I have always loved beach towns, with their atmosphere of sun tan lotion and ice cream and indolence. Now that the summer weather has arrived, we have been going to our Beach Club to loll around and be healed of all our ills -- physical, emotional, spiritual, etc. -- by the sunshine and the lunch. This plan is working better than you might have thought. By September, I will probably be practically perfect in every way. Something to look forward to.

Having decided to move our belongings from Colorado Springs to Pietrasanta (the complexities of getting it all the way to Capriglia are completely beyond us), we have unleashed upon ourselves a whole fresh document hell. The customs people, for instance, want a complete itemized list of everything we are bringing with valuations and, if possible, receipts. The receipts for a lifetime of treasures. The drawing of a sunflower that Tris made in second grade and that hung on the wall in our kitchen for almost two decades? I have no receipt and no rational valuation. Zero dollars? Priceless.

More lemons have come our way -- it seems that all of Tuscany is inundated at this time of year. Fabio and Luciana, our neighbors, gave us a big bag and Barbara and Sara gave us even more. I made lavender-lemon marmalade and now we have begun the process of making Moroccan Salt-Cured Lemons. I have never tasted Moroccan Salt-Cured Lemons and have no idea what we will do with them once they are ready, but it is comforting to know that we will never die of scurvy.

This morning when Jonathan went out to hang up the laundry, he heard a great rustling noise from the woodpile right next to the clothes line. Given the recent goings on here, we have determined that it is, in all probability, a snake. And, given the volume of noise, not a snake of modest proportions.

We have evaluated the situation and decided that these are not our favorite clothes anyway and that we can get along without then until the cold sets in this coming fall. There is no need to go near the clothesline for a while. We are prudent. And naked

Quite often, people ask us why we haven't travelled around more from here. The problem is finding a time when it is not heartbreaking to leave lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea. At the moment, we are awash in poppies. The olive trees have begun to bloom. The cherry tree is filled with cherries and the persimmon tree is loaded with baby persimmons. The birds have lost their minds with joy for it all.

 

Today for the first time in weeks, Jonathan and I are having a quiet day at home, just the two of us. The sky looks stormy in between moments of chiaroscuro sunlight, but the rain is holding off.

I am spending the day researching international movers. The political news from the US is so frightening and the Magats seem so violent and deranged and bent on the destruction of everything that we fear complete chaos there by the time the fall election arrives. So we are going this summer to begin the process of shipping to Italy the things that we left in storage so long ago in Colorado Springs.

But, of course, we are leaving behind Aiden and Tris, who are all I really worry about in the US. But they don't want to come here with us -- at least not now. So I comfort myself by believing that I am building a safe haven for them here, if they ever need it.

In the meantime, we have been hosting guests -- five groups so far in the past seven weeks, staying anywhere from two days to two weeks. And we ourselves went last weekend to visit a friend near Milan. We went to Lake Como, where I had never been before, and even more excitingly, to a lovely pastry shop in Monza where we walked in and ordered "one of everything." Then we ate them all over the course of the next two days. That is the sort of thing I wouldn't have dreamed of doing when I was younger and more sensible. 

But I am older now and more rash and much more aware of the brevity of life and of the certainty that many, many chances will never come again.

We have started going to our beach club now, the Bagno Internazionale, even though the season doesn't really swing into gear until the beginning of June. There is just enough activity that some beach chairs are out, but not enough to scare away the sandpipers and the feeling of fathomless aquatic serenity.

I am in limbo, waiting to hear something good from some publisher about my book. I have been waiting for what seems like a very long time. Jonathan gave a talk in Italian at MUSA about Artificial Intelligence. The boys at the pub have moved outside to the terrace on sunny afternoons, but are still drinking red wine, not having made the jump to summer prosecco just yet. 

I have discovered absinthe-flavored candy for sale at the store where Jonathan buys his coffee beans and am now a lost soul. 

Flush with the sugar high from all the pastries, I made an obviously foolhardy decision to try to mail a present to a friend in the United States. The extraordinarily dour woman at the shipping counter -- ensconced behind about a mile of yellow crime scene tape covered with signs saying "Keep Out" -- demanded to know what we were shipping and then told us to fuck off. It's nice to know that in this world of dizzying changes and rapid-fire transitions, that some things never change. We can always count on no success of any kind regarding the mail.

Mimmo came across and dispatched (I assume -- and hope -- with great rapidity, although I was fortunately not there in person) two very large snakes living in the grass near our front gate. The wisteria is over for the season, but the poppies glow like pocket sunsets in the grass everywhere.

 

We have had lots of visitors for the past month -- four batches so far since the beginning of April and three more sets to go in the coming few weeks. If you have a house in Tuscany, you will never be lonely in the springtime. The sun has been lovely and golden, but interspersed with days of unseasonable cold and rain. This weather pattern has been perfectly coordinated with our visitors. Unfortunately, it has been a negative correlation. It is sunny and beautiful until people arrive and then they sit and shiver while the rain pours down outside (and occasionally inside) and Jonathan and I try to convince them that it really was quite warm just yesterday. They do not believe us.

Last night the choir from Capezzano Monte performed at one of the big marble sculpture studios in town, Franco Cervietti and C. Our friends Claudio and Valerio from the pub are members of the choir, which Nonno actually founded fifty years ago, so of course the whole pub crew (along with a couple of hundred other people) went to watch the performance. It was surreal and beautiful. One of the things that I love most about living here is that spaces, ordinary spaces, work spaces, even industrial spaces, are made beautiful on purpose and people recognize that and appreciate it and use it. I made a little video that I posted up above and here are a few pictures. 

P.S. Still no driver's license. The website where you have to register to get an appointment for the next step seems to have some sort of bug/error that makes it non-functional and the office where you can make an appointment in person was closed despite the sign on the door saying "Open". It's nice to have little things like this to help us fill our time.

 

A lot has been going on this week -- most of it citrus-based. Barbara and Sara gave us another 20 pounds of citrus fruit -- kumquats and lemons. We have made two batches so far of sweet-pickled kumquats, which are zippy enough to make your eyes water. We will not be dying of scurvy any time soon, but we may very well be done in by the homemade limoncello, which I have realized is only a very slightly upscale version of the PGA Punch (pure grain alcohol mixed with grape Kool-Aid) that was the drink of choice for all the kids during my high school days in the fabulously instructive public school system of Fort Smith, Arkansas. For instance, did you know that a combination of white vinegar and baking soda will remove both the color and the smell of grape-flavored vomit from the interior of a car? The things we learned!

I thought we were going to get the chance to bribe a public official last week. (Finally!) In his drivers-license-induced despair, Jonathan wailed to Madelena, "Is there nothing I can do?"

"Well," Madelena said, "there is one thing, but I can't say it over the phone. I will tell it to you in person." 

I got very excited by this and was quite looking forward to seeing the finesse with which the bribe would be presented. Would it be couched as a "special fee"? A "gift"? "A little something for her trouble"? We got lots of cash out of the ATM and went, rather giddy with suppressed naughtiness, to see her. 

It turned out, though, that she was merely advising us to try another office in a smaller town where they play more fast and loose with regulations. Quite a letdown. It will take us months to spend all this cash.

And, after several weeks of trying to contact our beach club, as we were instructed, to pick out our spot for the summer -- including two trips to the club itself, which seemed to be not only closed, but actually closed down and out of business -- we finally connected with our new best friend, Paolo, who has put us in Spot #10 for June, July, and August. Before and after that, it is apparently a riotous free-for-all, although Paolo says he will be happy to bring us chairs wherever we manage to land. 

Our neighbors in Spots #9 and #11 are also there for the whole season, so I guess we will be making some new friends.

After four days of sunshine, a storm is blowing in tonight. Already we can't see the sea.

The boys were fractious and discontented down at the pub -- displeased at the changes that have happened down in town, displeased at the useless shops and restaurants that displaced the artists. The fascist government, in their war against the local foliage, have trimmed back the formerly lofty and gracious gracious trees that lined the Via Apua, killing (they say inadvertently) many of them. Valerio served us some snacks of a strange vegetable and when the boys asked where it was from, he said, "Via Apua." We all laughed ruefully. Nonno and Mirio sat next to each other and I watched their faces, so similar, while we talked and knew that we won't have them much longer.

We have given up hope of Jonathan's driver's license ever coming from the office in Lucca and today began the process all over again at what is apparently a friendlier and more relaxed office in Massa. The people working in it, when we went by today, were indeed friendly and relaxed. But everyone is friendly and relaxed at the beginning -- it is the bait that keeps us optimistically biting on the bureaucratic hook.

We have made limoncello from Sara's lemons now and I continue to work on the pictures for my tarot deck. The flowers are a riot on the hillside. We swim up the Via Capriglia in them.

There is a total solar eclipse going on right now in the US. Here in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea, the sun as it set into the sea was completely, weirdly white. So pale that we looked right at it. We're maybe not the sharpest cheddar on the cheese plate.

After a week of living in sunshine and wildflowers, it is so misty this morning that we can't see even the hills right behind the house. I like knowing that we are living inside clouds.

We are in a generosity spiral with Barbara and Sara at the Frutta D'Oro. After they were so kind to me about being on my own while Jonathan was away in the US and also gifted me a giant bunch of yellow mimosas, Jonathan brought them back some Vermont maple syrup from his trip. They reciprocated with a large jar of honey from their own hives and then an 11-pound bag of lemons from the tree in Sara's yard -- "So sweet that you can just eat them," Sara said.

So we made lemon marmalade with ginger and Cointreau and gave them two jars of it and two loaves of our own fresh-baked bread. Heaven only knows where this will end. Probably pie.

Sunday we went to see Fabio play at a little osteria high up in the hills above Seravezza. The staff there all wear t-shirts that say "Moriremo ma non di sete" -- "We will die -- but not from thirst." I laughed and laughed at this and the owners, Silvio and Daniela, let me take their picture and then gave us some free homemade liqueurs -- pale green tasting of pistachio and pale orange tasting of melon.

Jonathan still has no driver's license, but the Polizia dello Stato in Forte dei Marmi say that my Permesso di Soggiorno (long-term stay visa) is ready to be picked up -- a mere four months after my last one expired. We are going there to get it tomorrow morning. I will believe it when I see it.

 

It is wild garlic season here and it is possible that we have gone a bit overboard. We went to a presentation at the pub a few weeks ago about foraging wild plants and came away from it with the ability to confidently recognize exactly one plant -- wild garlic. So when we discovered it growing in great swathes along the path to Capezzano Monte, naturally, we lost our heads.

After our initial brief foray, we went back yesterday with bags to get more and then spent the rest of yesterday afternoon washing it and then making wild garlic pesto, which was delicious and quite zippy. We have many other plans -- wild garlic risotto, wild garlic focaccia, wild garlic frittatas, wild garlic pickles. There are so many options! And it is good that we have all this cooking to keep ourselves entertained here at home, because the consumption of this much wild garlic will likely mean that we are exiled from the larger society for quite some time to come. 

At least we have each other.

Wild Garlic Pesto

Clean and wash the garlic, trim off the roots, and cut off the white parts at the bottom (save these for the pickles, below). Chop the long green stems roughly and then put them in the food processor. Add a generous amount of olive oil. Blend and then start adding chunks of excellent parmesan cheese, lots of pine nuts and a bit of salt. Continue to add olive oil as needed. Taste frequently to get the balance of flavors that you prefer. You can add a bit of lemon juice if you would like. Serve over pasta or with anything else that needs a little zip. If you eat this alone, you must stay alone afterwards for the good of the community. If you eat it with someone else, you must be truly committed to a life together with just each other. At least for a while.

Wild Garlic Pickles

Sterilize some jars by boiling them in water for ten minutes. While that is going on, make a brine of one cup sugar, one tablespoon salt, one and a third cups apple cider vinegar, and two thirds of a cup of water and bring it to a boil. When the jars are sterilized, while they are still warm, put some mixed (black, red, white and green) peppercorns and some mustard seeds in the bottom of each jar. Then take the white garlic stems saved from above and pack them into the jars. Pour the boiling brine over and close the jar. Let sit for at least two weeks before tasting. Refrigerate after opening. Hopefully, these will neither taste terrible nor poison us. I guess we'll know in two weeks.

Yesterday was just a normal day. These are the hardest to write about because it is hard to describe a "nothing special" that is at the same time so happy.

The loudest sound here these days is birdsong. Sometimes there are church bells mixed in and behind that, almost imperceptible, is the shushing sound of the sea. The spring flowers are starting to bloom. I saw the first poppy of the year on the roadside down near town.

We have been going to town to buy groceries every day this week since the refrigerator died. We went on Tuesday to the UniEuro in Massa and bought the smallest fridge they sell to hold us over until a new big fridge arrives. The nice man at the UniEuro loading dock didn't bat an eye when we rolled up with our clown car expecting to drive a refrigerator home in it. 

"Oh, no problem," he said, cheerfully. And sure enough, by putting down the back seat and sliding the front seats up so far that Jonathan was driving with his knees up under his chin, we were able to close the hatchback with zero millimeters to spare.

So yesterday we bought some chicken for our dinner at the butcher shop (founded in 1907) where three generations of the Lane family work and where we are advised about our meat by Susanna or Babbo, who knows what's what when it comes to meat. Then I bought a new purse for 25 euros in the weekly Thursday market at the Piazza dello Statuto because my old purse finally gave up the ghost.

Then we zipped over to the Coop, which is just outside town and sells things like shampoo and paper napkins that are not available in the charming but tiny stores where we do most of our shopping. The real joy of the Coop, however, is not the access to shampoo and paper napkins, but the regular arrival of the bollini every six months or so. The bollini are little stickers that you get with each purchase. Then when you've collected enough bollini, you can trade them in for prizes.

Our first bollini-fest had Pyrex for prizes. We went nuts getting bollini enough for Pyrex crostata pans and Pyrex mixing bowls and Pyrex measuring cups -- things that are not actually for sale anywhere around here that we know of. The next bollini-fest was for sporting goods, which was not as exciting, but we did get some quick-dry towels. Currently, we are nearing the end of a bollini-fest for bed linens. We've already managed to nab a complete set of sheets and pillowcases for a single bed and are now working on the "matrimoniale" size.

We are supposed to get one sticker for every 15 euros that we spend, but we have noticed that the cashiers exercise great leeway here and that if we say "please" when they ask if we are collecting the bollini, we tend to get more bollini than we are supposed to. We have sometimes gotten as much as twice the number we are owed. Seeing what heights of politeness I can reach with my limited Italian and what largesse of bollini this elicits is one of my great entertainments.

In the afternoon, Jonathan had zoom meetings and I chatted with Aiden for a while about the state of the world and his life. The state of the world seems very bleak, but my son has such a good heart and is so thoughtful and kind and brave that I can't help but feel that everything will turn out OK in the end.

Then, while the sunset was turning the sky and the sea into melted roses and gold, we walked down to the pub to see Renata, who is just back from over a month in Poland visiting her family. She and I talked together for a while, standing behind the bar, about how hard it can be to live far away from the people you love.

Nights like these are my favorites. There was no one there except for Renata, seven of the beasts, and us. We share wine around the table, pouring each other glasses from the communally purchased bottle, and eat the "snacks," which really constitute a full meal -- starting off last night with a large meat and cheese board with baskets of bread and followed up by meatloaf and mashed potatoes, served family style -- Salvatore dishing it out last night -- and then after the fist serving, everyone just helping themselves, all of us seated around the big marble table -- the "tavolo di marmo." 

How the economics of all this free food works is beyond me. We pay for the Dreams & Poetry wine that we drink at 10 euros a bottle, but unless Daniele and Alice are making it themselves in the bathtub at home, there is no way that they turn a profit on these perfect nights.

We told them all the story of our broken refrigerator and about how now we have a giant bag of formerly frozen peas that we have to eat right away. The discussion of what to do with all those peas -- like any discussion of food -- was exceptionally lively. "We should have brought them here for us all to eat," Jonathan said. And it's true.

Jonathan had another meeting at 8:00, so we began to leave at 7:30. "He could go and you could stay here," Renata said to me. "Oh, no," I said, "because I am a very good little wife and while he is working, I am cooking." The boys all thought this was quite funny and wanted to know which dishes I cook well. "Nothing," I said and they laughed. "I don't cook anything well, either," Nonno said. And while we were laughing at that, Guglielmo filled my wine glass again on the sly.

But Jonathan made it to his meeting with seconds to spare and I cooked the chicken while he talked. So that is a typical day here except that every day is a little different.

 

Jonathan blew back home on the Mistral winds Saturday and we had one lovely evening before we woke up Sunday morning to a suspicious (and tragically familiar) chill in the air. We spent Sunday going back and forth to the furnace controls in the basement laundry room and then running around feeling all the radiators and saying, "Nope -- still nothing." 

The wind was blowing so hard that we lost a bit of the roof over the place where we park the car and we actually had to tie one of our windows shut with string. On Monday, the furnace repairman showed up about 5 p.m. and replaced the thermostat which (fingers crossed!) was the ultimate culprit.

The heat did come on and is now working away trying to once again warm up an old stone house that had gotten very deep down chilly.

"Gosh," I said to Jonathan at one point, "it's actually warmer inside the refrigerator now than it is outside in the kitchen."

Then later I said, "Like really warmer."

Then later, "OK, so I just opened the refrigerator door and an actual blast of hot air came out."

So now we have everything from the refrigerator sitting out on the kitchen table while we try to figure out what the fuck is going on. The panel at the back of the inside compartment that usually feels cold is now hot to the touch. There are some instructions with no words, but only pictures and numbers, on the inside of the freezer door. These do not help at all.

But the good news is that there are violets and tiny white daisies and purple crocuses blooming all over the yard. Barbara and Sara, who run our veg store, gave me a giant bunch of mimosa flowers before Jonathan left and also gave me their telephone number and told me not to hesitate to call them if I needed anything at all. Jonathan brought them back a bottle of fancy Vermont maple syrup and now they are giving us some honey from their own hives.

And I continue to plug away learning Italian. I have a lesson once a week with Cristina, but also have a grammar book that I read on my own and some flash cards that I bought at Title Wave Books when I was in Alaska last June. The flash cards have vocabulary words on them, but also sentences that I have to memorize: "Doctor Rivetti, it's a pleasure to meet you." -- "Dottor Rivetti, e' un piacere conoscerla." "I'll take the pants, the shirt and the sunglasses." -- "Prendo i pantaloni, la camicia, e gli occhiali da sole."

Tomorrow, I have an appointment to have a pap smear, which I will almost certainly have to endure without Jonathan there to translate.

Me to doctor: Dottor Rivetti, e' un piacere conoscerla.

Doctor to me: Prendo i pantaloni, la camicia, e gli occhiali da sole.

 

Jonathan has been gone for a week -- first to Switzerland to see his kids and then to New Jersey to see his parents. I stayed here because my permesso di soggiorno still has not arrived, shockingly enough. (Neither has Jonathan's driver's license, for those of you innocent enough to have believed that something promised for November would be ready no later than February.) And so I can't leave the country. Or at least I can't come back in if I do.

The first day that I woke up without Jonathan, the house felt lonely and empty and a little cold to me. "Ah," I thought to myself. "Everything is so bleak in the absence of my darling Jonathan that I actually feel cold from it. It is not the house that is cold -- it is my heart!"

It was the house.

It turns out that the furnace was malfunctioning and for those three days while the naughty gods waited waited for the truth of the situation to dawn on me, it got colder and colder in the house. Rain poured down outside and the Mistral blew through, searingly cold. Eventually I did come to the realization that this was more than emotional cold and figured it all out and everything is fixed now. But for the space of those days, it seemed like the house and the world outside it were all just a reflection of how much I missed him.

Also, this is a photo of what it looks like around here when we do laundry while it rains. Glamorous. They don't show you this side of things in all those romantic movies set in Italy.