Shortly after arriving in Italy, I accepted an invitation to a book signing and reading event in Rome. When I learned of the book’s subject matter (a thirty-something woman who finds love with an Italian and moves to Rome) I thought, Oh no, not another fairy tale about coming to Italy, having an affair with Marcello Mastroianni and living happily ever after! Needless to say I was skeptical. Seriously, is there anyone out there who could bring freshness to this tired and overly saturated genre of storybook fantasies allaThree Coins in a Fountain, Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love? I know I sound jaded, but my expectations are low.
After a brief introduction author Estelle Jobson sat down on a cushion in the courtyard of The Beehive Hotel, opened her book, Finding Rome on the Map of Love, and began to read. As I listened to her recount the stories, I noticed the corners of my mouth began to spontaneously turn upward. Her elegant and proper South African accent was in sharp contrast to the wry, sardonic and sassy repartee. Hey, this girl gets it! When she finished I was a bit sad, but fortunately I’d purchased my very own autographed copy of the book and immediately cracked it open on the train back to Orvieto.
During the first couple of chapters, I was gulping down Estelle’s pages the way a typical American might eat their dinner: swallowing without taking time to taste. Perhaps I’ve been in Italy long enough that a voice inside my head warned, “Don’t be in a hurry. Savor each flavor and texture.” This book was just like a good Italian meal; I never wanted the literary feast to end. And when it did end, I felt warm and utterly satisfied.
Estelle Jobson is a talented writer who has a true gift for observation. She describes things that, as an expatriate, I’d experienced but was never able to fully articulate. What appreciate most about Estelle’s storytelling is the way she doesn’t laugh at Italians, she laughs with them. Her book is filled with intelligent humor, compassion, and edgy insight. She’s sarcastic without being mean; clever without being pretentious; and emotional without being overly sentimental. Estelle sees Italians the way they really are and reconfirms, at least for me, why I love living among them.
I’ll stay with the food analogy just a little bit longer. I really enjoyed chewing slowly on every single delicious “bite” of Finding Rome on the Map of Love. Her words were propriobuonissime!
I’m happy to report that because the end of the world didn’t come this week, my tour of the Christmas lights in Rome was able to go forward as planned. In fact, my personal “guide” for the evening had a new prophecy for me:
“I predict you are going to come to Rome very, very soon…and be astonished from the lights all over, thinking it was the effect of that good wine you just had.”
Maybe it was the wine, or it might have been those sparkling blue and white jellyfish that floated above my head, or the draping of light bulbs that covered an entire boulevard from end-to-end, or the gigantic trees in every piazza…
Whatever the reason, I was totally astonished and also extremely grateful to be here in Italy for this glittery Roman holiday tradition.
Last night Rome was so bright, I should have worn shades.
The event was hosted by the amazing talent and Caravaggio lookalike, ceramic artist Marino Moretti. Inside his studio, located in a partially restored 9th-century castle in the town of Viceno, people gathered for a pre-holiday brindisi (toast). I tagged along with my friend, textile conservator and dealer, Igor Honkanen and was pleasantly surprised to see other friends who were in attendance. I was the new girl in town – well not really.
Two guys were hunched over in intense conversation in front of the fire, and Igor split off to talk to some other people, so I wandered around the hall in awe of all the colorful pottery surrounding us. Marino’s lovely wife Marilyn was such a gracious hostess and the couple’s handsome teenage son acted as the bartender. I was trying to play it cool, but the phrase kept repeating in my head, “I am in a castle, I am in a castle, I am in a castle”.
As for Marino’s works, they are quite particular. His pieces fall mostly in the category of Majolica ceramics, but what I really want to say is that they’re in a class by themselves.
Majolica is a traditional way of tin-glazing pottery that dates back to the 13th century. The technique uses vibrant colors and often depicts historical figues and tells legends through figures and scenes. Moretti’s creations come in earthenware, terracotta and porcelain. Since the 1970s, Marino has gathered quite a large and loyal following.
Tonight the main room was filled with his whimsical pottery displayed in groupings of vases, bowls and platters. In the corner were spindly garden sculptures. Handpainted tiles of yellow, blue, green and red hung like Renaissance calling cards. Happy medieval figures danced around the outside of bowls and ancient fish swam across platters. Even a crazy man was biting his own tail; it’s serious art that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
I found my way into the potter’s workshop where small cups and vases were perched on simple wooden shelving. I took a deep breath before attempting to pick up a tiny espresso cup with a medieval man’s head on it. I lifted it gingerly, careful not to bump it against the other cups or drop it. It seemed so precious and delicate. I admired it and felt how light it was in my hand. If I owned this cup, I don’t think I could bear to drink coffee out of it! It might be just a little cup and saucer to some people, but to me it’s a fine work of art.
Marino Moretti Studio d’Arte, via del Castello Vecchio, 12-05014 Viceno (TR), 0763 361663 – 320 2651654
They say LOVE is the universal language, but really it’s FOOD. Bridging the gap between languages, cultures, and traditions – food is humanity’s common denominator. “Yum” translates in every language.
Last evening, a large contingency of rowdy Americans, along with a strong delegation from the Eurozone: Italy (of course), Germany, England, Scotland and Finland, gathered to share a meal, wine and friendship.
It’s my understanding that in preparation for this turkey dinner, Carlo, the owner of Ristorante Dell’Ancora, was bombarded with weeks of strict and precise instructions on how to properly prepare a traditional “Norman Rockwell-style” Thanksgiving meal. The anxious, but well-meaning party organizer’s fears were finally quelled by Carlo’s confident annunciation, “Don’t worry, I will make a Thanksgiving dinner better than they do in the United States!”
To use a typically American expression…Carlo hit this one out of the ballpark!
The Etruscan Chef by Lorenzo Polegri & Kim Brookmire is not just another book about food or cooking, although it tells of both.
It’s a window into the past and present lives of Umbrians and their cuisine – a memoir of food and its genesis from their ancestors, the Etruscans. Lorenzo writes, “We used to be Etruscans. I don’t know if we still are, but we love to think so.”
Chef Polegri presents us with a book that is written by a boy who is now a man. After reading it from cover to cover, I feel as though I know him, and the people he introduced me to, just a little bit better. The smiling faces of the vendors I see at the outdoor market every week now have names. Absorbing Lorenzo’s words, I will try to remember that a farmer toiled in a nearby field to bring these delicious and real foods to my table. Grandparents, parents, children and friends: Through Lorenzo’s stories from his childhood, his teenage years, and now his adulthood, I see more clearly the strong and beautiful people of my adopted home, and for this I am grateful.
The Etruscan Chef is a pleasurable and emotional glimpse into the soul of a life in Umbria, Italy.
Hurricane Sandy, like the Icelandic Volcano several years before it, had rearranged my date of departure leaving me cooling my jets in California for another week. You know how it is when you’re ready to go somewhere – a delay can be a huge letdown. My friend calls it “premature elation”. On the bright side, it was great to hang out with my Mom and Andrew a little bit longer, but after seven days on hold I decided to reroute my trip and fly to Frankfurt instead.
Am I becoming one of those people who always has a story?
On Tuesday I arrived in Frankfurt without incident, carrying everything I own crammed into two seventy-pound suitcases. I literally lumbered over to the DB Bahn desk for a train ticket to Italy. I explained to the young reservationist that I must be on the next train to Orvieto, Italy. She said the train to Munich was leaving in exactly twelve minutes, so I slapped down my credit card and took off like a bat out of hell – I hopped onto the train with just minutes to spare! I enjoyed the German countryside, but my train arrived in Munich late, so I had to make a run for it (with two heavy bags, “run” would be an overstatement). The conductor announced they would be pulling away from the station in 30 seconds so I flung my bags onto the last carriage – I think I have a hernia now. But really, the important thing is I was on my way to Orvieto at last!
I took a seat by the window and looked out at the passing cities of Nuremberg, Innsbruck, Trento…oh sh*t! I took the wrong train! Apparently “Rovereto” is not the German word for “Orvieto”, but actually a town near Verona. Oh well, at least I was traveling in the right direction.
In Verona, my friendly Austrian conductor, Arnold, offered to let me tag along with the train employees to their hotel and even convinced the front desk to give me a good rate. A pizza, a shower and a good night’s sleep was just what the doctor ordered.
In the morning I was on the train to Orvieto via Bologna. I met a lovely veterinarian from Rome, Marco, who helped me get my bags (or as he referred to them, my armadi (wardrobes)) off of the train at Bologna Centrale and three hours later I arrived at my new home. My friend heard my bags rolling down the marble stairs all the way from the station lobby. She remarked how lucky I was to have avoided the excess baggage charges by the airline. Yeah, I am lucky.
After finishing a Chinese meal, I can hardly wait to crack open my fortune cookie to see what the future holds! Those forecasts that portend good things find themselves taped to the inside cover of my journal for safekeeping and easy reference:
“A bold and dashing adventure is in your future within a year.”
My new friend, Shanghai-born travel writer Vivian Mao, explains that the fortune cookie doesn’t actually exist in China – it’s an American invention. The exact origin of this little roll of sugar, flour, vanilla, sesame seed oil with a tiny paper prophecy tucked inside seems to be in dispute. The Japanese claim the recipe came from their traditional cracker while the Chinese insist that they popularized it. As the fortune cookie battle rages on, I think that we can all agree on one thing: Good news and sage advice all wrapped-up in a sugar cookie is pretty awesome!
As far back as I can remember I loved baloney sandwiches! My childhood obsession was so famous that family, friends, and neighbors referred to me as “Toni Baloney”. Undaunted by the nickname, I was actually quite proud to be so closely associated with my favorite pink, slippery and quintessentially American cold cut. After all, “Oscar Mayer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.”
But as it happens, I grew up and had my first taste of baloney’s sophisticated Italian cousin, Mortadella, and I was a goner! My boloney-eating days were over – this smooth, sweet and spicy, pistachio-filled deli roll is the “caviar” of lunchmeat.
I haven’t been to Bologna, Italy yet, but I am planning my pilgrimage once I’m settled in Orvieto. The city of Bologna is famous for this finely ground, heat-cured pork salumi, produced there since the 14th century. Suspected to have originally been a Roman sausage, Mortadella di Bologna has achieved the epitome of food recognition – it has a Protected Geological Indication status designated by the European Union to preserve the regional names of products. In strict accordance with these delicious guidelines, a classic Mortadella di Bologna must be prepared with 15% evenly distributed squares of fat, no preservatives, fillers, or additives. Naturale!
When in Italy I will be living-off Mortadella’s mouth-watering yumminess. I’ll eat it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and as a bedtime snack. I’ll eat it between two pieces of bread, thinly sliced “as is” with a glass of wine, cubed, fried, moussed and spread, and stuffed into tortellini. Any way you slice it…Mortadella e’ bella!
P.S. I’m thinking of changing my nickname. How does “Toni DeMortadellaBella” grab you?
Everyday I obsessively enter my impending departure date into a duration calculator, but strangely the “days remaining until I arrive in Italy” number never seems to decrease. Time is not just dragging, it has come to a screeching halt and I’ve begun to wonder if my new life in Orvieto willever begin? I fear I could be trapped in some kind of weird vortex or bizarre Italian space-time continuum!
Harry’s touching sentiment in the film, When Harry Met Sally echoes my own:
“…when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone (or, in my case, somewhere), you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
Unfortunately like a pot, a watched country never boils.
Shortly after arriving in Italy, I accepted an invitation to a book signing and reading event in Rome. When I learned of the book’s subject matter (a thirty-something woman who finds love with an Italian and moves to Rome) I thought, Oh no, not another fairy tale about coming to Italy, having an affair with Marcello Mastroianni and living happily ever after! Needless to say I was skeptical. Seriously, is there anyone out there who could bring freshness to this tired and overly saturated genre of storybook fantasies alla Three Coins in a Fountain, Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love? I know I sound jaded, but my expectations are low.
After a brief introduction author Estelle Jobson sat down on a cushion in the courtyard of The Beehive Hotel, opened her book, Finding Rome on the Map of Love, and began to read. As I listened to her recount the stories, I noticed the corners of my mouth began to spontaneously turn upward. Her elegant and proper South African accent was in sharp contrast to the wry, sardonic and sassy repartee. Hey, this girl gets it! When she finished I was a bit sad, but fortunately I’d purchased my very own autographed copy of the book and immediately cracked it open on the train back to Orvieto.
Estelle Jobson is a talented writer who has a true gift for observation. She describes things that, as an expatriate, I’d experienced but was never able to fully articulate. What appreciate most about Estelle’s storytelling is the way she doesn’t laugh at Italians, she laughs with them. Her book is filled with intelligent humor, compassion, and edgy insight. She’s sarcastic without being mean; clever without being pretentious; and emotional without being overly sentimental. Estelle sees Italians the way they really are and reconfirms, at least for me, why I love living among them.
Orvieto or Bust: 