Italy Journal 10 - A Cautionary Tale of Good Fortune

I wrote this up in the airport yesterday. Something was compelling me to get all the words out before leaving this beautiful, crazy country. I hope you enjoy it.

Journal 10 - A Cautionary Tale of Good Fortune

It was a hot, sunny Sunday, actually the Fourth of July, when, along with two classmates, I took a train out of the Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence to the Tuscan countryside, a small town called Castagno, to swim at the pool of a fancy hillside resort. I had read about the pool in the English-Florentine newspaper a day earlier. Locals in Florence always leave town on the weekends since it is so hot and touristy in the city. At this point on our trip, we no longer considered ourselves "touristas" since we had been living in Italy for almost a whole month and knew our way our Florence really well.

We transferred trains in a place that can only be described as a creepy Italian ghost town. It was solely populated by a dusty luncheonette which luckily served not only pork panini but also tuna wraps–-a bonus for my hungry friends who were each Jewish and Muslim. After lunch we found our local train and a short ride later we arrived. At the local station, we planned to use the ATM (called a bancomat here) and check the return schedule home. You can imagine our surprise to see that the rural station was nothing more than a dilapidated shack, sort of an homage to where a station maybe once stood. There wasn't even a sign to mark the train stop!

My euros were few, and I planned on getting cash at the Florence train station, but the machines were all broken. One of the girls was planning to exchange some US Dollars for Euros, but all of the exchange places were closed. So, before we left, I asked the third girl if she had enough money on her, explaining that we were broke but would pay her back upon returning, and she said okay. An hour later, on the train, I learned that the third girl only had a few euros for herself but that she was willing to share what she had. Knowing the cost was about 15 each, I was praying the resort would accept credit cards – it was too late to turn back.

                 

We inhaled the pungent perfume of Tuscany, a gorgeous blend of fresh air and the sweet smell of the woods, and knew instinctively that everything would somehow be okay. Walking down a very steep hill, we spotted our destination immediately—a rectangular blue oasis in the center of about a hundred very tanned people. Around the pool was a fence of ancient looking white stone columns, attached to the side of an enormous stone mansion.

Explaining our situation to the pool manager with all the charisma we could muster, he responded in broken English, "No money, no pool. Who travels to Italy with no money? What is wrong with you?" After a brief conference in which going home was never discussed, we decided to try him again, with our doe-eyed, sweaty and pitiful faces.  We were standing there with our towels and flip-flops, and finally the man took pity on us and allowed us to enter for the sum of our entire collection of euro coins, a few small bills and an American $20 bill. Woohoo!! We had a great relaxing time at the pool and in the sun and packed up a few hours later to go home. After changing, we returned our locker keys, went to thank them, and asked about the train schedule back to Florence. At this moment, we learned that the last train had left an hour ago. No more trains until tomorrow.

We still had no money between the three of us and were starting to worry. Stranded at a fancy resort in the hills of Tuscany is not the worst place to be, but we needed to get ourselves home to Florence for class the next day. I called Kevin on my cell phone and asked him to check the online train schedule for us to see if there was any way hope of leaving. The pool manager, Peter, who we were now on a first name basis with, again took pity on us and offered us a ride in his car to our transfer point – back to the ghost town, where we were able to catch an evening train back to Florence.  The fact that he drove a regular car and not a scooter like everyone else was another huge stroke of luck. He flirted with one of the girls in broken Spanish along the way, as it was the easiest language to understand each other in. Peter, incidentally, looked exactly like how you would imagine a bronze 31 year old pool manager in Tuscany to look like. And he was charming. I appointed him Santo Peter (Saint Peter) for letting us into the pool and then driving us back in one piece. Seeming like the kind of guy who drives a car exclusively for the back seat, he thought that was hysterically funny.

As a side note, I'd like to say that you should never travel without any cash. You should also never get in a car with a strange man no matter how nice he seems. And always check the train schedule ahead of time. Don't expect anything to be open on Sunday, either. End of public service announcement.

Back in Florence, we found an ATM, celebrated our good fortune and fun day with some gelato, strawberry cheesecake flavor this time, and the three touristas americanas, grateful for a day of Italian hospitality, enjoyed a nice walk home.

Italy Journal 9 - Cataloging Memories

It is Wednesday night and I began packing my suitcase to see how much room is left, and to see how many amazing Italian delicacies I can bring back. So far I've got lots of truffles, porchini mushrooms, sundried tomatoes, farro, lentils, barlotti beans, balsamic vinegar and parmesan cheese. Plus some scarves, shoes and other small items. No wine or olive oil because it's too heavy. Mostly I'm bringing back memories—sense memories—the strongest of which are the amazing aromas of Italy, the sweet smell of the Tuscan air, the saltiness of the proscuitto house, the strong smell of parmesan cheese aging, and the fancy perfume on the ladies walking through the fashion district in Florence. Earlier today I went walking through the San Lorenzo market – a huge indoor farmer's market where you can get meats, fishes, produce, fresh pasta, and many specialty products. What an amazing place to just wander, smelling and watching…

Italy Journal 8 - Teatro del Sale & Parma/Modena

Friday was one of my favorite days yet in Florence. In my cooking class, we made Saltimbocca alla Romana which are thin veal cutlets rolled with proscuitto and sage leaves, cooked in olive oil and marsala wine. The drippings are thickened into a sauce and served on top. The taste is at once earthy, salty, and sweet – like a party in your mouth that you just don't want to end. To my horror, one of my station-mates in class got a bunch of paper towels to "blot all that greasy stuff off" her piece. Some people just do not deserve to eat in Italy!!

After class I went for a walk in a different part of town and got completely lost for about an hour. Florence has many tiny streets that sometimes feel like they just lead you in circles, and since the streets are so narrow, unless you are in the center of town, it's not easy to orient yourself according to the landmarks, unlike New York. With my useless map in hand, I just walked around and around until things finally started to look more familiar. Another interesting thing about Florence is that the locals don't know the names of streets, either. So if you are, say, trying to find a particular street, unless you know a nearby landmark/church/or market, you are pretty  much out of luck getting directions.

The goal of all that wandering was to reach the Teatro del Sale, translated as the Theater of Salt. It's a very exclusive dinner club run by the chefs and owners of Cibreo, one of the best restaurants in Florence. The irony of the name comes from the fact that the bread in Florence does not contain salt. During the middle ages, Pisa, a rival city, decided to levy an exorbitant tax on salt to Florence, and they responded by doing without, proudly. I've gotten used to the bread and really like it, by the way. The tap water is fine to drink, too, in case you were wondering.

In order to have dinner at Teatro del Sale, you have to become a member, at the cost of 5 Euro for one year for foreigners. Locals pay more. There can only be 99 members at any given time, so it is never overcrowded or touristy. When you walk in, it is clearly an old Theater, but all the seats have been detached from the floor and are positioned around small dinner tables mostly for 2 or 4 people. The ceiling is huge, with old wooden rafters and there's a stage with regal velvet curtains. Off to the side is a table with unlimited water, seltzer (called Frizzante here) and free flowing red table wine. There's fancier wine for purchase, too.

A buffet table with servers has about 15 different vegetable and pasta dishes, everything from pesto pasta to hummus, braised carrots, lentils, baked tomatoes, fresh bread sticks, etc. Through a huge glass window you can watch the chefs work on the various meat and fish courses. When something is ready – be it mushroom soup served in mugs sans spoons, meatballs livornese, clams and mushrooms, baked eggplant with cream, or any other number of amazing dishes, one of the chefs passionately sings out a description of the food (in Italian) at the top of his lungs and we go up to the window to get our individual portion directly from the cooks. I was with my friend Julie and each time we went up, this particularly charming young chef would generously describe each dish and its ingredients to us in English.

You return used plates to the dishwashers through a little opening near the kitchen. Even the guys doing the dishes are happy and seem to have having a good time. Back there, they are eating the same food as us. At the Teatro, everyone seemed to be happy to be there, especially the staff. This added so much to the experience.

Dinner began at 7:30 and was over by 9:15 and I could not have eaten one more bite! Toward the end, I was taking dishes just to taste them as I was so full of goodness. My meal at Teatro del Sale was without a doubt the most delicious one I've had here, and that says a lot considering some of the food I've had the pleasure of tasting over the past three weeks. The show part of the evening was two Italian jazz  musicians singing Bob Dylan with guitar and bass accompaniment. I asked my 20 yr old companion if she liked Bob Dylan and she said she only knew him from the TV show "Full House". (That's Bob Saget, the comedian, not Bob Dylan, I said with a smile.)

Since I didn't take any pictures at Teatro del Sale, I am attaching some photos of my trip through Parma and Modena where I saw/tasted parmesan cheese making, proscuitto aging, and tasted real balsamic vinegar. I am bringing back a huge piece of real parmesan cheese and some traditional balsamic vinegar that was aged for 25 years. The proscuitto is aged in the countryside of Emilia Romagna. The salty winds of the sea meet the northern winds and it's the combination of special air that lends the meat it's special taste.