" could tolerate faro. Needless to say, I had no way out, nor the language skills to explain. I had, but to eat all of these things due of the love that went into their preparation. Now, I started "omitting the truth" from my sponsor by substituting these gluten-free items with my "allowed" starches. I broke my abstinence!

I had a "genuine" piece of focaccia at the train station on my way home that summer.

The lie still lives on here. La Posta has closed and Beppe works at a restaurant in San Remo--so I'm off the hook there. When dining  at En Tu Furnu, I'm no longer offered pasta or bread; Dario has given up trying to make bread with gluten-free flour--I finnaly admitted it was not good; so did he! I still don't have the heart, nor the language to tell Elena, but I must. . . someday.     I'm working up the nerve!

The weight's back up, but the insanity is waning. . . a bit!