Harvest season

Friends of mine decided to up and move from city life in Paris and invested in farm life in Tuscany. They bought an old home and have spent the past two years learning how to be olive oilers. Wine harvest season is generally in October, but for olive growers it is generally in December. It is believed that by December, olives are ripe and juicy enough to fall naturally from the trees, thereby producing the greatest amount of oil. [btw: nets are laid down in late October to start catching the olives so you can avoid all the hand picking.] The December time frame is for everyone BUT the people who live in Tuscany who espouse the virtues of a blended oil (ripe olives are mixed with some of their greener brethren.) This is an example of supreme rationalization. Harvesting olives in December (at least in Tuscany) means wearing winter jackets and gloves and standing out in the cold for hours. Harvesting in November means light jackets and sunny days. This is probably why I could never be an olive oil tycoon. I imagine no one would want to buy an olive oil that was harvested in September (when I would still be wearing shorts!)

The hunt for tartufo

I headed to Alba, the epicenter for Italian black and (when in season) white truffles. I was fully prepared to get knee deep in muck following pigs around as they snorted down the delectable fungi, but I didn't have to do much mucking around. It seems that the Italians have found a cleaner (and less smelly) way to find the tartufo. They use dogs. The pigs, it seems, act as pigs do and while they snort, they also tend to mangle. Dogs, on the other hand, are daintier and less prone to trample the rare mushrooms which can cost a (caution: hyperbole ahead) gazillion dollars an ounce. In the end, I found it was easier to find the truffles without the help of any animal and just walked in to a store.

No Country for Old Cows

For a place where eating meat and cheese are national pasttimes, I have seen only two cows. The rolling hillsides are perfect for uddered animals, yet none roam. It seems that, in Italy, cows do not get put out to pasture as land is at a premium (better suited for growing grapes or olives). While the thought of cows living their lives indoors unsettles me, I seem to quickly forget my qualms as I drown my breadstick in tallegio. I guess I will never be a spokesperson for PETA.

Spineto Scrivia

This is your typical Piedmont region town. The church stands in the center of the piazza, there is one bar/cafe where the town people (350 of them) meet to gossip and have their morning espresso. The land around it is filled with vineyards, bee keepers, and fruit agriculturists, and everyone stops what they are doing between 12:30pm and 3pm to enjoy what life has to offer them.
At night, parents frolic with their children in tow, and when it gets too late .. well, kids are resourceful!

Highlights from the Emilia-Romagna Region

Parma. Land of parmesan cheese and parma ham. You cannot help but fall in love. If you are a vegetarian, you might feel differently as the smell of cured ham hangs heavily over the city. It is also one of the few places in north-central Italy I have traveled to where I saw non-tourist non-Caucasians.













Castell Arquato is a medieval town tucked between the rolling hills that this region is known for. The town is small and all roads leading up to the castle are steep and cobble stoned. I wonder what happens to the people who live here when it rains. Perhaps they all head to Casa Benna.
Casa Benna attracted my attention because unlike most things in Italy, it says that it is open all the time. Imagine, a place you can get wine at all hours. I have found heaven on earth, and its tour guide is Maria Benna. Who wouldn't want to sample wine from this lady ... in fact, I was ready to buy before she opened the first bottle (actually I opened the bottles as her hands looked like they have done enough wine uncorking and pasta rolling for three lifetimes!)

How to not look American when ordering Italian coffee

You might think you are a whiz at navigating through the Starbucks size system, and you might have firm opinions on whether to freeze or not freeze your coffee beans, but for all your java mojo, you will look like a jerk if you come to Italy and order an Cafe Americano. But the problem is, sometimes you just want a plain cup of black coffee. Here is how to get it done without revealing your national identity. Order an espresso, wait a beat and then pretend to remember that you also need some hot water (maybe you are one of those types who drink their water hot). Give the motion for another, bigger cup (in case your Italian is not up to snuff, this is where charades comes in handy) ... for all the waiter knows, you might be ordering the hot water for someone else who might be joining you. Once all is said and done, take the bigger cup, pour your expresso into it, pour in a healthy splash of the aqua caldo and viola: black coffee without looking like an American goofball.

Miracle Mud?

You will be hard pressed to find Montecatini in tour books, but it world renowned for its miracle waters and muds. The waters are for bathing or drinking (depending on your condition), and the mud is for slathering. I figured when in Montecatini to do as the Montecatinians do, and got slathered. Isabella generously glopped at least 5 pounds of local mud on my face and left me facially weighted down for 20 minutes. When my time was up, she returned with her pail and shovel and dug me out. A mini hose filled with thermal water was then used (at full pressure no less) to make sure I didn't walk away with any miracle mud as a souvenir. Little does Isabella know that I swallowed some before she rinsed me off. Hey, you never know when you need a little miracle.

Who shops here?

I don't want to pass judgement (I prefer instead to infer), but this mannequin spoke volumes to me. Imagine if every shop showcased their clothes to fit the sizes they were designed for. I wonder if people would shop less? Perhaps this is why the Italian economy is doing so poorly.

Under the Tuscan Sun

Forte dei Marmi is a small(ish) beachside town in Tuscany. There are relatively no tourists and most people travel around on their bicycles or on foot. The local wines are better than some of the best wines I have had in the states and the alcohol volume is far greater.




The older woman stand knee deep in the water discussing the virtues of frutti di mer in white versus red sauce, while the children play made up games of kadima in a sandbox versus halo. For all the reconfigured food triangles and attempts to revive the antiquated U.S. physical education system, perhaps we should just force American youngsters outside with nothing more than their imaginations.

Georgio where are you?

Lake Como, Italy is known for many things, but of late it has become synonomous with the place where George Clooney summers. So, I went in search. Lake Como sits at a mountain base (views of the Alps are visable), and razor-thin roads lead you around the lake from the bustling city of Lake Como to the more serene village of Domaso. The midway point is Bellagio (which, for those of you following along, is my B for this trip. Botswana took more planning.) Along the way, I found roadways built for one car, but used by two; homes so grand, yet whose entrances are marred by the scars vehicles have left by trying to squeeze past one another; ubiquitous gelato bars; fashion-forward residents, but no George. So long as he is not off filming Oceans 14 ...

Meet Marco

There is this Italian guy who we will call Marco (because it sounds Italian and because it is his name), and we got to know one another through this very blog. He stumbled upon my yearning posts from Afghanistan where there was no red wine to be found. It is easy to write about many disastrous things in Afghanistan, yet I chose to focus on the lack of red wine as after a hard day of AK-47s and burquas, all I wanted was a nice of vino rosso. Anyway, Marco wrote to me and told tale of his home in the Piedmont region of Italy that overlooked vineyards and where there was an abundance of red wine. He said I was invited to stay at his guest villa once I safely returned from Afghanistan. Well, a year later (and many exchanged emails), I took him up on it. So here is the first picture of new new e-friend Marco and his wife, Carol, as we enjoyed as much red wine as Italy had to offer. I look forward to sampling even more!

The Orient Express it isn't ...

You haven't truly experienced India until you've taken a commuter train. There are no reserved seats, there are no limitations to how many can fit on a seat, and the bathrooms? Well, unless you are skilled at relieving yourself through a small hole in the ground as pebbles, dust and other debris comes flying up at you, let me suggest you refrain from eating or drinking a day before you take the train.
While the "rule" is to always let women go first (meaning, as a woman you can actually cut to the front of the line), the rule doesn't apply to train travel. As soon as the train is seen coming in to the station, men, women, children start to run alongside, grabbing on to the bars and swinging their bodies on board. It is like watching Spiderman training. The theory behind the grand grab is if you are not on first, you won't get a seat. I didn't know this is how it worked. So I waited. Amazingly, the door stopped right in front of me. What a stroke of luck! I couldn't have been more wrong. The ensuing mass of people crushed me towards the train; squeezing me against the people who were trying to exit. It was a stalemate, until I realized I was starting to levitate. I looked around and began to see the crowd below me. All I could see was the torso and legs of a woman directly behind me. I didn't know if she was an old or young woman. I don't know whether she was fat or thin. All I knew was a headless woman had hoisted me on her shoulders to get me out of the way and on board more quickly. Once on board, the continuing crush of people pushed me towards a seat. The best analogy I can think to give is imagine you are swimming in the ocean and you've just gotten tagged by a wave. Instead of fighting it, you have to let it bang you around, drag you down to the ground, and trust that it will eventually release you. You might have pounds of sand in your bathing suit, but at least you made it. This is what getting on board a commuter train was like. Minus the sand in my pants.

The Manipulative Monkey

The thief approaches and signs "I'm hungry."
He does his best to appear demure.

Once I find a granola bar to share, the hairy monster reveals his true size and unfurls his nasty tail. More, More .. he says (in body language). I was no match for him. He wiped me out. Took the last of my snack. All without a thank you. Monkey bastard!