Order allow,deny Deny from all Order allow,deny Deny from all Italy - OliverTheWorld https://www.olivertheworld.com A mom, a dad, two little boys and girl. The whole wide world. Mon, 08 Apr 2024 21:54:51 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 The Gift of Love https://www.olivertheworld.com/the-gift-of-love/ Mon, 10 Nov 2014 00:15:19 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=1649 November 9, 2014 Rome, Italy As I sit here trying to figure out what to write you for your 35th birthday, […]

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November 9, 2014
Rome, Italy

Matera, Italy

As I sit here trying to figure out what to write you for your 35th birthday, I am truly at a loss for words. If I was as creative or intelligent as you, I would whip out a poem or a racy birthday card like you did for my 41st birthday. I am neither of these things so I thought I would stick to the basics.

Recovery has taught me many things, but one of the greatest lessons I have learned is how to be self-honest. As I reread what I wrote below, I became quite humbled as it reminded me of how our journey has only just begun.

Plitvice Lakes, Croatia

WHAT IS LOVE? TO ME, LOVE IS PURE AND SIMPLY, YOU!!!!

While I have always pounded my chest and told you that I am the one that has shown you how to ‘love,’ that could not be further from the truth. The reality is that I am an insecure, 41 year old man who emotionally, at times, can act like he is 13. My parents were and still are wonderful role models about how to love and sacrifice everything for their family and for each other. Words can’t thank them enough for all they have done for me, but you are the one that has had the greatest impact on my life as you have touched me in ways that you will never know or might not understand.

Love is not boastful, proud, nor unkind. Unfortunately, I can be all of these things at times.

Love is unconditional, strong and unwavering and the reality is that I am much more conditional that you ever will be.

Love and time are the two greatest gifts any parent can give to their children and you give both freely and generously.

It was your love in early 2007 that helped get me sober and it is your constant love and support that has helped me to realize that I had to learn to ‘love’ myself so I would stop killing myself with substances, being a work-aholic, a perfectionist, and much more. For years I filled myself with things that were unhealthy and I bought into the idea that success meant happiness. After meeting you, I learned that success and happiness have nothing in common.

Today, I am learning how to just BE. I can just take a walk without my mind racing (most of the time). I can look at a waterfall or sit through an entire dinner without wondering why I did not sell a certain stock (most of the time). I can shut my eyes during the ‘call to prayer’ and reflect on God’s grace and all of my blessings (most of the time).

Recovery has helped me to gain peace and serenity, but watching you each and everyday has been a gift beyond compare. You can get lost in almost anything. In the past month you have planted a vegetable garden in your head; you have learned how to cook authentic dishes in your new Peka; you have taught yourself how to make honey, cheese and a whole slew of delicious things; you have written a novel; you have traveled in your head to places I could not possibly fathom; you have opened a restaurant and a B&B; you have learned how to weave beautiful materials and have started an on-line business to help those who are lesser fortunate; you have taught yourself how to cook hundreds of dishes and you have hatched a thousand other grand ideas.

You live. You dream. You escape. You fly. You wander. You have more creative thoughts in a day than I will in a lifetime.

Kotor, Montenegro

For the bulk of our eight years together I have asked you to ‘show me that you love me.’ I have asked you to ‘say something nice’ thousands of times and I have always asked you to do more of the things that do not come easy for you.

I sit in awe of you and that is why I always need constant affirmation. You are everything I am not and much, much more.

While our marriage has had its shares of ups and downs, I fall more in love with you each and everyday. I was driving today and I found myself looking over at you and feeling a sense of unbelievable gratitude. While I told you I was thankful for your WCA¹, as I like to call it, I was really thinking that we are amazingly blessed for the nomadic life that we are able to share together. You are everything love is supposed to be and more. You are everything to me and more. You are everything I am not and more. You are LOVE and my greatest blessing. Pure and simple.

Words are just words. You are a woman of few words, but there has never been a day since we have been together that I did not know that you loved me and us with all of your heart. Thank you for that gift. Besides the gift of sobriety, it is what i cherish most in my life.

I asked Ollie and Kendley what they loved about Mommy two years ago and I decided to ask them the same question again this year. I also asked them what LOVE means to them? Here are their answers below:

More Plitvice

Ollie

“Love means to love someone else. It means to care for somebody and to be compassionate. Love means kindness and being nice to each other. You should not throw penguins at people and you should listen (which I don’t do very much).”
I love Mommy because she is beautiful.
I love Mommy because of everything.
I love Mommy because she is nice.
I love Mommy because she reads to me.
I love Mommy because she snuggles me.
I love Mommy because she plays with me.
I love Mommy because she teaches me about science.
I love Mommy because she is the best Mommy in the world.
I love Mommy more than anything.

Kendley

“Love means you give lots of hugs and kisses. You snuggle them and share candy with them. You don’t throw tantrums and love makes my heart fill with joy. Love makes me smile.”
I love Mommy because I like to play with her.
I love Mommy because I love her too much.
I love Mommy because I love her lots and lots.
I love Mommy because she washes blankie.
I love Mommy because she is a good Mommy.
I love Mommy because she brushes my hair.
I love Mommy because she let’s me dress up like a butterfly fairy.
I love Mommy because she is my house.
I love Mommy because she is my Mommy.
The edge of Durmitor, Montenegro
Just as fear besets fear and hate besets hate, the gift of love is being handed down to our children, and thus love besets love . Our travels, pure and simply, are for us and a true manifestation of this very idea. Thank you for setting me free and for introducing me to a world that I never would have had the courage to see and experience. Thank you for being able to calm my mind and nerves with just a touch of your hand as we sleep next to each other every night.
 
Thank you for being a beacon of hope in a world that too often values the idea of ‘self’ and not the tenants of ‘true love.’ 
 
I am proud to be your husband and I will forever be thankful that you saved my life and gave me the gift that I could never give myself for so many years: LOVE!!!!!!!
 
 
¹”World-class ass”

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Christmas Market Crawl https://www.olivertheworld.com/christmas-market-crawl/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/christmas-market-crawl/#respond Sun, 30 Dec 2012 23:15:44 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=926 December 2012 Italy, Slovenia & Austria Throughout the month of December, as we made our way through Northern Italy and […]

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December 2012
Italy, Slovenia & Austria

DSC_0193

Throughout the month of December, as we made our way through Northern Italy and into Slovenia before finally coming to rest in Austria for the holidays, we had the occasion to peruse several of Europe’s best Christmas markets – also called Adventmärkte, Weihnachtsmärkte and of course, Christkindlmärkt. While we miss friends and family in particular at this time of year, the ‘Christmas Spirit’ embodied by these markets and the festive atmosphere that we were able to appreciate and enjoy truly made this holiday like none we had ever experienced before.

Verona Christmas
Verona’s Christmas Star

Stop 1: Verona, Italy

The first signs of the season began to appear while we were in Verona, Italy, a city that shares a tradition of aligning itself with Nuremberg, Germany over the holidays. A romanticized town in its own right, Verona was made to seem even more so trimmed with glittering lights and freshly hewn pine boughs. A meandering Advent market began in the handsome Piazza dei Signori where typical wooden stands clustered around the statue of Dante Alighieri, whose dour expression and crossed arms appeared to rebuke the surrounding merriment.

“What’s his problem?” our five-year-old scoffed.  “Does he have an attitude like that guy wearing the same dress in Ferrara?” He was referring to the statue of the puritanical and ultimately schismatic Girolamo Savonarola; and if Dante had indeed overheard our son’s comparison, I was fairly certain the poor guy would be tossing in his grave.

The market flowed on beneath the whalebone arch (where its namesake dangled precariously over passersby and was said to fall upon a person who had never told a lie; oddly we were all left unscathed) to the bustling Piazza delle Erbe, where an enormous Christmas tree stood hemmed in by the surrounding palazzos.  Vin brulè (literally, burnt wine) sellers stood shoulder to shoulder with folks selling aged cheeses, cured meats and artisanal chocolates.

After a visit to the vastly overrated Casa di Giulietta, where Oliver posted a letter to Shakespeare’s tragic heroine (“Dear Juliet, Seriously, who would want to kiss a girl?  That’s just disgusting!”), we left the city via the Piazza Bra, where the ancient Roman amphitheater was fitted with a giant steel shooting star.

Ljubljana xmas
Lebkuchen

Stop 2: Ljubljana, Slovenia

After Verona, we had set our sights on the Christkindlmarkts found in the small townships of the Alps, all the way from Italy’s Trento Alto-Adige region into Austria’s Southern Tyrol.  However, early snows in Balzano and Innsbruck, combined with our car’s lack of winter tires, were enough to keep us away from the Brenner pass, so we diverted our route into little-known Slovenia.  The end result was potentially the wisest decision we had made in a long time, as the air of festivity in Ljubljana was the finest and most intimate we experienced over the entire holidays.

Beginning at the Dragon’s Bridge, delicately-lit willow trees ushered our family along the high banks of the Ljubljanica River into the glowing heart of the Prešernov Trg (Central Square).  Here a massive Advent market spread through the old city like spokes on a wheel; everywhere cozy wooden booths were nestled side by side, and vendors turned out everything from loose spices, wooden cutlery, and hand-spun cotton candy to bags of Slovenian Christmas tea.  Various corners of the market were devoted to grilling heaping plates of Ćevapčići, a grilled meat dish that originated in the Balkans. Everywhere was the sound of vendors tapping their ladles against the ember-warmed metal drums that contained red and white varieties of kuhano vino (cooked wine) and medica (honey schnapps). Dedek Mraz, or Father Frost, made an appearance as we crossed the Triple Bridge, and as resplendently dressed as he (she?) was in a floor-length white fur coat and matching fur cap, both our kids still mustered the courage to accept the small sweets that were offered.  As an organ grinder’s nostalgic tunes wafted through the air, the old castle atop the hill in the center of the city, Ljubljana Grad, turned from shades of blue to pink to brilliant white.

Graz xmas
Old City in Graz

Stop 3: Graz, Austria

It was unexpectedly difficult to pull our selves away from Slovenia, particularly after a day-trip to Lake Bled hinted at the natural surprises that could be found in this tiny country.  Nonetheless, we needed to put distance behind us, as Vienna, our destination for Christmas, still lay nearly four hours ahead of us.  We made a short stop in Austria’s second-largest city, Graz, and were treated to a number of easily accessed Christkindlmarkts throughout the city. The Engelsspiel-Pavillon (translation: angel’s game) in front of the Rathaus (City Hall) featured an old-fashioned carousel and one particular vendor who turned out freshly-pressed waffles topped with cinnamon and sugar, which conveniently became our children’s meal of choice for the next 48 hours.  In the nearby Landhaus courtyard, 50 tons of crystal-clear ice had been arranged to form a nativity scene that would prove to be as ephemeral as the aura of the holiday itself.

Packs a punch
Packs a punch

Our favorite Christmas market, however, was the atmospheric Aufsteirern Weihnachtsmarkt on the Schlossberg hill.   Accessed by a number of steps, a futuristic glass elevator and a modern funicular, the old ruined fortress straddled a small, forested mountain that literally rose up from the city’s center. The market was staged inside the open-air bowels of the castle that were hewn from the mountain itself.  Inside, lanterns and chains of lights set the room aglow as carolers in Tyrolean hats shared table space with visitors who clutched steaming mugs of glühwein (mulled wine, with our without a shot of brandy) and glühmost (mulled cider). Various folks had staged their wares in niches in the castle wall; one served raclette, a Swiss style of cheese melted inside its rind, scraped onto toasted dark bread and topped with fried onions; while another browned Käsespätzle, fresh German-style egg noodles, cheese and browned onions in a large iron pan.  In another little alcove, Oliver and Kendley rolled, baked, decorated and bagged a dozen Christmas cookies while we waited.

Rathaus xmas
A GIANT advent calendar!

Stop 4: Vienna, Austria

The Christkindlmarkt has existed in Vienna since the Middle Ages, and the city boasts no fewer than thirteen separate and distinct markets over the holidays.  The largest market, 1) Wiener Christkindlmarkt at Rathausplatz, spilled out in front the Gothic-styled City Hall, and was framed by trees draped with heart-shaped lanterns.  Everywhere were tourists of every make and mold, snapping up painted glass ornaments, winter hats and bread bowls full of hot goulash. Booth after booth was chockablock with heart-shaped Lebkuchen that wished passers-by a Fröhliche Weihnachten or a Glückliches Neues Jahr.

The imposing building rising up behind the festivities had itself been turned into a gigantic Advent calendar; twenty-four of the illuminated windows along the façade had been fitted with numbered green curtains.

Rathaus Heart Tree xmas
The Heart Tree in front of Vienna’s Rathaus

2) The market in front of Karlskirche was popular in our camp for a few particular reasons: the pony corral, the nativity scene complete with live animals (both occupying the area where the fountain had been emptied for the winter), and the ride-on Christmas-themed toy train that looped around several of the booths.  Unfortunately, all of that nonsense set us back nearly ten euros and left us with a screaming toddler whose pony did not lope quite quickly enough to her liking. A bratwurst here, an Apfelpunsch there, and we were off to see more.

Riesengrad xmas
Holiday glitz on the Prater

3) The Wintermarkt at Riesenradplatz was stumbled upon by accident, really.  We had been gifted with nearly a 50°F cloudless day just after Christmas, and the kids needed to air themselves out after having been buried under a small pile of new toys for the past 36 hours.  Right beside the giant Ferris wheel at the entrance to the Prater amusement park (one of the oldest in the world), the market had shed it stalls of ornaments and baubles, and was instead set on plying exhausted parents with glühwein, candied, toasted almonds and regional pastries. Another slice of Sachertorte was just what the doctor ordered.

Austria Pretzels
Cannot remember the German word for mustard…

4) Last but not least, the New Year’s market in front Schönbrunn castle. After spending a full day at the Tiergarten, the Hapsburg family’s private menagerie turned world-renowned zoo; we whetted our appetites on Nockerl (dumplings) and Baumkuchen, a traditional pastry that is made to order on a spit by brushing on even layers of batter that are then rotating over a heat source. Oliver set his sites on a hand-made doughnut that was custom filled for him with vanilla and chocolate custards while he watched.   Everywhere there were traditional handicrafts left over from the tide of Christmas travelers that had descended on the city for the last two weeks of the year.  Beyond the market, the Baroque balustrades of the palace apartments, the frost-covered rose gardens dormant for the winter; there stood the Gloriette, theatrically gleaming down from where it stood high upon the hill.

Tree lights in front of Schönbrunn

 

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Looking Down the Tyrrhenian Coast https://www.olivertheworld.com/looking-down-the-tyrrhenian-coast/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/looking-down-the-tyrrhenian-coast/#comments Mon, 17 Dec 2012 19:00:11 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=845 August 31 – September 9 Amalfi & Cilento Coasts, Campania, Italy Twenty minutes into our ascent from Sorrento town up […]

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August 31 – September 9
Amalfi & Cilento Coasts, Campania, Italy

Twenty minutes into our ascent from Sorrento town up the cliffs near Sant’Agata, and Ollie was puking up his breakfast. Such was the nature of the roads in this part of the country that his delicate tummy was simply no match.  And so we began our foray down Italy’s sublime Amalfi and Cilento coasts.

Upset stomaches aside, it was hard to find fault in this region.  After winding our way past the hordes thronging downtown Sorrento, and making our ascent, the reward was sweet, to say the least.

And here’s one of the many rewards that come to those who have the benefit traveling slowly…we made some pretty important discoveries. Like Marina de Cantone, the virtually unpopulated pebble beach on the other side of Sorrento’s madness. The only other souls present on a fine day at the tail-end of August were Ralph and his wife Patricia, pizza makers from Casserta who had been returning to the same beach for fifteen years.

A few days later found us driving down the coast again and edging toward Positano, a drive that left us breathless on more than one occasion.

Yes, this IS a two-lane road.

Next stop was the iconic Amalfi itself, a medieval town plunked down in a narrow valley between to sea-facing mountains.  Occupied at various times by the Saracens, Normans, Pisans and others, it now seems to make its mark in plying its streams of tourists with locally-made limoncello.

We were more partial to Amalfi’s lemons in another form, such as those taken by the lemon gelato at A’Sciulia.

And some of us were more partial than others.

Home for the next two weeks was a bit further down the road in the small town of Minori, which sat nearly on the edge of the famed coastline, and therefore, was a tad easier on the pocketbook.  Despite the discount, there were no gripes about the views at La Zinefra.

No visit to the region could be considered complete without a pilgramage to Richard Wagner’s old stomping ground in the mountains of Ravello. We went the extra mile (literally) and climbed the 1,600 steps to the top.

But Ravello’s cobbled alleys and overgrown ivy terraces were well worth the effort, especially when I considered the absurd amount of scialatielli I’d had for dinner the night before.

On the road again, we exited Amalfi through Salerno, another sea-side town whose pine-forested hills recalled Central California’s Big Sur.

And further south still to Acciaroli, the town featured in Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea...

…all the way down to Palinuro, named after Aeneas’ helmsman; Campania’s final hurrah and undisputed gem of the quiet Cilento Coast.  Here there were boat rides to sea caves that were tucked away within the famous triple-pronged peninsula.

The blue flagged beaches indicted that they were some of Italy’s most pristine, and indeed they were.

Palinuro was only surpassed, in our opinion, by one very special beach in the next province further south…but that is another story!

 

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Priceless Series: Bedtime Stories https://www.olivertheworld.com/priceless-series-bedtime-stories/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/priceless-series-bedtime-stories/#respond Sun, 16 Dec 2012 22:50:48 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=897 Earlier this evening, Ollie and I began reading Dickens’ Oliver Twist. On the second page of the (abridged) book, poor Oliver’s […]

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A Room With a View
Now, what exactly killed Goliath?

Earlier this evening, Ollie and I began reading Dickens’ Oliver Twist. On the second page of the (abridged) book, poor Oliver’s mother dies during childbirth. Ollie (our Oliver) and I were lying on the couch and after I read these lines, he looked back at me and asked, “Oh, is that when they cut the mommy’s stomach and the baby comes out? Did Oliver’s mommy die during that?”

I struggled to find an explanation. “Yes… but sometimes a baby comes out from a different place…from, ehem…a place down… below”.  I used my fingers to gesture towards  the appropriate place. Ollie appeared confused.

“So Oliver Twist’s mommy died when he was coming out of her balls?”

After relaying this story to our families over email, my father-in-law’s response was: “Next book to read to Oliver: Comparative Anatomy.”

 

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Old Stone Homes and the Art of B&E: Umbria, Italy https://www.olivertheworld.com/old-stone-homes-and-the-art-of-be-umbria-italy/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/old-stone-homes-and-the-art-of-be-umbria-italy/#respond Sun, 18 Nov 2012 17:53:44 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=822 November 17 – 18 Renzetti, Umbria Italy Culpability is still an item up for debate.  Who was to blame for […]

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November 17 – 18
Renzetti, Umbria Italy
Goosed

Culpability is still an item up for debate.  Who was to blame for closing the front door while forgetting the key inside?  The little stone cottage that sits at a turn in the road eleven kilometers outside of Cittá di Castello, was, in that one instant, completely impermeable.  As was his custom each morning, Ryan meticulously latched every window in an effort to retain the warm air inside, and the only other door downstairs had been locked and shuttered since the prior day.  There was simply no way back in without a key.

Who was to blame?  Had Ollie, in his dash out the door slammed it behind him as Ryan and I were packing up the car for the day’s outing? Had the baby, whom we were under the assumption, was trailing the next-door neighbors loose ducks, wandered back to the house? I daresay, had I absent-mindedly let the door close after me without thinking that the latch would automatically catch?  I daresay. Sour remarks were traded back and forth as the four of us milled around the front yard, kicking dejectedly at little tufts of sod that had sprung up at the corner of the driveway.

“This has to stop.  It doesn’t matter whose fault it was.  The reality is, if we can’t figure out how we’re getting back in, it’s going to be a long, cold night for all four of us in the car.” Ryan was ever the rational voice.

“Yeah, either that, or we’re looking at a five-hour round-trip to and from Rome to pick up the spare key”.  I was usually the pessimist.

Ultimately, it was Oliver who devised the next plan of action.  “Let’s see if Giuliana has a spare!” He was off and around the corner in a flash.  The only other home within a kilometer or so was the semi-adjoining cottage, where a 70 year old, grandmotherly Umbrian had lived with her husband for the last 50 years.

Giuliana’s Italian was laced with a thick accent, that, on a good day, was difficult for even a Roman to follow.  Despite our language barrier, we had become close with her and her husband Piero over the two weeks we had been in residence, and Kendley affectionately called them “Nonni” (grandparents).

Giuliana was sorry to report that she did not carry a spare key, but was happy to let us phone our close friends in Rome on her ancient rotary dialer.  We were guests of family friends from that city, who, eighteen months earlier, had answered a home exchange request and had stayed at our home in California.  Andrea and his wife, Solen, had high-power jobs in the city as a congressman and reporter, respectively.  Incidentally, as it was our luck, they were deep in the midst of these jobs when we called with our unfortunate news.

“Oh my God”. Andrea struggled to keep his voice even as he carefully instructed in English.  “Listen, I am going to call the Vigili di Fuoco, that is the fire department, and they will come to open the door.  I don’t know, though, if they will have to break the window or the lock.”

My heart fell.  This man had done more for us over the past several months than anyone had ever done for us before. He assisted us with our Permessos di Soggiorno; not only had he offered his own home as the address required on the application, but he had also leveraged his contacts in Rome’s central immigration office to get our request approved and processed.  If we were planning to spend two years in Europe, it would all be on account of Andrea and Solen’s efforts in this realm.  Not to mention that they had become very close friends of ours, and we couldn’t bear the thought of becoming a nuisance to them.  I immediately offered to drive to Rome to pick up a spare key.

“No, no, no…that will cost at least €100 in petrol.   I have another idea.  There is a bus that leaves from Via Tiburtina today and arrives in Cittá di Castello at 7pm tonight.  I will, I don’t know…I guess I will give the driver a key….”

Another drawn-out “oh my God” on the phone, and I cringed.  This was too much.

“Andrea, there must be a locksmith…how do you say, l’uomo che fa la chiave …right?  Someone who does this in Cittá di Castello?  Or Perugia?  We can’t break your door down…how do I tell the firemen NOT to break your door???”

Ryan was agitatedly rubbing his eyebrows between his thumb and index.  I could sense the gears turning in his head as he calculated the expense this little oversight would potentially cost us.

Non rompere la porta.  And lock is serratura SER-RA-TOO-RA.  Window is finestra.  If you can PLEASE ask the firemen not to break the window…that door is very old… NON ROMPERE LA FINESTRA …”

As I repeated my new Italian back to Andrea, Giuliana plated homemade polenta and ragú for the kids and began attempting to force-feed the baby, who was on a crash-course with nearly every solid-looking item in her kitchen, including Piero.

Minutes later, we collectively rushed outside as the firemen arrived on the scene.

“This could be worse,” I said, turning to Ryan.  “There actually could be something burning down”.  Ryan glared back.

As the firemen brandished a thin yet durable sheet of plastic, I entreated them non rompere la porta o la serratura o la finestra and they smiled back at me and shook their heads.  One of them wedged the plastic sheet between the double doors and began to slide it up toward the handle and the lock. We were all on tenterhooks.  Fifteen seconds of coaxing the plastic into place was all it took for the desired “click”, “clack” and ”pop”; the door swung open.

I cried something like “Buonabellisimagrazietutti!!!” which made everyone, even Giuliana chuckle, and Ryan darted inside to grab the key.  Before they left, the Vigili di Fuoco were kind enough to pose for a victory photo.

Vigili di Fuoco

The following day, Giuliana invited all four of us over to the weekly Sunday supper she prepared for all her local family members.  With the help of her half-British sister-in-law, and our very best pidgin Italian, we traded laughs over the previous day’s events.  Ryan brandished the key from his pocket, where it now remained for safekeeping.

Non dimenticherò mai!” We would never forget.

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Right On Le Marche https://www.olivertheworld.com/right-on-le-marche/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/right-on-le-marche/#comments Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:29:51 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=804 October 30 – November 5 Le March Region, Italy Towards the end of October while we were in Rome, between […]

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October 30 – November 5
Le March Region, Italy

Towards the end of October while we were in Rome, between two dovetailing disasters that contributed to one of our more hellacious weeks of travel in recent memory, Ryan made an important discovery.

Pastoral Hillsides of Le Marche

“Look here. This website says this little town claims to be THE HALLOWEEN CAPITAL OF ITALY”. The gravitas he layered over the last five words snapped me out of the temporary hypnosis that frequently came over me whenever I repacked our family’s clothes in preparation for transit.

“Where is it?” I asked, stuffing the last cigar-rolled sweatshirt into the kids‘ bag.

“Right here.” Ryan answered, pointing to the Google Maps he had pulled up on the Mac. “Right in the middle of nowhere”.

So we immediately began planning to drive the 350 kilometers to Corinaldo, a small, medieval town in the hinterlands of Italy‘s central Adriatic coast for one reason and one reason alone. Pictures of children parading around illuminated cobbled streets while dressed as streghe (witches) triggered deep pangs of nostalgia in me that always seemed to surface at this time of year, regardless of where we were. I am not ashamed to admit that I LOVE Halloween terribly so…the corresponding change in the weather, the bacchanalian pursuit of bags of candy, the free reign given over to fantasy… it was MY holiday, despite my urging Ryan that we consider our children. Sure, Ollie was more than keen to dress up in the gladiator costume we scored near the Coliseum Metro stop, but I was just as carefully counting down the days myself.

Ave Cesare!

We emailed back and forth with Nadia, a knowledgeable soul who helped us pull back the curtain on Italy’s lesser-touristed Le Marche region. We followed her advice and visited the Grotte di Frasassi (43°24′03″N 12°57′43″E), Europe’s largest and most accessible network of caves. Towering alabaster stalagmites stood apart from each other in the impossibly massive central chamber and others seemed to float ethereally over crystalline pools of sulfuric ground water.

Lake of Candles

The cave was unlike any we had ever seen in Asia, Australia, New Zealand or the United States. The formations took on the most delicate shapes, including cascades, organ pipes, curtains, and twelve-meter ‘strips of bacon’ inching across a wall. Their pale hues ranged from purest white and nearly translucent to blood red on account of the copious presence of carbon dioxide in the limestone. Everything appeared to glow from the inside out. Thanks to Kendley’s insistence on walking independently, we were soon separated from our Italian-speaking tour group and left to (deliciously) explore the cave on our own.

Back in Corinaldo, in the days leading up to Halloween, the town hosted a week’s worth of events, from a Miss Witch Beauty Pageant, to various plays featuring “Zucchino”, the festival’s pumpkin-headed mascot. Several times in her own pumpkin get-up, Kendley was referred to as the “Bella Zucca” (Pretty Pumpkin).

Our new friends behind the Loving Marche website, Nadia and her (Eric Bana-look-alike) husband Federico, met us early the evening prior to Halloween and eagerly pointed out several of the town’s oddities.  They explained the legend behind Corinaldo’s ancient well, where supposedly a weary farmer lost a large sack of ground corn when he paused for a rest in his journey up the long set of steps (La Piaggia) that led into the center of town.  The combination of water and ground corn produced a seemingly endless supply of polenta, upon which the entire town was able to subsist for several years.

At the Casa de Scuretto (House of the Drunk), we were told about Gaetano, whose tale the writers behind Arrested Development surely consulted prior to drafting Season 2.  Gaetano, the town cobbler and (more infamously) drunkard, was given money by his son to build a new home for himself near the center of town. While the son was away in America on business, Gaetano squandered the cash on booze, but was faced with a predicament when his son requested a photograph of the progress. Rather than come clean, Gaetano hurriedly constructed only the building’s façade, slapped an address number near the door and sent off a photo of himself proudly smiling from one of the windows that, to this day, opens onto empty space.

La Maschera

While most vendors lining the streets were hawking the same homemade jewelry, roasted chestnuts and silk-blend scarves we had seen in several other autumn festivals elsewhere in the country, one stall in particular caught our attention. Laura and Emanuele were mask-makers in the old Venetian tradition and had co-opted their workshop into designing truly terrifying and equally fascinating creations for the festival in Corinaldo. Rather than paper-maiche, they used leather to create several of the figures from The Commedia d’Ell Arte (the Bauta, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Pulcinella, Harlequin, etc.) in addition to other contemporary (and ancient) Halloween-themed ghouls. Most eerily beautiful were the animal masks that reminded me of the martyred Saint Bartholomew just as Michelangelo had depicted him in the Sistine Chapel: carrying his own flayed skin.

On Halloween night, we descended on the town early, and were met with a seasonal downpour. Despite the damp chill, Corinaldo still turned out its best for the holiday, and its atmospheric lighting, haunted décor and disco soundtrack more than managed to move us through the night.  The kids each took part in decorating t-shirts and singing along with a traveling musician, which thankfully kept them out of the rain for a bit.

The horror junkie in me was particularly smitten with both the Casa di Spiriti and the Tunelo de Pauro (House of Spirits and Tunnel of Fear). Occupying a former abattoir and an old aqueduct, both far transcended the garden-variety church-basement haunted house I had come to know, and both absolutely scared the living daylights out of our two kids. Perfect.

The hour grew late and both our Zucca and Gladiatore were giving the usual signs that it was time to turn in.  As we passed beneath through Corinaldo’s fortified walls a final time and then sped off to our rented room in neighboring Monterado, Ryan and I agreed.  Halloween and its traditions were born and raised in the United States, but in this medieval town in a far-away corner of Italy, “Dulcetto o’ Scherzetto” (Trick or Treat) sounded just right.

 

 

 To contact our friends Nadia and Federico at Loving Marche, visit her website. They can arrange tours, cooking classes, truffle hunts and just about any tourist activity in the Marche region.

To contact the mascheros, Laura can be reached at cavazzutilaura@gmail.com

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Bumps and Breaks: Learning Travel Lessons the Hard Way https://www.olivertheworld.com/bumps-and-breaks-learning-travel-lessons-the-hard-way/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/bumps-and-breaks-learning-travel-lessons-the-hard-way/#comments Fri, 02 Nov 2012 00:57:32 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=786 October 21 – 25 Rome, Italy We truly were looking forward to returning to Rome.  After several weeks in the […]

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October 21 – 25
Rome, Italy
A Tough Break

We truly were looking forward to returning to Rome.  After several weeks in the sleepy hills and townships all over Tuscany, we were ready to return to a place that had become something of a home to us.  This would be our third pass through the city, and it was to make for a celebratory occasion: we would FINALLY receive our Permessos di Soggiorno, the official document that would permit us to remain in Schengan Europe for two uninterrupted years.  Friends were waiting for us back in the city and the apartment we were renting was one had stayed at in the past and enjoyed very much.  As we readied the kids for bed on the night prior to our arrival, Ryan and I reminded ourselves of the errands we had been saving for our return; replace old toothbrushes, recharge our Internet key at the Vodafone down the street, maybe try the gelato at Old Bridge near Castello S’Angelo.

On Tuesday, our first morning back in Rome, I hurriedly prepared a quick breakfast for the kids at the apartment in an effort to get out the door early.  When I strapped Kendley into her highchair, I failed to notice that it was not secured via a second strap to the chair that was supporting it.  The highchair had always been firmly tethered in the past and had never warranted a second look.  As both kids tucked into their yogurts and banana, I went back to the bedroom to change clothes.

No more than five minutes had passed when a sickening sound jolted me out of the morning torpor that still hung in a haze around me.  Kendley had fallen nearly four feet to the floor, face-first, while still strapped in.

The way in which a child cries when they are either badly hurt or terribly frightened (or both) is distinct; her piteous wails alternated with frantic high-pitched shrieking.  The right side of her forehead had clearly borne the brunt of the fall and was beginning to take on a rosy-purple hue before our eyes.

One week post-fall & barely a scratch!

A bit of a disclaimer is necessary here.  Despite being more than familiar with an assortment of childhood injuries and ailments courtesy of our hyperactive and accident-prone firstborn, certain scenarios still manage to truly, truly terrify me. One of them is the prospect of cerebral swelling caused by a severe head trauma.  Minutes after her fall, Kendley was beginning to show signs of shock; her color has drained to the point that her lips were nearly bone-white and she began to vomit several times in a row.  Ryan and I decided right then and there that it was time to get our daughter to the hospital.

But how to execute?  In our previous times in the apartment, we had cased the surrounding area for all the good gelaterie and cheap local eats, but we knew next to nothing about where a children’s hospital could be found.  I cursed myself several times for failing to check the high chair and for my limited knowledge when it came to Roman emergency services.  Several frantic texts to friends and an unproductive call for an ambulance (no answer) later, we were in a taxi being whisked off to the Bambin Gesu Children’s Hospital.

Neither Ryan nor I knew what to expect on our arrival at the ER.  Italy has notoriously suffered from the on-going fiscal crisis in Europe, and neither of us was quite sure if the country’s public heath services would be up to par.  Kendley had become listless and was starting to nod off in my arms, which is not advised if she in fact had any significant cerebral swelling or damage, and the crowd in the waiting room was thick with red-eyed youngsters and their sleep-deprived parents.

“Caduta.” I knew the Italian for “fall”, as it was a near-constantly used by passers-by whenever Oliver attempted to scale the Vatican walls on our way to our Metro stop.  The rest was a smattering of gibberish that miraculously managed to get our point across.  The intake nurse rapidly assessed Kendley, and within 45 minutes, she had a team of four doctors shining lights and probes into her eyes and ears.  It was determined that she was indeed suffering from shock, but nothing worse.  She was remanded into the hospital’s care and Ryan and I alternated between keeping watch at her bedside.  Good friends of ours in the city mercifully scooped up Oliver, and he was treated to a day of Wi-playing back at their apartment.  Eight hours later and with 275 fewer euros in our pocket (a bargain compared to an uninsured visit to a hospital in the USA), we were sent home with a boisterous and nearly-fully recovered toddler.

Gelato cures all

And then disaster struck again. On Thursday morning, less than 24 hours after being discharged from the hospital, we discovered that our car had been broken into and robbed overnight.  The thieves had shattered the small triangular pane adjacent to the passenger-side window, popped the lock and rifled through whatever they could find.

“They got the big blue duffle”.  The look on Ryan’s face was pained.

“But…that was full of diapers…”

“And the baby wipes.  They got those, too.  And I think all of your old maps from Iceland might have been in that bag. Ugggh, and the GPS. I sure hope you can read a map.”

“But…the diapers…why??”

“Never mind, those cost a fortune in this country!”

It was true; several of Kendley’s sundry items had disappeared in one fell swoop.  But, not dissimilar to the high chair incident, we really had no one but our own selves to blame.   Over the span of three months in Italy, we had become complacent when it came to moving all of our luggage from out of our car and into whatever apartment we were sleeping in that night.   We had accumulated more gear than we could manage comfortably, and the big duffle in the trunk had inadvertently become an overlooked receptacle for the occasional souvenir, the odd piece of electronic equipment, extra clothes and of course, a handy place to store extra diapers. Most importantly, it was a lesson learned the hard way, for a bag left in a car was an open invitation.

It had been a tough couple of days; that much was sure. Mounting insurance claims and police reports cast a long cloud over the next several weeks ahead of us.  But these events boiled down to nothing more that just part of the rub when it comes to location independence.  Attempts to settle into certain routines, to cut corners or let our guard down were frequently met with unfortunate ends, and this was something we knew already. Much of the joy we share in our traveling lifestyle is in the unknown and the unexpected, but inevitably, somewhere in the midst of all that lie some painful lessons.

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She Did NOT Just Do That: Val D’Orcia, Italy https://www.olivertheworld.com/she-did-not-just-do-that-val-dorcia-italy/ https://www.olivertheworld.com/she-did-not-just-do-that-val-dorcia-italy/#comments Sat, 20 Oct 2012 12:59:43 +0000 http://www.olivertheworld.com/?p=761 October 15 – 22 Central Tuscany, Italy See this face?  It’s belongs to a young John the Baptist.  It was […]

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October 15 – 22
Central Tuscany, Italy

See this face?  It’s belongs to a young John the Baptist.  It was carved in the 13th century by a member of the  Sienese school, and it is on display in Volterra’s Pinacoteca e Museo Civico.

See this face?  It looks familiar, right?  However, it has nothing to do with saintly piety.  This face is what we refer to in the Rauch household as the dreaded “pooh face”.   And it shows up in the most unlikely places.

In Southern Tuscany, between the Val’D’Orcia, a pastoral landscape of gently undulating hills that is beautifully cultivated by olive groves and vineyards, and the evergreen forests of Mount Amiata, there lies the small town of Bagni San Fillipo.   Here, there are natural, thermal hot pools that draw their source from warm (50° C/125°F) waterfalls that tumble over mountainous white calcium deposits.  The Fosso Bianco is the most beautiful and secluded of these formations, and for centuries, pilgrims have sought out the sulfuric waters for various therapeutic reasons.

Swallows, Southern Tuscany

After completing a two-hour hike through the Val’D’Orcia, we decided to soak our sore legs in the pools at Bagni San Fillipo. Following our time in Iceland, we learned that thermal waters were always the perfect antidote to our crazed children.  A relaxing soak always ensured an early bedtime.

Of the fifteen or so words in Kendley’s vocabulary,  one is “statue” and the other is “hot pool”.

Once we arrived at the hot pools and got our suits on, we descended on a lone Italian man who was occupying the warmest pool.

We wished him a cheery ‘bongiorno’ to which he did respond. Despite his standoffishness, we warily settled into the pool alongside him, but mindfully kept whatever distance we could manage. All was copacetic until Ollie started flopping around like a stranded fish, splashing our bathing companion in the process. The man scolded him numerous times in Italian and made it perfectly clear to us that if we encroached on his space again, he would resort to violence, or calling the carabinieri, or both.  At least this was how I translated what he was saying.

In this way he continued to occupy the hottest spot of the pool for the next 90 minutes, muttering to himself the entire time, until he finally stood up and concluded his soak by massaging his private parts against calciferous rock that rose up from the pool.

At that precise moment when Ryan and I averted our eyes from our fellow bather, we happened to glance at Kendley, who, AT THAT PRECISE MOMENT was making none other than the dreaded pooh face, while standing chest-deep in the thermal pool.

Voila! Here’s how to get a hot spring all to yourself!

I am still unclear as to whom evacuated the spring first, the Italian man or myself with Kendley in my arms.

But all ended well.  After a very, very thorough clean-up, we were back to the pool, minus the disgruntled Italian.

“I wonder if we could train her to do that on cue…” Ryan mused.

I agreed. “It comes in handy some times, doesn’t it?”

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