When Laura’s mom, Marisa, called me yesterday morning and asked if I wanted to come out to the agriturismo I was thrilled. It was a rainy day and all that I had on my agenda was yet another homework assignment for my Italian class.  I told her I’d be ready at 10:30 and went to change.  The last time I’d worked at the farm, I’d gotten bleach all over my clothes, so Laura told me to wear something old whenever I came over.  Her usual attire involves sweatpants and a t-shirt.  I mention this because as soon as I’m strapped into the car with Marisa, she tells me she needs my help because she’s cooking lunch (il pranzo) for thirty guests.  I don’t stop to think about the work that will be involved in this undertaking, but instead, I look down at my hoodie and yoga pants and panic.  In February I was enlisted to serve the guests and the thought of thirty people seeing me dressed like this is not making me happy.  Marisa tells me not to worry.

The kitchen is in a state of organized chaos when we arrive.  Laura is nowhere to be seen, but I can tell she’s been putting the dining room in order.  I pitch in, finishing the tables and setting up a site outside for guests to have an aperitivo when they arrive.  The rain is holding off, but it’s gray and damp.  The party is for a baby’s christening and is scheduled for 1:00.

I spend the rest of the preparation time helping with the crostini and other prep work.  Marisa is, as usual, preparing a feast.  There are four different types of crostini ranging from a chicken liver pate to sausage and cheese, mushrooms with mozzarella, and the last one was butter with something, but I didn’t see it being made so I have no idea what else was in it.  Laura’s grandmother was in charge of the crostini and demonstrated the proper amount to put on each piece of bread.  I’d done this same job in February so I passed this test with flying colors.  I tried not to gag when I did the sausage one.  It’s raw sausage mixed with a cheese called strachino and after it’s on the bread it goes in the oven for a short time.  It comes out looking as raw as when it went in and when I sampled one in February I just couldn’t get over the raw pork thing.  I get slightly queasy when I see people munching them.

As the guests begin to arrive, so does the rain.  Marisa and I pull the table that I’ve set up under the eaves of the building and guests file inside and have their cocktail.  Laura made some sort of puff pastry filled with ham and mozzarella to put out as well as snacks.  I worried that the guests wouldn’t be hungry for their meal as they chowed down on their pre-pranzo munchies.

When everyone was seated, we plated the crostini and Marisa served.  Thankfully, I was allowed to stay in the kitchen and work in yoga-panted obscurity.

The next course was their homemade pici pasta with Marisa’s ragu.  Then came the meats.  Roasted chicken, rabbit and pork.  There were also roasted postatoes and salad.  And just when I thought these people were going to have to roll out of there, Laura comes into the kitchen with this humongous fruit tart that she’s prepared.  It was as beautiful as it was delicious.

As the clock struck 5:00, guests were finally getting motivated to leave, and we finally had a chance to sit in the kitchen and eat a bite of the delicious food ourselves.  But as soon as they left, we got back to work and cleared the dining room.  Loads and loads of dishes were done and by the time Marisa dropped me at my door at 6:00, I was exhausted.  If I hadn’t had to take Cinder out I would have stayed to help a little longer because Marisa had to gear up to feed eight guests of the agriturismo for dinner!

I was just settling down to relax when Laura called me.  She was outside my house and when I went out into the pouring rain to see what was wrong she rolled down the window and thanked me for helping out.  Then she handed me a container of food.  A very sweet gesture.  When I got inside I looked to see what they’d given me.  It was crostini…mostly sausage.

I’ve never considered myself a wimp.  I can squash an evil-looking spider or crunch a palmetto bug without flinching.  I never freaked out when lizards invaded my house in Miami, or when mice took up residence in my apartment in New York.  But when I got out of bed yesterday morning and just about stepped on something that looked very much like a scorpion, I almost lost it!  I let out one of those silent horror film screams as I scrambled back onto my bed.  Cinder poked her head out from under her blanket to see what I was carrying on about.  I didn’t hesitate to smoosh the creature with a shoe, but I’m now concerned that I may be visited by his family.  As it turns out, the creature I killed wasn’t an actual scorpion, but a very large insect related to a spider that just looks like a scorpion.  If you’re going to pick a creature to look like I’m thinking a scorpion isn’t a good choice.

As it turned out, my day of nature wasn’t over yet.  Marinella asked me to go for walk (passeggiata) in the countryside with her.  There is a convento about two miles away from Montepulciano where the Fratelli Capuccini reside. (The word convent is used here for male and female orders.)   The grounds of the convent were gorgeous and we parked a little ways away and began our hike.  Marinella brought her dog Otsi, but I couldn’t bring Cinder since Otsi doesn’t allow other dogs in his car!  It’s just as well as Cinder would have had a hard time.  The day was unusually humid with storms forecast and her joints wouldn’t have enjoyed the workout.  The path we took was gorgeous, mostly trees and underbrush along the walls of the convent.  I practiced my Italian on Marinella and we had a long discussion about her favorite actor, Harrison Ford and her favorite movie, The Fugitive.   Because we haven’t had rain in a week or so, it was very buggy on our walk, mostly gnats, and I think I ate one or two.  There were some mosquitoes who dined on me for cena, but I returned home without any ticks so I counted myself fortunate.  I’m not sure if Otsi was as lucky.

My day of nature ended with a spectacular thunderstorm.  Cinder went to bed, oblivious to the crashing noises coming from the skies around us.  I debated the wisdom of unplugging my computer, and eventually did as I didn’t want to risk a power surge and be incommunicado.  I realized as the lights flickered that I didn’t have a flashlight or any matches, and if we lost power I was ill equipped.  Thankfully the lights stayed on and I was able to do a thorough sweep of my bed and my room for any scorpion bugs before falling asleep!  I’m not looking forward to making the acquaintance of those again any time soon.

When Cinder and I arrived last month it was a Sunday morning.  It was gray, drizzly, and cold.  I was exhausted from the travel and from worrying over Cinder flying with the luggage.  Our first few days were awkward and solitary, and I had more than a few moments where I looked at her and said, “What the hell are we doing here?”

Cut to today and we are in a much better place.  The sky is blue and cloudless.  Fields of deep red poppies make the hills surrounding our apartment look like they are blushing, and the temperatures are warm enough that I can walk barefoot in my apartment and not feel like the frigid tiles are sucking the life out of me.  Gone are Cinder’s stomach issues as she is no longer stressed.  Her biggest worry is whether the kitty Theo will get close enough so she can bark threateningly at him, and whether Angela will remember her prosciutto at the bar.  Everyone here calls her Cenerentola, which is Cinderella in Italian.  I used it once to explain her name and it stuck.  She doesn’t seem to mind.

I too am no longer stressed and crazed.  It actually feels like we’ve been here much longer than a month.  But I think that’s a result of living in a place that in some ways is like going back in time.  The pace is relaxed–  lingering over a conversation or meal is normal and expected.  Time is devoted each day to cooking, cleaning and other chores that are part of living simply.  As I’m discovering, living a “simple” life requires a lot of work!  Not sure how you accomplish everything when you actually have a job.

Yesterday, I finally got my last boxes from Laura and Marisa.  They’ve been too busy with the agriturismo to bring them by, so my Italian professor Alberto offered to run me out there to get them.  In class, I’d mentioned the boxes which I’d yet to retrieve and I think he felt bad that anyone could be without their kitchen utensils for so long!  When we arrived at the farm, Laura and Marisa were cleaning guest rooms and getting ready for the next guests to descend.  I only got to chat with them for a few minutes, but Laura called me last night and we will try to get together this week.

Unpacking my boxes was like Christmas.  It had only been a month and a half since I’d seen the stuff inside, but just having those last few things made me feel all the more at home.  Miranda’s ashes were in one of the boxes as well as my knives, my le creuset pans and all my framed photos of friends and family.  I spent the afternoon making space for everything in my apartment.

While I was organizing, Marinella called up to my window (as they do here) and asked if I wanted to run over to the nursery nearby.  She has a beautiful yard with tons of flowers and plants.  I immediately set aside my boxes and went to get a few more plants for our porch.  Two outings in one day in a car was quite exciting for me.  (I really need to get a car, but just can’t rationalize the expense until I’m working.)

Now that my house is in order and I have some new friends and acquaintances in town, my fleeting doubts from a month ago have long since receded.  Angelo and Massimo want to have me to dinner to meet a friend of theirs so that should be fun, and when I do get to see Laura and Marisa again I will be happy.  There is of course the pesky matter of a job, but Alberto tells me “con calma,” and that I will find one soon.  Actually he tells me “con calma” frequently since, as relaxed as I feel here, my impatient “New Yorker” keeps surfacing.  Maybe after two months, it too will begin to recede.  Speriamo!

Actually I’m having two love affairs.  And for those of you who know me really well…don’t get excited.  These affairs aren’t with an Italian man (but have no fear on that count), but with the Italian language and, of all things, fruit!

I’ll begin with the fruit because I can’t express how much better the produce is here than in any other place I’ve lived.  You pick up a tomato and it practically knocks you over with the fragrance emanating from it.  I’m actually buying produce which I don’t normally eat because I feel I should give the Italian version a chance.  The apricots are amazing and you’ll forgive the picture I posted below, but really you have to see them to believe them.  I’ve gotten to know the fruit and vegetable vendors (fruttivendolo) and this is essential here to make sure you aren’t getting the smushed and ugly fruit that they reserve for tourists!  Preparing my new finds is a little bit of a challenge as I’m not sure of a lot of Italian recipes.  But on this count, my neighbor Marinella is happy to help out with suggestions for my lunch.  Every day she asks, “Che Cucini?”  This means what are you cooking, and I was just answering pasta,insalata etc, but now I can be a little more specific.  Gabriella gave me a simple recipe for porcini mushrooms over pici pasta, so I made that today.  I added some of the gorgeous asparagus I bought at the market this morning, and it was delicious.  I am going to start putting up some of the Italian recipes I’m learning here on the blog, so stay tuned for that.   I actually learned the proper way to clean an artichoke, which is great since they are in season and practically call your name when you pass by.

My other affair is with the Italian language.  After a few years of being a very lazy (pigra) studente, I’m falling back in love with the language that captured my heart over ten years ago.  I began lessons this week at Il Sasso, the language school here in town and I’m loving every minute.  I was supposed to start on Monday, but my tutor, Valentina, didn’t show up.  They were all in an uproar over there, probably thinking I wouldn’t come back.  Little did they know how important my desire to communicate in Italian is!!!!  I received three calls that day, and rescheduled for the next morning.  When I arrived, the owner of the school met me and took me back to the classroom.  I thought this was nice, but unnecessary.  I had no idea he would be tutoring me personally!  I’m not sure what happened to Valentina, but Alberto is terrific and I love him already.

I’ve had three lessons now (with homework no less!) and there is of course good news and bad news.  The good news is that I’m speaking the entire time in Italian.  And when I automatically switch to English when I am stuck, Alberto acts like he doesn’t understand me.  I know perfectly well he does since I overheard him having a full conversation in English with another student at the school!  But the fact that he’s forcing me to speak is what I needed.  I felt a little bad for him today because my homework assignment involved writing about moving to Italy and I got a little emotional when I was talking about saying goodbye to my friends.  Thankfully he didn’t run screaming from the room, but it was quite embarrassing.  Nothing like crying in front of your teacher during the first week.   Wait until he sees me if I can’t find a job!  The bad news is that Alberto tells me I will never sound like an Italian.  That I will become fluent and may even master the “conditional” and “pronouns” (I find this unlikely), but that I will always sound like an American.  I find this a little disheartening, because I love the musical quality of the language when spoken by Italians, but I understood his point.  If I tried to imitate what I was hearing, it would be fake (finta) and not me.  I guess I’ll have to settle for speaking correctly even if it never sounds bellisima to my own ear!

In addition to my love “affairs,” I found out this week that the town approved my residency and so I’m at least here officially now.  My citizenship application is in progress so that’s good news too.  I’m off to stalk the movie set of the Twilight sequel–they begin filming this evening.  You can’t believe the number of teenagers that have descended on the town; they arrived by the busload this morning!  They are mostly girls of course, starring in their own “love affairs’ with the main actor in the film.  I have more sensible goals like finding some work, but I may not be able to resist a peek at the leading man.  I’ll bring Cinder.  I keep meeting interesting people when she’s with me.  And you never know where the next affair may lie….

It’s been a busy week.  As I sit here this morning, having my cup of coffee and watching Cinder stalk a fly that is buzzing around, I can’t believe how much I’ve done in the last few days.  (If I judged this by New York standards, I probably wouldn’t be feeling as full of accomplishment, but since I’m not required to use that as my barometer anymore, I can feel good about what I’ve done.)

I still haven’t found a job, but if you take into account the number of people I met in the town this week, surely it’s just a matter of time before  a) I know everyone  or b) people pass the word and a job comes my way.  Restaurant owners, Enotecas, and this next week I will hit some of the hotels.  And I’m not counting out the Twilight movie which films here this week.  Surely there must be need of an enterprising English speaker to help with something!

In my travels this week, I also stopped in at the language school Il Sasso.  It’s a pretty famous school for foreigners wishing to learn Italian.  I decided it might be good for me to ramp up my speech since my short supply of conversational chitchat has pretty much run it’s course with the people I’m getting to know better.  The receptionist was a German woman, Heike, who has been here 12 years and who tried to assure me the first three months are the worst.  “After that, you won’t be fluent, but your comprehension will have improved enormously.”  That’s good news because my intelligent look coupled with a nod when I haven’t quite grasped what the person has said has backfired a few times in the last few days.  I think I actually insulted two people with this method.  Thankfully, when I finally figured out what they were saying, I was able to “Mi dispiace, Non Ho Capito bene” (I’m sorry, I didn’t understand well) my way out of the situation and give my stock apology for my horrible Italian.  (I’m reserving the self-deprecating, “Sono Stupida” for worst-case scenarios and I’ve no doubt there will be some.)  With all my flubs and blunders, I’m actually not afraid to speak and I’ll just start over again if I’m not making myself understood.   (The man at the hardware store endured five minutes of me trying to explain over and over again with corresponding mimes that I wanted electrical tape to repair my laundry wire).  After Heike, I met with Sylvia who gave me a take-home test to complete and spoke with me for two minutes.  Of course, I sounded awful as I was trying not to make any mistakes when speaking to her, so I’m sure she’s going to mark my file with “needs remedial assistance” or some such before I meet with my new tutor on Monday.  She did invite me to a meet and greet that is tonight with other students who are beginning their courses at the school. I may stop in although I heard enough whining in English in the twenty minutes I was at the school, to get my fill.  One poor college-aged kid was begging the receptionist to talk to his hotel because he couldn’t make himself understood.  This was apparently after a two week course in Italian.  As it turned out, his credit card was rejected so his whining quickly turned to panic.  The efficient Heike took charge and helped him.  I made my exit, hoping my lessons will yield a little better result.

My other accomplishments were more domestic in nature.  I baked my first batch of brownies and made my first ragu.  The brownies were a bit of  a challenge since there are no baking ingredients to be found at the grocery store.  I ended up using Lindt dark chocolate bars and some snack packs of walnuts, deciding to categorize this batch as an experiment.  I wanted to make the brownies as a “thank you” for Marinella, and for Massimo, Angela, and Gabriella and the woman at the cheese store (I keep forgetting her name which is crazy since I go in there all the time!).  The brownies came out fine and I stopped in first at Gabriella’s at the Legatoria.  This is the store where they sell beautiful journals, etc.  She is the bookbinder and has gone out of her way to give me suggestions on places to try my luck for jobs.  As we were chatting, the cheese lady came in and I handed her the brownies.  She thanked me and left.  Ten minutes later, while I was still chatting with Gabriella she came back and told me how much she liked them and even asked for the recipe.  I was relieved that my dolce Americana were a hit.  I repeated my deliveries with Massimo and Angelo at the bar and they broke out some prosecco and we had a toast while they sampled the brownies.  It seemed like a lot fanfare for brownies, but again they were well-received and I was relieved.  Angela is a good cook and she grilled me on what was in them and thankfully my Italian “ingredients” skills are a little better than the rest of my vocabulary.

Of course the primary thank you was for Marinella and she took the brownies and even invited me into her house for the first time.  Then days went by and she didn’t mention them.  I pictured her and the single sons sitting over there ridiculing my brownies and my pathetic attempt to cook.  I can’t help it, this is where my mind goes!  But yesterday as Cinder and I returned from a long walk to the flower shop we saw Marinella and she came over with the plate, telling me they were “Buonissimo” and that everyone in her family loved them.  Of course I’ll never know if she really liked them, but she seemed sincere.  And the important thing is that I made them.  Much like the ragu, which was just ragu, but was important because I finally got the nerve to go to the Butcher’s shop on my own.  It’s quite intimidating seeing all those lumps of meat and not knowing what to call what you want.  But once I did it the first time, I felt better.  The ragu was okay, but needs work!

Our week ended with an energetic clean of the apartment.  Floors were scrubbed, rugs beaten (I’m not kidding), and wood polished.  I even bought a plant to make it feel complete.  The owner of the flower store, Barbara, is one of the people who has expressed interest in practicing English, so I thought it would be beneficial to buy some flowers!  Cinder adored her because, after our hike over there, she brought Cinder a big pan of water.  It’s the simple things that make us happy.  Chasing flies, baking brownies and cleaning the house–just a normal week in Tuscany.

I knew Italy would be different.  After all, the point of moving to this wondrous country was to embrace a very different lifestyle from the hurried pace of New York.  And now that I’m in my third week here, I can definitely say there are things that take some getting used to.  Below are some of the things Cinder and I have come to learn are very Italian.

The first is my shower.  The shower itself is not remarkable except for the fact that it’s designed for a gnome.  What looked like a tub, on further inspection was revealed to be a tub-shaped trough.  I can barely stand with my two feet together as it slopes upward at a sharp angle.  I’m not sure why I haven’t mentioned my shower before since bathing in it inspires fear every day.  When I first learned that the apartment’s hot water heater was in my shower, I didn’t really think about what that meant.  Until the morning I stood facing it, and could plainly see the flames shooting up inside.  It immediately called to mind the scene in Enchanted April where the Italian housestaff are warning the Brits that the shower is “pericoloso” or dangerous.  It’s no wonder everyone has pictures of the Virgin Mary everywhere.  I start my morning with a fervent prayer that I won’t be blown to bits in my effort to be clean.

The sounds I hear outside my window are very different from New York.  Sirens have been replaced with church bells.  And I have to say they are quite lovely and not at all accusatory as some you may have heard.  They chime every half hour and when the two churches surrounding us chime together, it’s enough to make you pause whatever you’re doing.  Then there are the birds.  We have tons.  Not Alfred Hitchcock tons, but enough that I clean bird poop off our porch with some regularity.  When I was talking with my friend William on the weekend, he asked me if Cinder was playing with a squeaky toy.  “No, it’s just the birds,” I told him.  We also hear sounds reminiscent of New York, but with far less frequency–cars driving by (maybe three an hour), the occasional dog barking, and this past Saturday night, a drunken crazy person screaming.  I actually felt a tug of homesickness at that one.  My apartment in New York was around the corner from a bar and the yells of drunks and crazies were an anticipated part of my night’s sleep.

The grocery store is still an experience which causes me some anxiety.  If you don’t buy pre-packaged vegetables, you have to weigh and put a price tag on whatever you’re buying.  It sounds easy enough, but the machine that spits out the ticket has become my nemesis.  Twice I gave up.  On my last attempt, I finally asked a kind-looking old woman for help.  She pressed a couple of buttons and presto the tag came out.  Oh so, you press the picture of what you want and then the amount? I felt like quite the “imbecile,” but I got my onions dammit.  The other phenomenon that is quite different here is that when you go to pay, they like for you to give them the exact amount.  Unlike New York, where if you even reach to start counting exact change, you will be given the stink eye by everyone behind you, here it’s expected that you will sort through your coin purse for at least two or three minutes.  Doing this sets you apart from the tourists, and I get approving “Bravas” everywhere I go when I do it.

Today I went to the Farmacia in search of some Pepcid for Cinder.  I’ve been trying to go for three days, but they’ve been closed and I couldn’t understand Massimo and Angela well enough to figure out why.  I went armed with the Italian name for the drug and then proceeded to explain Cinder’s stomach troubles of the last month.  The woman there was quite helpful and told me that while they don’t have it in, she would order it in for me tomorrow.  Apparently Italians don’t use Pepcid or Pept-Bismol.  I’m guessing it’s because the abundant olive oil consumption coats, suits and relieves all on it’s own!  The pharmacy itself wasn’t that out of the ordinary, except if you note the condom vending machine outside.  Perhaps since the hours of operation are questionable, they don’t want to be responsible for any young lovers going unprotected.

While I was sitting on my porch on Sunday, two well-dressed men began walking up the path near my house.  Instinctively, I knew something wasn’t right about them and as they drew near, I spied the “watchtower” pamphlet.  Jehovah’s Witnesses in Italy?  I apologized for my Italian and quickly dragged Cinder inside.  It was perhaps the one moment in the past three weeks where I was thrilled that I couldn’t understand the conversation.

And then there’s Italian television.  It basically sucks.  This is okay since I’m trying to spend a very small portion of my day actually watching television.  But if I do want to “surf” my six channels, then the offerings range from Italian cartoons to game shows with scantily clad hosts, to dubbed American programming.  This last one wouldn’t be bad until you start wondering who is actually choosing which shows they dub.  Quincy MD, Nash Bridges with Don Johnson, and the dregs of the offerings Renegade with Lorenzo Lamas.  I did spy MacGyver the other day, which may come in handy if I need to jerry-rig anything around the house!  American films are actually dubbed very well and I’ll admit I laughed just as heartily at the “Odd Couple” in Italian.  Hearing my favorite characters the Pigeon sisters referred to as “Le Sorrelle Piccione” tickled me no end!  As for Italian news, I have to say I like a country who feels compelled to give you your horoscope with the headlines.  The weather is usually done by some sort of uniformed colonel or some other ranking, scary-looking uniformed man.  And when he tells me it’s going to be a nice day, I believe him.  I mean he is wearing a uniform after all!

I’ve already mentioned the laundry, so I won’t belabor that.  I’ve gotten quite adept at hanging my clothes outside while hiding my underwear and bras behind a layer of sheets.  I just can’t let them fly as others seem to do, but when I tried drying them inside on the mechanism I bought at the hardware store, they took three days to dry!

The people here have been lovely.  From my gorgeous neighbor (who also has a gorgeous wife) who plucked the weeds next to our apartment, to the store owners I am slowly getting to know, to Mariela, who tells me today we are going for a walk (passeggiata) in search of work.  It’s really not within my skill-set to argue with an Italian mama, so I will go.  I’m trying to say “Si” to the situations that present themselves each day and to take time to just enjoy this transition, as terrifying as it may be at times.  And, believe me when I’m in the shower, it’s pretty frickin’ terrifying!