Stew, Author at See You in Italy

Happy Holidays wherever you may be.

WINTERWONDERLAND, MAINE— Where am I? Really. Good question. Where haven’t we been this month? Everywhere but putting up blog stories, it appears. Gathering Material. Yes. That’s it. You know, just like Hemmingway fighting the matador’s bulls or wrestling mutant Marlins into his fishing boat. Or not. But in the last thirty days time we have spent some long, fun weekends in NYC, London and Limestone, Maine. More on the London to Limestone sagas coming up. And Wiley has a big blog backlog direct from Italy that she is polishing up in Harold Wood outside London right now. But for today, we are grateful to have most of our family sitting right here at the dining room table. Zak, of NYC, bent over a growing chart, pen in hand, doing NYC Dutch ancestory genealogy, Midge in her “OLIO” cooking apron talking to the missing Wiley in London, and baby Grayson holding a bag of frozen peas on her jaw where her wisdom teeth came out yesterday. Poverina, figlia minora. She’s in good spirits and ready for whatever the holiday and Babbo Natale is about to bring her.

So, why is Midge in her apron? What’s cooking, Midge? Panetone? Yes, indeed. We’re braving up to try making the tradional Italian Holiday treat. Is it cake is it bread, I really do not know. But when in Italy it seems they are everywhere. Except on forks. Do they actually eat them? Not so much, is my observation. Sometimes I think they are more atmosphere than cuisine. Occasionally they are put out of their decorative boxes and nibbled with Prosecco. Anyway, we are growing our own, sans decorative box. It sounds like a proper family fun holiday activity. You stir this. I’ll chop that. You find the yeast. And it goes on all day if I read correctly the instructions in “Italian Cooking” magazine. Dec 05 to Jan 06 Holiday Issue. That recipe rocks. Available in newstands as they say. The recipe on their website sounded like a very complicated train wreck and we would have never even attempted that one, sissies that we are. More news on our Italian pastry dessert cooking experiment as it becomes available.

FLYING TURKEYS

We will probably be the only people in Maine having homemade Panetone with Cajun Turkey. Totally random culinary combination. Never look a gift turkey in the mouth. Oh, wait, ready to eat, fresh from the store turkeys don’t have a mouth. But we do and it will be great. Midge’s Nashville brother Kix had this fried turkey flown up to Maine and she found it waiting on our doorstep when she went on her humanitarian cappuccino run: LOOK WHAT I FOUND! Hey, hey, you HAVE had “southern deep fried turkey” , haven’t you? Please, please say yes. Or quick, put it on your life goals list.

As the fried turkey indicates, we may not be in Italy for the holidays but with emails coming in from our Italian Home Away From Home we are feeling the love and day dreaming about different times we have been in Umbria for Christmas and New Years. Good times all.

Well, as our red and gold Italian Holiday Banner here at the top of the page says BF, UE, OS, NT, EE (Buone Feste) to all!

Italy: The Ultimate Shiny Object?

I think, like everyone, I assumed I was the only one shrewd enough to fully appreciate Italy for what it is really worth. But, if you look around at the crowds trying to get in the Uffizi or book a room in Venice during Carnevale you realize, it is a secret we share with a whole lot of other wide eyed tourists.

Yes, I know. I may be preaching to the choir here.

Columbus discovered America. But, I ask you, doesn’t every American feel they have ”discovered” Italy from the moment they first wash up on her sunny shores? Of course, I’m being egocentric when I single out Americans. And, of course, I mean to include all us foreigner invaders from the Goths and Vandals right on down to whatever Ryan Air discount flight just landed this morning in Pisa. Italy seems to whisper its siren song in everyone’s ear. For me, it seemed like a personal revelation. The skies parted, the message was written there clear as a bell: Look at the art, taste that food, listen to the people talk, I have found the Promised Land. I think, like everyone, I assumed I was the only one shrewd enough to fully appreciate Italy for what it is really worth. But, if you look around at the crowds trying to get in the Uffizi or book a room in Venice during Carnevale you realize, it is a secret we share with a whole lot of other wide eyed tourists.

Yes, I know. I may be preaching to the choir here.

I read somewhere a scientific explanation for part of Italy’s eternal charm and magnetism. The light really IS different in Italy. Thing DO look different there. It turns out we are wearing a natural version of rose colored glasses when we are in Itly. The working hypothesis of the book, as I recall, was that the Mediterranean is a relatively dead sea. Sorry if that seems harsh and un-romantic, but look at the ocean at a beach in Maine, for example. It is black and forbidding looking. That is because the Atlantic is chock full of seafood, seaweed, fish and marine life. The Med is comparatively empty. But, an incredibly pretty shade of blue. The whole empty basin is a giant solar reflector, picking up and reflecting the color of the sky. And the lovely Italian peninsula is stuck like a long, skinny pier, out in the middle of that pond. So, the light over Italy is refracted from the water on all sides of it in an actual, unique sort of way. And that affects what we see and how we see it and maybe it even reflects somewhat on the famously sunny Italian personality.

A couple weeks ago, I saw a note in the Boston Globe about dream travel destinations. A question had been posed, and it was: Where in the world would you go, if money were no object at all? According to the survey, done by an affiliate of Expedia, Italy would be in the All Time Top Three Ultimate Destinations. Hawaii and Australia were right in there, too.

But consider this evidence as well: There are two new long-awaited books coming out right now. One is by Jonathan Harr. You may remember that 10 years ago he wrote his first big, successful book ”Civil Action”. Since then, he has published nothing at all but was evidently searching around for a new subject and came up with his real life mystery/adventure ”The Lost Painting”. It is the story of a famous Caravaggio that had been misplaced for a couple centuries.

The other author, John Berendt, was also a first time author when he published his wildly successful ”Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” (272 weeks on the New York Times Hardcover Bestseller List!) a decade or so ago. Loved his casual, bemused, fly on the wall, observational style. His new book, like Harr’s is also somewhat of a real life mystery. It is called ”The City of Falling Angels” and it goes behind the scenes of the famously, devastating fire at the Fenice Opera House in Venice.

I’m not really ready to do book reviews of either of them, as they just came out. But the subjects attract me and I’ll probably get both of them this weekend. The point is, that both Jon and John were first time, out of the box literary stars. And what was the first thing they did when they could? Well, sure. They did the first thing any right thinking person would do: they took off for Italy and used writing the next great novel as an excuse to hang around for a few years ”doing research”.

Can you blame them?

Michelangelo. Of New York.

The hotel is very cool, very downtown and quite Italian. Coming in late Saturday night, I saw bound-up stacks of ”La Republica” next to stacks of New York Times. And get this: they carry Rai Uno on the TV’s in their rooms! Our satellite dish in Umbria is so out of whack that we can’t get Rai Uno in Italy. And they get it in NYC? How DO they do that?

NY, NY— Let’s see, how can we contort being in the Big Apple for the Country Music Awards into something Italian? Could be tricky. No. Wait. I think I see an opening. OK . . . how about this: we stayed at the Michelangelo Hotel and saw works by the real Michelangelo at a gallery?

We blame our problem on Moonlight. Our satellite TV guy, who we could not find on our last trip, is poetically named Marco Lumadiluna. Marco Moonlight. Could there be a more evocative name for the person in charge of bringing moving pictures down from the heavens? Allora, non fa niente.

GALLERY SLAVES

The art by Michelangelo was in the Salander-O’Reilly Gallery up by The Frick on Central Park. Our son, Zak, is the librarian at the gallery and master of what looks like hundreds, maybe thousands of art reference books. So, we had to go see him, in situ, in this new-ish job. What a place. Sculptures by Bernini, paintings by Tintoretto, carved life sized madonnas, rooms full of them, in fact. Crucifixs? What size do you want? We went to the Salander Gallery after seeing the Fra Angelico exhibit at the Met and before going to the Frick and before we saw the illuminated Italian manuscripts at the Public Library.

As you enter Zak’s domain in the fourth floor Salander library, the first thing you come to is a Cellini sketch. And a signed letter from old Benvenuto, himself. In the totally, non-public reference library! I guess I can, make this about Italy. Yes. Yes, I can.

LA DOLCE VITA, LA DOLCE VINO

We ate at several fine, fine Italian places in the city including Scalinatella which is just down the street from the Four Seasons on the Upper East Side on East 61st. Hyper hip. All the waiters spoke Italian to each other. Loudly. And in an accent I had never heard, so I got a case of timid and didn’t get into it with them. Food was off-the-chart good. Waiters were suave, funny and engaging. And the wine. Aces, truly aces, 1999 red wine from Montalcino, which is near us in Italy. Just velvet.

You know, this shoehorning Italy into New York is pretty easy, once you get into it. We also had great Italian Proseccos and pastas at Orzo. On west 46th in the Theater District. We ordered all kinds of fun anti pastas for the table and dived in and liked it too.

What with cappucchinos every morning and Italian food almost every night, it was rather like being in the old country. And the Fra Angelico show I mentioned at the Metropolitan was Really like being there. I did not previously understand, or fully appreciate how articulated and gilded his backgrounds are. From studying him in art history I knew he was amazing, in person and in quantity it was really overwhelming. The detail, the etched lines in the gilding in the feathers of the angels was just too wonderful for words. He could paint on wood in a way that would make that wood turn into surreal, luminous, precious metal, fabrics truly fit for angels to wear. And consider, if you will, these pieces of art are hundreds of years old. My mind boogles and reels at seeing them. Imagine the people of the times seeing these when they were new.

SHOW ME SOME STARS

We were lucky enough to tag along to party where James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano. How Italian/American can you get?) was hanging out in the middle of the night in a big party house on Gramercy Square. We did not speak, omerta and all that, but for a moment, we were so traveling in the same circle.

Oh? The Yoko thing? OK, she may not be 100 percent Italian, but as long as we are name dropping here . . . we had finished our Italian sausage sandwiches and I was shooting some photos near Zak’s gallery. A pretty Japanese bride was walking to her wedding photo session in the park, her formal, hoop’ed wedding gown hitched up to mid thigh over white Nancy Sinatra type boots. I was focusing on that, when Midge poked me in the shoulder and said See the Purple Jacket that just went by? Yes. You just missed it . . . That was Yoko. Oh, no!

Buone Feste! And Happy Holidays too!

TRAVEL HINTS FOR THE LONG HAUL TRAVELER

ITALY, UMBRIA . . . AND BEYOND — First of all, I am not a total straight line kind of guy. I try to be organized, but ten minutes after I have cleaned the garage, my office, anything, I’ve got everything all stirred up again. I’m a mass of carefully controlled confusion at most times, but total chaos reigns when I am traveling. Keys for Maine, keys for Italy, driver’s license, passport, international driver’s license, plane tickets, whoa. . where DID I put those tickets? So many things to take with on a trip. Or not take. Finally cured myself of donating a Swiss Army knife to the security guards every, single, trip. That took awhile.

Ok, Hint One. Hey, the bulk of us are not immigrating when we go abroad. It is just a trip for heaven’s sake. Are we going to places totally without stores? Well, I hope not. But, you would never know it from the freezer-sized pieces of luggage I see so many people checking in. I hope my daughters are both reading this. The stuff they will bring for a weekend should come by truck or cargo ship containers. But anyway, I’ll just say it: I hate waiting for bags to come off the carousel after a long trip. Only thing worse? When they don’t come off the carousel and you have to go describe your precious cargo and hope it really does eventually arrive and they really do bring it to you, before your vacation is over. But the waiting is wearisome. And your mind is racing as you are pacing. How long will the taxi lines be? Will all of these people be cueing up ahead of me? Will my ride wait for me? Will the last bus come and go while I am cooling my heels here? Customs. Look at the line growing over there.

So. I take one small, but light and efficient, wheeled suitcase. End of story. One. After a lot of false starts and inopportune choices, mine now happens to be this vaguely purple one from L.L. Bean. We ARE from Maine, afterall. Yes, this is not an ad. Think they probably have plenty of business as it is. But this is a nice bag. We have actually got plenty of dumb bags at Beans, as well. This just doesn’t happen to be one. This one works. Light, simple, efficient. Typical, wheeled bag big enough, or actually, small enough to qualify as carry on.

When I get off a bus or out of my car, I pull out my bag, I lift up the pull handle on it and loop my laptop bag’s hand straps over the pull handle. Totally obvious concept, everyone does it. For good reason. That way, the pull bag can carry my laptop. And not me. And then, I’m off like a shot. Traveling light. And since I am not waiting in line, ever, for random bags on the carousel, it DOES matter, if I am early off the plane. So, I ask for seats on the aisle and toward the front as a matter of course. Not THE front. That’s for babies. You don’t want to be there. Just sort of toward the front. When the plane lands, I can be through the airport, past customs and on the bus headed north to Portland while people from my flight are still milling around hoping their bags made the same trip. And it works coming in, too. On this trip, there were hundreds of people in line, out-going. The Air France guy that presorts you as you get in line and makes sure you are on at least the right airline, on the right day, saw me and my carry-on only, and waved me out of a line of literally 2-300 people and into a line of two people. I was number two. Living lite and living large.

Once through with check-in, I head for a wash room and put my belt with metal buckle, wristwatch with big metal band, coins, ANYthing metal into a pocket of my laptop or small wheeled bag and I go through security like nobody’s business. I’m squeaky clean and they rarely ever look twice at me. And I do what they say and not act all surprised at the last second. If they want laptops out, have them out. Shoes off? Same deal. I was through check-in and security in maybe 10 minutes. In Boston, Mass, with throngs of people going the same direction as me. I win! I win!

FLIGHT JACKET? GO AHEAD: PICK A POCKET, ANY POCKET.

Hint Two For some un-recalled reason, someone at our office had flagged an article for me from the WSJ and I took it home to read. My attention wavered and then wandered over to the ad next to the article. Very homemade looking, cartoon-y ad talking about this magic sportcoat. At least that is what I call it. Duluth Trading Company has it. And now, thanks to the internet, I have it. I am from the Midwest and I think Duluth is in the Midwest too. Minnesota, maybe? But I had never heard of this company. I don’t know if it is a fashion statement or not, but I’ve seen worse in the airports. You sweatsuit wearing people know who you are. Yes, I am talking to you. Anyway, this coat is Denim and it is lined. Way soft. But here is what got me: pockets, pockets, pockets. Deep ones, big ones, small ones, pockets hidden inside pockets, zip top, flap top, open top. This was its first trip and I used it day in and day out. Totally passed the travel test. I thought I was going to be, at one point, a wild life photographer vest wearing kind of guy. Got the vest, wasn’t that kind of guy after all. I put it on, I hung it back in the closet. This sportcoat, on the other hand, works for me.

In the airport, passports and tickets go in a big inside pocket. Note pad and pencil in a big outside pocket. The paperback I’m reading goes in another. I’ve got what I need during the flight, on me. I pack the rest of the stuff up over head and never look back. During the days and nights around town, I’d shove my clunky old camera, (digi, but old and big as a couple cans of Spam) into one pocket, cell phones in another and I am ready to go, knowing I had my minimum requirement of Stuff, my security blanket.

It helps me maintain my number one travel rule. Be prepared. Prepared for the moment that may never come again. At least have your camera and a note pad with you at all times. Even if you are ”just going for a quick coffee, dear”.

Writing this, right now the jacket is on my lap defending me from the Air France Air Conditioning. So, now it’s a security blanket, with pockets. And no, this is not an ad either. I know it may sound like one, but believe me when I say there was no money in any of the pockets when I got it and Duluth’s computer thanked me in an email for being a valued new customer. So, I paid them vs the other way around. I’m just saying what works for this guy after a million three hundred trips, might work for someone else somewhere down the road.

. . . THE NEXT DAY

Aldo is in his cups. In quiet moments he is washing up a lifetime of Sunday coffee cups, when one jumps straight up out of his hands and does a suicide swan dive onto the hard, cruel floor below. Not again. What can we say? It has been a funny, full moon kind of day. Well, funny unless you happen to be one of Aldo’s coffee cups or Prosecco glasses, of course. And I guess you would have to say, it been a smashing day for them, too.

PANICALE, UMBRIA— Today’s fun was hanging with a group of Australians in the piazza. Saw Emma and Luca going by after church let out and finally got to meet ”la contessa” Luca’s cool, Mamma from Sarzanna. Our table is positively full of Sunday morning Prosecco drinkers, . . . and . . . here comes reinforcements! Oops. One hits the ground. Aldo? Dropping a glass? Later, instead of letting him clear off the tables we decided to be really helpful and brought our glasses in with us and Wiley tumbles one. Here comes the broom again. Aldo laughs and sweeps us all toward the door — Everyone go home to lunch! Please. Which we all, obediently, do.

Now, lunch over, I’m in the garden, but I’m going to put down my pencil and just doze in this patch of sunshine. Just. Sit. Very. Still. Like my new role model. That lizard on the plum tree’s branch a few feet away. He thinks I can’t see him. And I barely can. But it is just the two of us. Absorbing the absolute last bit of today’s solar energy.

Ten minutes later:

Pssst. Wiley. Wiley? Want to go for a late afternoon walk after your nap? Wiley? Guess that would be a no.

LA LUNA ERA PIENA. AND IT WAS A FULL MOON TOO.

More Cuckoo. Less Swallow. Actually, no swallows at all. They are so omnipresent in Summer. Hard to think of them as seasonal, fair-weather tourists, like us. Their visual acrobatics are nicely replaced by the gentle coo-coo’ing of the cuckoos that you hear but never see. Oh. There is Wiley. Did I wake you up?

Early evening, the weather still grand, we took a lap around town, took a couple sunset photos of the town. Happens every time. We walk, we get thirsty. We end up at Aldo’s where he pours us some drinks as we lean on the polished metal bar. Fresh squeezed combo of orange and grapefruit juice only, I promise! Finally, the crowd has died down and it is just us. And Aldo is in his cups. In quiet moments he is washing up a lifetime of Sunday coffee cups, when one jumps straight up out of his hands and does a suicide swan dive onto the hard, cruel floor below. Not again. What can we say? It has been a funny, full moon kind of day. Well, funny unless you happen to be one of Aldo’s coffee cups or Prosecco glasses, of course. And I guess you would have to say, it been a smashing day for them, too.