Today marks 1000 days that we have lived in Italy. When we first came here to our rustic farmhouse in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea, we knew no one and understood almost nothing. We were so dazed (by the move) and so dazzled (by the beauty) that it took us a while to get our bearings. We are still getting them, still dazzled.

But we know people now and understand, if not the post office, at least how the grocery store works. We know our butcher and our greengrocers and the people at our olive press and our flour mill. We know our neighbors and their families. We know the old men down at the pub who sit under the shade tree and drink wine and gossip all day. We know Alice and Daniele and are happily waiting for their baby to arrive. We know the baby's name.

Yesterday, Jonathan ran into the owner of the lovely house next to the belfry that we hope to rent for the next ten years. He says that they are happy to rent to us -- so all is well there. We still don't know what the rent will be, but we have our fingers crossed.

We also spoke to our immigration attorney yesterday and she says everything is good to go for my citizenship application even though only one of my state-level non-criminal records has come so far. She is going to check in person today to make sure that is true and get back to us.

The poppies are blooming in our olive groves now and the olive trees themselves are covered in flower buds that are just about to open. The chestnut trees are starting to bloom. The cherry tree is alive with joyous songbirds eating all the cherries. I have an Italian lesson later this morning. Jonathan is busy right now baking bread.

Our cherry trees are filled with ripe cherries that we can almost reach from the window in the hallway, but because of the steepness of the mountain terrain here, are at least 50 feet above the ground and, therefore, completely unreachable.

Everyone in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea has been working in their yards during this sun-filled weekend so the air outside smells of fresh-cut grass and pine trees and jasmine.

 

We are still wrestling with the Arkansas state bureaucracy, trying to get my non-existent criminal record and the ever-elusive apostille. Who knew that petty government officials in Arkansas (ground zero for denigrating all education except Bible study) would have so much difficulty handling official documents?

Meanwhile, Jonathan is scheduled to take his on-road driving test in his now years-long quest for an Italian driver's license. Whenever we go anywhere, he practices driving according to the official regulations as mandated by law. This gets us honked at a lot and overtaken by cars behind us who figure it's probably worth risking death by passing us on a dangerously narrow and winding cliffside road rather than continuing to drive behind an obvious madman.

So to cheer ourselves up, we have made another trip to the flour mill and also one to the cannoli shop by the beach in Viareggio, where everything is beautiful.

And we went to meet the owners and see the house with the view of the church belfry that we hope to be able to rent. It is a gorgeous little house with starlings fluttering around it and a dazzling view of the sea from almost every window. From the top bedroom, you can, indeed, look directly over at the bell hanging in the bell tower. We are anxiously waiting now to see if they are willing to rent it to us and if we will be able to afford it. I am trying not to get my hopes too high. But, honestly, both of us were smitten and we may, once again, act rashly in pursuit of beauty.

 

The final step  in my application for Italian citizenship is providing proof that I have not committed any (heinous) crimes in the US. I have already submitted proof of that on the national level, but I am now in the midst of trying to prove it for every state where I've ever lived. There have been a lot of them. And given the bureaucratic difficulty that I'm having getting proof of my blamelessness, I cannot even imagine how complicated the process would be if I had, in fact, committed crimes. The mind reels.

The people in Colorado say they sent the completed forms to my brother's house in Washington, but they never arrived and there is no record of them anywhere in the postal system. So we had to start all over again with that and have our fingers crossed that the second time is the charm. The people in Arkansas did send the forms to my brother, but neglected to include the dreaded Apostille, without which the Italian government will not accept the forms as legitimate. We called the office in Arkansas (long-distance overseas phone rates, btw) and they said at first that we hadn't requested the Apostille and then transferred our call to a supervisor who didn't answer the phone. We called back and got a different person who admitted that we had, indeed, requested the Apostille and that they would mail one out to my brother, but not any time soon. We should not hold our breaths.

And when I say that "we" called, what I mean is "Jonathan." Jonathan called. The secret to a happy marriage is to find a partner who will call government offices -- repeatedly -- on your behalf when you yourself Just Can't Any More.

To reward ourselves for wading through so many automated voice mail menus, we then went to the flour mill. This was Jonathan's idea -- that we should start buying our flour straight from the mill, of which there are a few around here, small family mills stone-grinding wheat, but also corn, chickpeas, chestnuts, rice. One of them is housed in an old abbey.

So we went yesterday afternoon to the Angeli mill just outside Pietrasanta and had a lovely chat with the miller (who looked familiar to me) about different types of flours with different amounts of protein and gluten in them. Then he measured out our flour from a big sack into a small bag for us.

"Do you live around here?" he said.

"Yes, in Capriglia."

"Ah, there's such a lovely view from up there."

"Yes -- and we eat well, too, at the pub."

He laughed and his face lit up. "Yes," he said. "You eat well with Daniele cooking. Give him my salutations."

And so maybe I have seen him at the pub and that is why I recognized him. We will know his name soon. Jonathan baked bread from the flour and it was great, so we are going back next week for more. Mark my words: It is just a matter of time before Jonathan "Wouldn't It Be Cool To Make Our Own Olive Oil" Poritz has us growing our own wheat out in the backyard and then taking it ourselves down to our friend at the mill.

About every six months, the big grocery store outside town has a promotion where you get little stamps -- called "bollini" -- with your purchases -- one stamp for every 15 euros you spend. Then you can redeem the stamps for prizes. We are currently saving up to get a Bosch multi-tool for 45 bollini.

The cashiers give out the stamps and clearly have some leeway in this. We have found that if we are polite and friendly, we are often rewarded with an extra stamp or two. And almost all the cashiers will round up if you are within 3 or 4 euros of the next amount to get another stamp. It is fun and friendly.

But there is one cashier who is never fun and friendly no matter what the circumstances. In fact, he is often actively hostile -- slamming your bag of potato chips down on the conveyor belt with particular ferocity, for example. We don't go to him no matter how short his line is. And it is often very short.

But yesterday, Jonathan ran down on his bike to get a couple of bottles of vodka for the limoncello we are making. It was a very slow time of day (post-lunch nap time) and the mean guy was the only cashier working. The total for the vodka came to 29 euros and change -- less than one euro short of the 30 needed to get two bollini. Any other cashier would have rounded up, but the mean guy gave Jonathan just one, which was technically correct. "Technically correct," of course, is the worst kind of correct and, moreover, seems to violate the entire spirit of Italy. It's practically unpatriotic.

But, fine. Whatever.

Jonathan came home with the vodka and the one stamp and I pasted it onto our little stamp sheet.

A couple of hours later, we were together in the kitchen making the limoncello. 

"What's that?" Jonathan said, pointing at the floor.

There were two bollini sitting all by themselves in the middle of the floor. Jonathan doesn't believe it, but I am convinced that this house gave us two bollini to make up for the mean guy having been so, well, mean.

The house is enchanted.

 

This morning we were buying some veg when a massive tour group -- like 50 people -- stopped in to view the store. The store comfortably holds maybe six people -- eight is a crowd. So it was a teeny bit crowded when 50 tourists piled in to watch Jonathan and I choose a red pepper.

Barbara and Sara say this happens all the time. The members of the tour groups take lots of pictures, but never buy anything. They think fresh fruit and veg being on sale is quaint. I do so hope that I looked quaint. I did my best.

Barbara and Sara also gave us another giant load of lemons, so we are making limoncello and lemon marmalade this afternoon.

The rain has cleared off for a bit and the poppies are knocking our eyes out. I ran across a quote from Goethe yesterday -- one that my friend Bill Davis had sent to me when I was living in the South Pacific: "No one walks under palm trees unpunished." I suspect that poppy fields are the same and, therefore, spend an inordinate amount of time trying to propitiate the angry gods. 

 

Eternal optimism is a beautiful hallmark of my character. In other words, I am a chump.

I have ordered a new bathing suit to be sent in the mail in preparation for the summer. I had to order it online to be shipped because the style of bathing suits around here -- every single one, no matter how grandmotherly and modest is the rest of the suit -- is to have only a thin string of dental floss going up your butt, leaving the rest uncovered. Now, I make no judgements about the amount of butt that other people choose to exhibit to the world. You go, girl. But if I were to wear such a suit, I would spend the whole time trying to pick that bit of string out of my butt crack. And I just don't think that would be attractive.

So I ordered this new bathing suit and crossed my fingers that my friends at the Post Office would somehow allow it to come to our house here in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea -- perhaps in a moment of inattention. I am following its progress very closely. So far, it has gone to Milan, then to Rome, then back to Milan again. It is now at Milan Malpensa Airport (MXP) -- the international airport in Milan, as opposed to Milan Linate, which is for domestic flights -- waiting to fly out of Italy to god-only-knows where. One thing about our mail -- it certainly gets to see the world. I will update on its whereabouts when/if I get news.

We continue to search for houses to buy. We were offered one that is about halfway down the mountain at a very reasonable price. True, it has no bathroom, but -- on the bright side -- it is surrounded by dense forest which could possibly suffice. We also have a lead on one that is next to the church almost at the level of the belltower. Jonathan thinks that this is a mark against it, but I think it would be lovely to be able to see straight into the belfry and watch the hunchback ringing the bells. Not to mention how much we would probably learn about the habits of bats.

We are going to help out a bit at the pub this summer now that it is getting close to the time when Alice's baby is due. We will be in charge of adding up all the bills and doing the money on nights when it is very busy and crowded. This will now make the second time in my life when I have ended up working in a bar just because I was around all the time anyway. The first time was in North Carolina at The Cave and The Drunken Spelunker's Guide to Plato is based on that. If I ever write another book about our time here (after the one that I'm currently writing about our first thousand days), I will call it Barflies in the Belfry.

 

It has been raining so much here that our roof has bloomed. We can look out our bedroom window onto the top of the front porch roof and see tiny pink wildflowers opening in the intermittent sun.

Also, because of the rain, part of the hillside in Capezzano Monte collapsed down into the ravine, taking a big section of the Via Canaldoro with it. Fortunately, no houses were in the way and no one got hurt, but the people who live above that section of road -- including three of our pub friends -- have no way of getting in and out of their houses except by hiking. 

The commune is working now to put in a temporary bridge so that they will be able at least to move their cars down to a parking place below the landslide. Then the workers will take the bridge away while they repair the road. But at least then when the residents hike out of their homes, they will have their cars waiting for them instead of just being stranded on the side of a very steep and obviously unstable mountainside. The new road construction is expected to take at least a year -- maybe two.

But no one can say that the spirit of the hill folk is in any way dimmed by these troubles. On May Day, Jonathan and I went down to the pub for an aperativo and were sitting talking in the late afternoon tranquility to Nonno and Geppolino when a big van pulled up and a dozen of our friends piled out -- Valerio and Semina and Il Presidente and others -- and everyone on the terrace greeted them with cheers. Then they all got drinks.

They speak a dialect up here in the hills so that even Jonathan, whose Italian is very fluent, can often not understand what is being said. I certainly don't. So we have gotten used to sussing out situations by body language and reasonable conjecture. We figure out what is going on, often, just based on the vibes.

"They've been up to something," I said to Jonathan about the guys getting out of the van. "They have the swagger of conquering heroes -- like they have been through some great trial together and have emerged victorious."

"Yeah," Jonathan said. "It's like they have won a grand battle."

Drinking. It turns out that they had been drinking at a secret bar in Viareggio all day. It is a May Day tradition started 50 years ago by Nonno. They pool their money for a van and a driver who takes them to a secret location at 8 a.m. and they drink all day long.

They had been at it for 11 hours and were still standing when they decided to return to the pub for another drink so that they would be on home turf for the end game. So the can-do spirit and steadfastness in the face of great challenges is alive and well in these hills.

Our new grandbaby is thriving and even though it is not yet the date that he was originally supposed to be due, he now weighs more than his father did when he was born. Jonathan and I have been shopping for baby clothes at the Super Bimbo store Lido di Camaiore. If they sold "Super Bimbo" t-shirts, I would buy one. Instead, we got a romper that says "Bello come Babbo" -- "Handsome like Daddy" -- on the front.

And we have been given even more lemons, so I am at it again with the marmalade. I am thinking of using it as a marinade for roast pork. Because no one can eat this much toast.

Our Italian teacher told us about the best place around here to get cannoli -- a tiny pastry shop by the sea in Viareggio where they fill the cannoli while you wait. So we went yesterday and got four and ate two (one each) for breakfast and two for lunch. Then I had a nap. Then I had some toast with marmalade for the vitamin C. Because I'm healthy like that.