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I Love You—now hush~

Yesterday Richard sent a book title to me that perfectly captured a lunch experience with a French couple that we had in Venice. But before that, let me tell you about one of our first lunch experiences in Venice—a very popular inn and restaurant that was ours alone one day.

Before we take any trip to Italy we always chat amongst friends to see who has been where and where they ate while they were there. Facebook had enabled this line of questioning to go far and wide. A friend of mine in New York mentioned that he had an incredible meal in Venice at Antica Locanda Montin. Best known for their outdoor garden dining area, covered by a huge wisteria arbor, this inn and restaurant is packed during the warmer months of the year.

We weren’t exactly sure of where the restaurant was, which ended up being par for the course for us in Venice. It is on the island of Giudecca, the island just across the lagoon, which has a more open-air feeling to it than the rabbit run atmosphere of Venice. Trust me, we twisted and turned, took the wrong footbridges, and doubled back before we arrived at the doors of Antica Locanda.

When restaurants are not open in Italy they appear to be much more than closed. They look as if they are out of business. Shutters are closed, curtains drawn, and sometimes, as in Rome, the protective garage door, which covers the entire restaurant front, is down and locked. Outside there are no tables or railing enclosures, no potted plants, and no appearance of any recent activity. The complete flipside of this is when an Italian restaurant is open. Magically, the non-existent seating tables with their chairs, potted plants, railings, and menu placards appear from nowhere crowding the front of the restaurant with life. The shutters and curtains are opened wide, and in warmer weather, the front door is propped open allowing the hustling waiters to efficiently serve their hungry clientele.

The front of the Antica Loncanda was neither fish nor fowl. The outside was void of warmer season dining and, although the shutters and curtains were open, there seemed to be a “we’re not open” atmosphere about it. We paused for a moment outside the door wondering what to do. We were starving and had no other options in mind. Suddenly a white-coated waiter opened the door and invited us in. In Italy, waiters, in addition to their table duties, are also street hawkers, who lure and entice passing pedestrians into becoming patrons.

In America, if you walk into a restaurant and there is no one there, I bet your immediate reaction is the same as mine—“Uh-oh, this place must suck.” We paused again, looking at each other trying to quickly assess if we wanted to eat here. We had been walking all morning and it was almost 2:00 p.m., so we decided we’d suffer through this restaurant and remind our friend that his recommendation was way off the mark.

There was one other customer, a round little man with a large lens camera sitting at a table with an Italian man who seemed to be the owner of this inn. The table was strewn with the remnants of a large, multi-course meal and several opened, but not emptied, bottles of wine. I wondered if the camera man was a photo journalist or a food writer for a travel magazine.

The menu was full of wonderful sounding dishes, mostly seafood, and our expectations for this meal started to change for the better. We ordered our antipasti: smoked tuna carpaccio, thinly sliced, served on a bed of celery greens with olive oil, lemon juice, and pomegranate seeds; polipetti (small baby octopus), grilled and served with the same oil and lemon vinaigrette and pomegranate seeds. WOW! The tuna was the most amazing thing. My grilled octopus were great, but the tuna was the star of the show. (Check out my guest video on dishKarma where I talk about this meal.)         

 We only ordered a primo (the first course, usually pasta), opting to keep lunch light by skipping a secondo (the second course, usually meat). Two plates of handmade tortelloni with arugula, tomato, and basil were brought to the table. Buonissimi! (*see the photo above)

After our meal, I poked my head out the back door, which revealed the famous garden arbor. There was something beautiful about its early winter desolation. I can only imagine what a wonderful place it must be to dine in the summer—under lush green leafed vines dripping with purple, grape-looking wisteria blossoms. We will definitely have to suffer the summer crowds to come back here and find out.

The biggest lesson I learned here was “Don’t judge a restaurant by the amount of filled tables.” Our lunch was so good and had we given in to our initial misgivings and left, we would have missed one of the best meals of our trip. Our friend in New York was spot on. Thanks David!

Now on to our next day’s lunch with the French couple:

We don’t always look for 4-star restaurants to dine at while we are on vacation. Many times we look for what is around us when we decide that we have seen enough sights and NEED to eat. Sometimes we stumble upon an amazing meal and if not, we always come away with a fun story.

We spent the morning wandering our way through the streets of San Marco, stopping to photograph a really cool building, and ending up at the Fortuny museum. A morning of modern art can make you hungry, so we decided to walk back to our hotel and stop for lunch when we passed something that looked interesting.

We walked for a while, window-shopping, before finally crossing over a footbridge, deciding we were starving, and passed a restaurant where the people seated at outside tables, along a canal, were mostly eating pizza. Pizza and a couple of glasses of wine sounded like a great way to spend lunch so we stopped at this trattoria/pizzeria and were tightly seated at a table next to a middle-aged French couple.

Richard ordered a pizza Napolitano—a simple red-sauced pizza with anchovies and capers. I had the pizza Diavolo…Devil’s pizza…a simple red-sauced pizza with spicy salami. Any time you see the word diavolo be prepared for spicy. The Devil likes it HOT!

We were enjoying our pizza, watching the gondolas pass by our outside table, using our Italian with the waiter—he was very patient—when the French gentleman, who might as well have been our dining companion we were packed that tight, leaned over and asked if he could borrow the olive oil bottle on our table. To say he “asked” really means that he leaned over and said, “Excusez-moi” pointing at the olive oil bottle and then to himself. Hand gestures truly are the one language we commonly share, regardless of our country of origin. “Certo, certo,” I said, answering in Italian since we had just been speaking to our waiter and my brain hadn’t made the switch to English yet. (I have to admit that when I meet someone speaking a foreign language I always want to answer them in Italian, since it is the only foreign language I know. If someone Asian were to ask me a question in their native tongue on the streets of Chicago my knee-jerk reaction would be to answer them in Italian. It makes no sense—I am just silly like that.) “Of course, of course,” Richard said to the Frenchman at the same time, his response was colored with a little Southern flavor.

This little exchange opened the floodgates of conversation with the Frenchman. He asked if we were Americans…that was an easy enough question to decipher from his French. We asked if he spoke English or Italian and his answer was “No.” His wife, a beautiful dark-haired woman, smartly dressed with a pashmina expertly draped about her shoulders said that she spoke a little English. She instantly became her husband’s translator. He started asking us questions, which at times we could get the gist of because the French was similar enough to Italian and English words. When we were utterly at a loss for what he was asking, we three men turned our gaze upon his wife who would pause, put her fork down on her plate, and translate.

Having lived with Italians for a month, I have learned that when speaking to someone who understands only a little English it is best to keep one’s responses simple and to the point—save the 3+ syllable words for someone who gets it. She was being a very good sport, but at one point her husband asked her to translate something into English for us and she paused, still holding her fork this time, considered his request, and answered, “Mon chér, il est trop difficile à traduire.” We all laughed. Even we could figure out that she was at a loss on how to translate his complex French question using her very simple knowledge of English. Slowly we all figured out that he was asking us how life had changed in America given the financial crisis. We answered and again he asked another complex question. We all gazed at his beautiful wife, who put down her fork this time, reaching across the table to kindly touch his forearm, and said,“Mon chér…” We all knew her difficulty and understood her touch—“I love you…now hush!”

The conversation continued on through dessert and caffè and continued to be peppered with her “Mon chér…” when he exceeded her translating capabilities. We said goodbye to our luncheon companions and headed off toward our next adventure, pleased with the fact that we had been good ambassadors between America and France. For the rest of our trip we used “Mon chér…” between ourselves any time we asked the other something beyond our knowledge.

“Richard, how low did the water used to be in Venice?”

“Mon chér…” he would answer, grabbing my arm and shaking his head, as if he had been there 500 years ago.

“Mark, what is this incredible taste in my dish?”

“Mon chér…” I said shaking my head, as if I had the ability to identify some of the complex flavors in his simple pasta dish.

When Richard sent the book title to me yesterday and I discovered that the subject of the book was about the different natures of men and women. “I Love You—Now Hush” was the perfect translation of our lovely French translator’s care for and exacerbation with her husband.

 What a lovely way to tell someone to be quiet—“Mon chér…” “I love you…now hush.”

 Ciao e a presto~

-Mark

(* the photos above are of the outside dining garden at Antica Locanda, our tortelloni, the building on the way to the Fortuny museum, and the restaurant where we encountered the French couple--if you look close enough through the bridge railing, they are the couple seated at the first table. His back is toward the camera in the black sweater, and you can just see her beige pashmina.).

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It’s all a ride~

My father was in the Navy when I was very young and for a couple of years he was stationed in San Diego, CA. While my father was away in the Pacific for months at a time, my mother was at home with my sister and me. I am sure that was a daunting task to have been 23 and home alone raising two children under three. 

When my aunt would come out to visit us, keeping my mother company, we would go to Disneyland. I can vividly recall riding the teacups, or sitting in Dumbo as he rose up and down as we twirled in a circle, or pulling down the brim of my Donald Duck hat and making it squeak as we plummeted down the rushing water of the Pirates of the Caribbean. But the ride that seemed to ground us back in reality and return us to our sugarcoated, picture perfect lives was “It’s a Small World.”

Why that ride and this blog entry, which is about Venice, are connected in my head at the moment is beyond me. I think it might be the vibrantly bright colors that I associate with those singing peoples of the world and the colors bursting from the shop windows in Venice. It could also be that, like the ride where everything seems so small and compressed together, the streets of Venice feel more like sidewalks bordered in shops than actual thoroughfares where traffic blurs the window displays. In Venice, if you are not in a boat, then you are on foot walking everywhere. There are no bicycles, motorcycles, or mopeds. You either float along, like the Disney ride, past the brightly colored buildings and people, or you are walking through tight and narrow streets crowded full of people who “float” you by the displays of masks, trinkets, and restaurants.

Displaying how fresh and beautiful your food is happens to be what the Venetians do. Window after window, restaurant after restaurant, bar countertop after bar countertop had food displayed on it. Sometimes raw, sometimes cooked, it is always there for your viewing.

It is midnight, as I sit here finally eating my first meal since lunch earlier today—after a very long day at the theatre where I listened to beautiful singing, in a foreign tongue, by 80 people dressed in a wide array of clothes. Now if I was just sitting in a boat and wearing my Donald Duck hat…

I am looking down at my blandly cooked chicken over romaine lettuce that I quickly threw together and thinking of all the beautiful food I saw and ate in Venice. How I would kill for some calamari, prawns, sea bass, or cooked octopus right about now. I need some vibrant color--that is what I really need.

It might be a small world, but tonight my dinner plate and the plates I experienced in Venice are worlds apart.

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

**Enjoy the photos of some of the food sights of Venice.

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“Venezia, Venezia…Chi non ti vede non ti prezia”~

What can I say about Venice that hasn’t already been said over the centuries by people more brilliant than I? Nothing.

The above quote is from Shakespeare’s play Love’s Labour’s Lost and translated in the play it means, “Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not.” Shakespeare obviously loved Italy and Venice. He set many of his plays in Italy’s Veneto region…Verona, Venice, Padova (Padua as it is called in The Taming of the Shrew).

I was excited about finally traveling to Venice—Venezia. It had been on our list of cities to visit in Italy for years, but we held off until this past November. Part of the decision had to do with economics. Venezia è una molto cara città—Venice is a very expensive city, which is why we decided to travel there off-season. Hotels are a lot more affordable—not necessarily cheap—during the off-season. We stayed at the Hotel Paganelli (http://www.hotelpaganelli.com/hotel-venice/chisiamo.php?szLang=en) and had a room overlooking the lagoon—where the Grand Canal connects to the Lagoon. It was a perfect location.

Several Italians friends in Montgomery were thrilled to know that we were going to Venice in November. “The light on the city is so beautiful that time of year. The light is more gray and does wonderful things with the marble. It is much more magical in November than in summer.” I believed them. Venice is notoriously hot, crowded, and displeasingly aromatic during Summer’s high tourist season. I am glad that we were able to avoid the sweltering throngs and go in November.

When we arrived on that Friday morning, it was chilly and rainy in Venice. Gray light, indeed! Arriving into Venice is like no other place in Italy…the train pulls into the station and you are almost immediately at the water’s edge waiting for a valporetto—a water taxi—to take you to your destination along Venice’s canals of “streets.” There is nothing glamorous about the valporetto. It is an inexpensive way for the masses in Venice to get from point A to point B. In a sense, it is Venice’s “on water” subway system. There are private taxis for hire, but those boats can be expensive and, sometimes, just as unglamorous.

Our room at the hotel had tasteful, golden fabric-covered walls, rich woodwork, and a nice marble bathroom. The room wasn’t terribly spacious, but we could fling our window wide open and, standing side-by-side, lean on the sill and gaze out over the lagoon. Directly across from us sat Palladio’s San Giorgio Maggiore and gondolas bounced with the waves in their moorings directly in front of our hotel.

There is something magical about this city and, as the title of this entry points out, there seems to be two views, two perceptions, two atmospheres of Venice. Even in the mist of the afternoon’s overcast sky there was a richness about Venice. It was a friendly elegance. Sophisticated, but elegant. At night, walking through the narrow, twisting, rat-maze-like streets one could imagine the masked and cloaked figures of the Carnevale turning the corner and making you gasp, only to disappear into the misty, yellowed streetlight night. Here, Venice was mysterious, ominous, and disorienting.

I will write more about Venice, its people, and its food over the next several posts. Enjoy the photos and maybe put on some opera—Don Giovanni—to get into the masked and cloaked mood!

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

(**The photos: Statue is in the courtyard of the Doge's Palace, view from the Hotel Paganelli, and San Giorgio Maggiore at night.)

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STUPEFACENTE~

This is one of my favorite Italian words, if only for the fact that it is one of the few words I know to express astonishment. The word is pronounced “stoop-ay-fah-CHEN-tay” and you can no doubt see that it is similar to the English word “stupefying,” so you already know how to translate it.

Lately, “stupefacente” has been swimming around in my head. I find myself thinking it during rehearsals as I listen to the singers rehearse Verdi’s AIDA at Opera Birmingham (www.operabirmingham.org). There are moments when the Italian music and lyrics are so luscious, even when played on a clavinova and sung sotto voce (quietly), that I find myself caught up in the “amazing” work being rehearsed. I also think “stupefacente” when I consider that in two weeks we will be adding dogs, ponies, a camel and an elephant into the mix—beyond the 80 performers!

The February House Beautiful article (http://www.housebeautiful.com/decorating/home-makeovers/remodeling-old-southern-home) about our home and the loads of blog chat across the blogosphere about our kitchen has me thinking “STUPEFACENTE,” too. Thanks to everyone for discovering and checking out this blog in response to the magazine article. Stephen Drucker, from House Beautiful, even noticed all the response our article was getting.

I first learned today's "Word of the Day" while in Viterbo, during my first cooking lesson with Nonna. She was demonstrating how to de-bone a chicken without cutting the chicken into pieces. She was de-boning it whole and stuffing it with a mixture of ground veal and pork.

I asked Alessandra, “Come si dice “amazing” in italiano?” as I watched Nonna cleanly remove a thighbone via the center cavity of the chicken.

 “Stupefacente, Marco.”

 "Stupefacente, indeed.” (*)

Each syllable seemed to wrap itself around my awe of Nonna’s knife work. “Amazing” sounded good, but “stoop-ay-fah-CHEN-tay” really seemed to imply an active astonishment. Maybe it was the stress on the syllable “CHEN.”

Try it yourself.

Say “amazing” giving it all the wonderment you can—“a-MAZ-ing.”

Now say “stoop-ay-fah-CHEN-tay”— really hitting the “CHEN.”

Try it again: give it an Italian flair by holding the thumb and forefinger of your right hand together, shaking your wrist, as you stress that syllable: “stoop-ay-fah-CHEN (shake, shake, shake)-tay!”

Va bene, no?

There is your Word of the Day and your Italian lesson all rolled into one.

I think my next posting is going to be about Venice, unless the elephant gives me problems. If so, the next La Parola del Giorno might just be my first Word of the Day~ DISASTRO! (http://www.mark-leslie.net/la-parola-di-giorno-the-word-of-the-day)

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

(* The whole story of Nonna teaching me how to de-bone a chicken is in one of the chapters of my manuscript “BEYOND THE PASTA: 28 Days of Recipes, Language, and Life with an Italian Family.” I still have letters out to literary agents and hope to post some good news soon about the manuscript moving closer to becoming published.)

(**THE PHOTO: Villa Pisani just north of Padova (Padua, for us English-speaking people). This place is truly “STUPEFACENTE!!!!! Check it out at: http://www.villapisani.beniculturali.it/en/index.php . We spent four hours there and were awe-struck the entire time.)

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 Le presento Nonna~

The New Year has started and we are all in a deep freeze. It is time to warm up with a little video of Nonna.

To bring everyone up to speed: Nonna is the grandmother of the family that I lived with in Viterbo, Italy, in 2005 through a university program in Siena (http://www.dantealighieri.com/italian_language_school_viterbo.html). She is the reason why I have written my book (BEYOND THE PASTA: 28 Days of Recipes, Language, and Life with an Italian Family) and I hope it will be published so, at the very least, I can give her a copy. I really do enjoy cooking with her and I am crazy about the entire family.

The video is not very long, nor is it a full cooking lesson. It is a brief clip of Nonna explaining how she was preparing Riso con Cavolo—Rice with Cabbage. Both of us were a little preoccupied while I was shooting this. Nonna’s great-granddaughter was sitting in her highchair at the table, which had been set for lunch. Lillo, Nonna’s son-in-law, had pushed the highchair into the table because he thought we were about to sit down, but then he went upstairs to get something, and I started shooting the video. During the clip you will hear Thais, the baby, in the background and then you will see why we should always keep an eye on her.

Yikes! Thais waving around a steak knive—MAMMA MIA! We had no clue that Lillo had pushed her close enough to the table to be able to lean forward and grab a knive. Luckily, she didn’t hurt herself and Nonna noticed her quickly.

I hope you enjoyed seeing a glimpse of what my life was like with the Stefanis for the month of August in 2005. It should be easy to understand what Nonna was saying, even if you don’t understand Italian. There was nothing pretentious about my lessons and I really got to live a truly Italian life. Bellissimo!

 Two more videos of Nonna are coming soon and I will intersperse them with the days of our most recent trip to Italy. Venice is the next city we visited and I can’t wait to share it with you.

Buon Appetito!

Mark

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The last tree~

Since my return from our Italian vacation at the beginning of November, I have been working for friends at their quite popular flower shop in Birmingham, Alabama (http://www.flowerbudsinc.com/).  We have been decorating houses for Christmas—the first house was on November 15 and today was the last house. There is complete disbelief and seasonal horror at setting up an artificial tree on that first day of houses in November, but today there was something very joyful about hanging a fresh mixed pine and fir garland over the doorway of a large, lovely stone home out in the woods of rural, but developing, Alabama.

In Italy, the Christmas season does not seem to begin until December 1. Here, in America, we can barely get the jack-o-lanterns blown out and the vampires back into their coffins before we are decking the retail halls with boughs of holly. Thanksgiving, naturally, is not an Italian holiday and, except for the literal day, it barely seems a holiday in this country. There is a build up to Halloween and then the immediate shift to Christmas on November 1. I sometimes think that Thanksgiving is just a gluttonous trial run, a kickoff, to the impending holiday season—if you can gastronomically survive Turkey Day you are given the falsely satisfying notion that you’ll be able to survive the four-week onslaught of eggnog, cookies, and parties which culminate in a SECOND turkey with all the trimmings. I feel like loosening my belt again just thinking about it.

Our vacation to Italy this year was the first two weeks of November and last year’s vacation was the last two weeks. This year, the Italians were just starting to bring out the civic street decorations to hang as we were leaving (November 15). Last year, the last few days of November were when shops started converting their windows to Christmas displays and city crews were still in process of hanging street decorations. At the beginning of that late Nov. ‘08 vacation, the already hung snowflakes, bells, stars, and strings of colored lights in the streets remained unlit until the end of the month. We rounded the corner the evening of November 28 and the Christmas tree outside the Fendi shop on Via Corso, previously dark on other evening strolls, was lit—as were all of the street decorations throughout Rome. It seems that December 1 is the retail start of Christmas in Italy. Brava!

So, as I sit here listening to “Frosty the Snowman” on Sirius radio on a relatively chilly “wintery” night in the Deep South, I am paging through my red notebook of recipes that I cooked with Nonna. She gave me a recipe for Biscottini di Natale—Christmas Cookies—which are made with dark chocolate, almonds, hazelnuts, amaretto or limoncello, sugar, flour, eggs, butter, and lard. Ha! I think Nonna has one-upped Paula Dean’s fascination with butter by using lard. I have not made this recipe yet, so I have not converted it from metric. Maybe I’ll do that this week since I am in the holiday spirit—and my holiday shopping is done. If I do, I’ll pass it on; however, while living with the family in Viterbo, we did make two “holiday” treats—Crostoli and Ciambelline con patate.

Crostoli are diamond-shaped pieces of dough made with white wine and grappa, which are then fried in oil and dusted with powdered sugar. Ciambelline con patate are yeast doughnuts made with potatoes, marsala wine or limoncello, and fried in oil. They are then rolled in sugar while still warm. Buonissimi!!

Sirius is now “walking in a winter wonderland,” so I think I’ll start planning which of these Italian desserts to "walk" to some parties this weekend. Now that my belt has been loosened, post Thanksgiving, how can fried potato doughnuts be that bad??—Mamma mia!

 Buon Natale~

Mark

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Cazzo~

In high school I studied French—well, it would be closer to the truth to say that I sat in a class for three years where the teacher and two other students spoke French, while the rest of us were just thankful to not have to take Spanish from the hateful Seńora.

Regardless of one’s age, when learning a new language, one of the first tasks is to try to figure out how to cuss in that language. Remember how titillating the song lyric “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?” was in the 1970s? Instantly millions of Americans knew how to speak some sexy and slightly naughty French, or so they thought.

I remember the day in the first week of French class my freshman year when someone secretly shared the word merde—sh*t—with the rest of us in class. How we howled with laughter in the hallway going to our next classes. For the next month, we tried to incorporate our new foreign word into our everyday conversations. If a friend did something stupid, he was a merdehead. Drop something out of your locker and you could proudly disclaim “MERDE!” in front of everyone—they didn’t know what you meant and, since the word was foreign, technically, you weren’t swearing. Not know an answer in algebra and you instantly had merde for brains. There was no cleverness in our hunt for the perfect use of merde. The most nonsensical usage would send us all into hysterics for hours.

In America, we seem to have different levels of appropriateness for cuss, curse, or swear words. As children we all learn how to cuss—politely. Words like “shoot” “darn it” “crud” “gosh” “fudge” are all used in place of the swear words adults use. When I was little, the word “crap” would cause a flurry of condemnation from my parents. It was considered a cuss word. I was mortified when I came home year from college on Spring Break one year and heard my sister, who was 10, use “crap” at the dinner table in conversation. When she said it I flinched, because I knew she was going to get scolded, at the very least. But I flinched for nothing, no one else at the table reacted to it. My father kept eating, my mother filled her glass with pop, and my other sister and brother did not snicker at a “dirty” word being used at the table. It was as if she had used the word “daisies.” I was pissed—where had my family’s decency gone?

As we get older, the swear words we used as children get replaced by the adult versions. These adult versions are more acceptable in a wider, more public setting, but there are still limitations on when and where they should be used. It would be inappropriate to say to your grandmother at the table during Sunday lunch, “Shit grandma, you are one funny woman.” That same comment made to a friend over a beer at the local pub on a Saturday night would hardly make anyone blink twice. The slang names for certain body parts, both male and female, are included in this group, too. Naturally, there are words that one should never use, regardless of the situation and people present. The “c” word and the “f” bomb fall into this category.

Today’s “Word of the Day” is CAZZO. It is an Italian swear word—a not so very polite Italian swear word. It is a word that I learned from an American friend of mine before I traveled to Italy for the first time in 2001. Cazzo falls into the “male body part” category, but it also falls into the “I just spilled a glass of milk all over my desk” category. This is not something typical of an American swear word. My mother might say “s**t” under her breath if she screwed something up, but she would never say “c**k.” Naturally, it makes no sense in English and I have yet to figure out how it works as it does in Italian.

Several weeks ago, while we were in Venice, we stopped by a Pasticceria—a pastry shop—to purchase several special and very Venetian desserts to take with us to Viterbo and give to the family. Usually we arrive with flowers, but this time I thought it would be more appropriate to arrive with some Venetian treats, since Nonna is from that part of Italy.

We entered the shop and I waited for the woman working there to finish with other customers before trying to be cute and use my infantile Italian to show her how charming I was by attempting her native tongue. Just as I started, another customer entered the shop. Knowing that my transaction was going to take some time, given that I speak slowly and that I wanted an assortment of pastries, I waved the pastry woman on to help her newly arrived customer. The customer was French and this seemed to irritate the woman. As she begrudgingly helped the French customer, more French citizens arrived to ask her questions about products, pointing to objects and indicating that they wanted to “look” at the item with their hands and not only with their eyes. With every interaction and transaction, the woman would say “cazzo.” And she was not trying too hard to conceal her frustration with France—she was speaking in full voice.

Finally, the traffic in and out of the shop ceased and it was again my turn at bat with the woman. In Italian, I explained to her that I going to be traveling to see my grandmother in Viterbo and that I wanted to bring her some pastries from Venice because she grew up in this area. I then apologized—Mi dispiace, il mio Italiano non è buono—for how bad my Italian was. Usually, this garnishes a complimentary response from my Italian counterpart—No, no, no. Il tuo Italiano è molto buono. I usually thank them for thinking that my Italian is really good and then I continue to speak and slaughter their native tongue right in front of their smiling and encouraging faces. I did not get the usual response from this Italian woman.

“Don’t worry. In Italian schools, they don’t teach Italian either. My son is taught English as a primary language and either French or Spanish as a secondary language. Cazzo! It is true. They expect our kids to learn Italian at home. Cazzo!” she replied, in an unending tirade about Italian schools.

I couldn’t believe that she was cursing in front of me. I had never heard an Italian swear in conversation with me. When I lived with the family, they never swore—or, at least, I never figured out that they were if it indeed was happening. Nonna would drop something on the floor and instead of saying “damn,” she would just huff and call herself an idiot. I never learned any choice expletives while staying there.

“Cazzo!”—Another French tourist had walked in, and the woman tiredly swore and left me to help a guy buy a bottle of water.

She returned shortly and muttered something to me, which was spoken too fast for me to understand, and then said, “Va' fa'n culo.” WOW! That expression is quite vulgar (it tells a person to go "f" himself) and I have no idea why she said that of the Frenchman as he left. As we continued to select pastry, she continued to complain about the linguistic deficiencies of her son’s school—all the while, peppering her conversation with “cazzo.” Eventually, we left with two bags of pastries, burning ears, and a great story.

The next day we traveled to Viterbo to see the family and I plated the pastries, serving them after we finished our meal—Nonna made short ribs in a tomato sauce. The sauce was served with penne pasta and the ribs were served separately as the second course.

There were “ohs” and ahs” as we were thanked for being so kind in bringing treats. Well, I immediately had to tell them the story of the “Cazzo donna”—c**k lady. The table erupted when I said that and they wanted to know more.

I explained the process, and conversation, of buying the pastries. They howled with laughter every time the woman swore in the story. When I got to the “va' fa'n culo”  moment, Marianna (Alessandra’s 29-year-old daughter) jumped in the conversation and said, “Oh Mark, you should have told her, “I see you were educated at Oxford.” I choked on my pastry as we all laughed with Marianna. She is very clever, as is the entire family for that matter.

Merde, I love Italy!

Mark

**The photo is of a statue in the exhibit of Etrsucan and Roman artifacts at the Vatican museums. The statue is complete above the navel, but I thought this angle was more apropos.

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The book’s the thing…

It is cold and rainy here today and I just received my very first rejection from a literary agent—how cliché is that?

I am not too concerned about it because it was in response to a “cold call” e-mail query. It was to an agent listed in one of the many “Agents, Publisher, Editors” books I have researched. To date, I have sent out three e-mail queries, two of which are friends of friends. I have not heard back from those two yet. I hope no news is good news on that front.

For those of you who don’t know—and I didn’t either before starting this process—a “query letter” is used to solicit an agent into being interested enough in your material to actually want to see it. It is not an easy thing to write and there are many “how to” books on the subject. I tend to think it is a lot like auditioning for theatre—you have to be in the right place at the right time for the right people. As with anything artistic, getting your foot in the door long enough to spark some interest in your creation is always the most difficult thing. And I am at that point at the moment—a most difficult thing!

Patience is a virtue; however, although I think of myself as a very patient person, when it comes to waiting on a response about the book—I am not at all virtuous. All I can think about is all of the things that could have gone wrong with how I sent the queries. I become very OCD when something has to be perfect. I read and re-read a letter 100 times hunting for mistakes and, if something should fail in the course of the e-mail process—well, let’s just say that I have thought about hurling my laptop over the balcony and watching it explode into a hundred pieces as it hit the ground. Currently, I am keeping my Tosca tendencies in check. (http://www.metoperafamily.org/metopera/history/stories/synopsis.aspx?id=25 ) 

Time to change gears and get back to our vacation in Italy…

The third day of our recent vacation to Italy was a lot like today in Alabama—cold and rainy. We took the train from an overcast Rome to a very rainy and significantly chillier Vicenza, in the Veneto region of northern Italy.

Our first debacle of the day happened when we arrived at the Vicenza train station and went looking for the Avis car rental office. I had been mistakenly under the impression that Avis was located at the train station, but when we couldn’t find it I took a chance and put my basic Italian to the test. I went into a shop in the train station and asked the salesclerk if she knew where Avis or “via milano, 88” were located. She didn’t know about Avis, but she pointed and waved and gave directions indicating that it was a considerable distance to the address I had asked for.

“Let’s grab a cab,” Richard said, and off we went. “Ciao, ciao, ciao. Mille grazie!” I had to thank her for giving us directions—even though for the life of me, I wasn’t quite sure where she was directing us or what she was saying exactly.

With the help of the cab driver, we placed our luggage in the trunk and jumped into the backseat of the taxi. I was thrilled to be out of the rain.

“Dove?”—“Where?” the driver asked.

“Via Milano, 88,” I said. He paused and looked at us suspiciously.

“Dove?” he asked again, much more emphatic than the first time.

“Via Milano, 88, per favore.” I answered again, thinking that I was being considered rude for not saying “please” the first time.

“Via Milano è qua,”  he said, pointing to the road right in front of us.

“Qua? Davvero?”—“Here? Really?” I asked.

He went on to explain that we were parked on Via Milano and that number 88 was just “là”—“there” by the bus station, across the train station’s parking lot.

This is one of the times I wished I was fluent, so I could explain to him how the salesclerk made us believe that we’d need a taxi to get to Avis and, trusting her, we climbed into his car. But alas, I’m not, so I just felt like a fool.

He offered to drive us the block or two since it was raining, but we declined and sheepishly got out of his cab, unloaded our luggage, and without tipping him, headed off across the parking lot. We should have tipped him even though he took us nowhere. I felt bad for making him get wet loading and unloading our luggage in and out of his trunk.

We arrived wet in the bus station and there was no Avis there. Ugh. We headed back out into the rain and pulled our luggage further down the street searching out our unknown destination in the rain.

Avis was only a block past the bus station and when we walked in, dripping wet, I tried to make a joke with the guys working there by saying “Nuotiamo!”—“We are swimming.” They looked up at me as if I was speaking Martian and had no clue what I meant. I need to work on my pronunciation, I think—or, find a better audience.

The drive to our agriturismo, San Michele (http://www.agrismichele.it/Default.aspx?LAN=ENG ), was simple and we were greeted by four sheep when we parked the car. Cute, huh?

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

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