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my life now; but one thing's certain, every time I come here I notice that the goats who entertained me last year have been replaced by a brand new cast!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! 

Fancy Panda!

 On June 23, I watched our car being loaded on a transport and hauled off to New Jersey. From there it was to board a ship heading to the port of Genoa. The estimate was for 45 days "door to door;" our "revised estimate" promises that it will leave Jersey on September 4th. In the meantime, we bought a Panda! Actually, it's a 1986-87 limited edition Fiat Panda 750 and, in fact, it isn't called a "Panda" at all! It's a Scioneri. . .!

Scioneri. . . I love saying it . . . Scioneri. . . , Scioneri. . . , but before I sing a parody of "Maria" from "West Side Story," I should explain. It seems Fiat contracted with MOMO design in the 80s and created some "limited editions" of which, we are privileged to have one! We were told by the seller that there are only a few left and when insuring the vehicle this was very important to mention.

The first time you insure a car in Italy is very expensive. First, you must prove yourself a "good driver" and, after the first year, the rates drop considerably. So, to insure our Scioneri. . .  (Read that: Fiat Panda 750, w/suede interior and a fancy rubber horn-cover which reads:  "Scioneri MOMO") was going to cost us over 700 euros, unless . . . the car was registered as an "historic" vehicle. If the car was accepted by this special society, for only 120 euros a year in membership fees, the insurance rate would drop by 2/3rds! "Wow, that's huge," we agreed, and Gianni, the seller, was eager to help in the process (mind you, he never took the time to register it for himself) and offered to accompany us to meet an "officer" in the club.

On the way (I let Gianni drive the Scioneri. . .) we stopped for gas and I told the attendant, "pieno!" The attendant, whom Gianni called cugino, repeated, "pieno?" Gianni echoed, accompanied with a bit shock on his face, "pieno??" Once again--to Gianni and his cugino I said, "pieno!!!" Gianni shrugged and smirked a bit. What was that all about? What did I say? Was I being the "Ugly American" by wanting a full tank of gas? The 1000 euros we paid for the car was already in Gianni's bank, so technically the Scioneri. . . was ours--why not "fillerup?" Cugino washed the windows, topped-off the water and air, checked the tire pressure and we went along our merry way to meet this auto aficionado! Gianni turned down a side street in the Foce district of San Remo, properly double-parked, locked the car, and located the "official."

The men were talking very quickly, sometimes in hushed tones, oftentimes shouting, and I could see that the "official" was not convinced that our Scioneri. . . was maintained well enough to become a member! Finally, with much negotiation on Gianni's part, it was decided that. . . if we were to have a portion of the driver's-side door painted; then photograph the side of the car, being very careful not to display any part of the car's paint-peeled top; then take off the seat covers and take a second picture (required) though the passenger door showing-off the suede interior; then submit these two photos to the club's president. . . yes, yes. . . we might have a shot! In the meantime, I was advised by the "official," to pay the entire insurance fee, and once all the "repairs" and photos were made, the club fees paid, and, after the car was registered as an "historic vehicle" we could then ask the insurer to reimburse us the extra money we paid by insuring it as "just a normal Panda 750."

Gianni accompanied me to the insurance office and made a quick, but polite, exit. I phoned Rich, who stayed behind to withdraw the insurance money from the bank, and I briefly explained all we had to do to save money. In the end we decided it wasn't worth the effort--that, and after a few questions of the agent, we learned that Italian insurers would never reimburse us a cent.

Happily driving our own car up the hill to Ceriana we were glad to leave the traffic, the noise and exhaust smells of San Remo behind. Half-way up the hill we were keenly aware that the traffic and noise had dissipated but the exhaust smells grew stronger. An ever increasing scent of benzina filled the passenger compartment. The word "pieno," in Gianni's voice, went through my mind. "Pieno?"                 "Pieno??"          "Pieno???"

Please note:  If you ever "fill-up" a Panda be aware that, due to its design, a bit of gas will spill when you drive uphill.

At any given time, you'll find a half-tank or less in our Scioneri. . . !

Milano Overnight. . .

Rich and I will be driving to Milan tomorrow to attend the funeral of a dear friend's father. He was called "Prof", short for professore, and was one of the first people I fell in love with here in Ceriana, although he, as I, spent only summers here. Each summer his devoted daughter, Letizia would drive him down from Milan to escape the intense heat. When I met Prof he was in his late 80s and was holding a video-camera. He was always photographing with his "high-end" camera. His subjects included his dining companions at En Tu Furnu, but mostly, his films were of cats; his daughter's cats and the menagerie of strays here in Ceriana.  He'd rise before the sun and, camera in hand,  he and his daughter would begin their morning walk. He was a little shaky but refused her helping hand; headstrong and proud to a fault! They'd return from the walk and Prof would marvel at the day's shoot. I am in receipt of several of those videos!
Letizia would rent him a room near the level top of the town;  the small house of Thomas; the last time a room in Teré--our only hotel. The last time Prof was in town so, too, were 11 young ladies who shared the remaining rooms of Teré. The girls were here for Sororis a musical workshop a colleague and I arranged and conducted. I'm sure the girls were anything but quiet at night, but Prof didn't seem to mind, in fact, directly after their performance, he called them to his room to show-off the concert video.  He was 91 then and the girls were smitten.
That was two years ago. Last Summer, too frail to make the trip from Milan, I talked to Prof on the phone and offered my hope to see him soon. I'll see him again Wednesday.
Riposa in Pace, dott. Gianfranco (Prof) Montanari.

Ceriana's Home Movies. . .

Before Rich and I left San Francisco, mom and I had 57 three-minute 8mm films converted to DVDs and distributed them to our family. The "films" played in the background during our going-away party. Prior to this DVD reincarnation, these films were played only during very special family evenings. Dad would set-up a screen and take out each film from a little yellow box and thread it into our Revere projector. The films were silent but I can still hear their "soundtrack":  the  "Gr.r.r.r.r.r.r.r.r.r.r.r.r." of the projector; our laughter; the occasional teary sniffs; the protests, "not that one dad!"; the applause! These evenings were enjoyed by all, or so we thought. Once in awhile there'd be a guest who would have to sit through "Reno's Reels" and feign interest. That's the thing about family films; unless you're in them, or, at least, recognize all the players, they are very long three-minute experiences!

The other night in the square, Ceriana celebrated a special anniversary of "e garsune de Seriana," a girls chorus which sings in the local dialect. The spettacolo began with selections sung by the current group of garsune and ended with an alumnae group of adult women singing songs they'd sung on the same stage many years ago. Between these sets, the crowd, mostly all Cerianasci (individuals born in Ceriana), was shown videos (with sound) of Garsune performances taken from each decade since its formation. On-screen, we're the cherubic faces of singers from the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s, and their conductor, Angela, who was "there" from the start! These vintage performances featured the same songs, the same conductor and many of the same faces, just "older" as the years progressed. After each recorded selection the crowd cheered as if hearing the song for the first time. Proper names and nicknames were shouted to the screen as individual faces appeared in "close-up". There was laughter; occasional teary sniffs. From time to time "ma dai!" could be heard from an embarrassed teenager as her "junior face" came into the crowd's view. Live singing joined the recorded voices and everyone knew the words. . . even the noisy little boys behind us would occasionally stop playing with their toy-cars and sing along! 

That night, as we made our way down the carrugio to our home, Rich and I spoke about how Ceriana is really one big loud and loving family. Rich said, "they clearly love each other so much they don't need tourists here to survive!" He then added, "it's amazing that we've been accepted [adopted?] here."

We will never be Serianasci, we're just happy being, a bit, Cerianese!

Quasimodo's "sanctuary" . . . the bells, the bells!

Sant'Andrea is, perhaps, the most beautiful piazza in Ceriana. It's framed by well kept homes, the north-side of the Oratorio Sant'Andrea, and the imposing campanile--who's duty it is to ring out the town's hours. Curiously, the hours are struck once, on the hour, and then two minutes later, they toll again! So at midnight; twelve bells; wait two minutes; twelve bells again! The bell rings just once (graciously) on the half hour. It's very interesting if you're woken by this midnight serenade and can't fall back to sleep because, in your semi-conscious stupor, when you hear the 12:30 toll, you might think you've slept an hour and that it's now 1 a.m. , however, it's important to wait two minutes to be sure! If after two minutes there's no second ringing, it has to be 12:30 . . . or. . . did you sleep past the 12:30 single ring and the two ringings of 1 a.m. and now, it's really 1:30? If so, you might have to wait to have this confirmed by the 2 a.m. ringings!
I've experienced this more than once after arriving here with profound jet-lag!

Never wearing a watch, I find the daytime bells quite informative and now that I have some land to work, just outside of town, I completely appreciate the double ringings. While hard at work the contadino will hear the bells and realize that an hour has past; but which hour precisely?  He takes a minute (two, actually) to wipe his brow and have a sip of wine and then he counts the second tolling to be sure! Brilliant!

Building a Stone Wall . . .

Who knows when this wall fell or what caused its demise. I could read a "how to" book, but there's a few wall-sections still standing, and with these as "templates" I will proceed and; hopefully, succeed! My thanks to Les and Helen for getting me started on this last Spring!