the medieval wars continue

Why, hello again.

Where to begin? I am amused and pleased at how many emails I received from folks who read my last posting and thought that I was coming home to the states on July 1st. I guess I should have been more clear, eh? I am here until Sept 14th...I am a nanny for 2 little girls in Badia Petroia, but for a week, I went to work with another family (the Tirabassis) in a town called Radicondoli, near Siena. By "home," I meant that I would be returning to Badia Petroia. Sorry about that.

As a brief overview of my week with the Tirabassi family: I am in charge of Oscar Claudio Tirabassi (!), one of the most energetic 2-year olds I have ever encountered. My job is to keep him from getting hit by a Vespa during Florentine rush hour traffic. Not easy, this, as he is terribly uninclined to remain in his stroller. The places I have visited - Firenze, San Gimignano, Siena - I have told you about before, so I will spare you the rambling. I will say this though; Siena is rapidly becoming a favorite town of mine. And here is why.

Firenze will always have a special place in my heart; it is the first Italian city I ever saw. The first time I saw Ponte Vecchio, the morning sun breaking over the top of it in the cool March air, my heart stopped. That was in 1997. I was 16, there with my best friend in the world, and thousands of things have changed since then. But Firenze hasn't, at least not for the better. During the day (at least in the summer), the town is such a madhouse of tourists and traffic that it is hard to resurrect the feeling of wonder. You can only handle so many brash American voices not even attempting to order in Italian before you crack. I don't know how the locals manage to mainstain their stiff smiles. However, when the sun goes down, it is easy to remember why I love it so; once the crowds have cleared, the air has cooled, and the trash sweepers are sucking up the thousand wrappers that litter the curbside...then I remember what took my breath away so many years ago. When the fading light falls on the giant dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, and children chase each other around the gilded Baptistry, you can hardly help but forgive this overcrowded tourist mecca for the state of things. After all, people came to her, unbidden; and the soft gray evenings are the reason that people return.

The problem is that I am rarely there at night, so I see the insanity. Siena, on the other hand, is medieval and a bit more preserved as such; the Benettons and Prada stores are built straight into the old medieval structures, so much so that you don't even notice the store until you are upon it. The buildings rise high on either side of the street, blocking out light and making sound bounce all around you. The streets are clean and, comparatively speaking, it is uncrowded. The churches are lovely and the Campo is one of the best piazzas in the world - a huge open space, full of light and energy and only lacking in greenery. Siena somehow has managed, at least for the time being, to maintain her dignity a bit better than other cities around her (certainly more so than San Gimignano, where every sign is printed in English, Italian, and German). What is equally amusing is that Firenze, quite jealous of Siena's hilltop position and wealth (the world's first bank was started here in 1287), made many (successful) efforts to conquer and re-conquer Siena throughout the years. I suppose the Florentines did win the war; but ultimately I think that Siena somehow snuck away with a victory. I recommend that, when you come to Italy, you let me take you there. You will be pleasantly surprised.

Have to be off now, but there is more to come, including a posting later in the week about house concerts and my third, as-yet-untitled, album.
ci si parla dopo,
vanessa

full stomach and speedy fingers

hello my beloveds,
i can only write long enough to say that i can't write. don't have email access all week and i am here at this internet cafe with a 2 year old so that is making this difficult. will write more on july 1st when i am back home and will explain everything then. this feels like a telegram. stop.
love
v

Of feste and Sunday morning walks

Last night I went to a Festa. You should know that in Italy every town, no matter how small, has a Festa during the summer. These feste usually started out as something religious and have evolved over time into something with a religious origin but a more modern party feeling. Badia Petroia, the town where I live, is tiny. I would imagine there are no more than 200 people living in and around, and certainly no more than 100 that live in the immediate town center (if you could call it that). It seems to be a little comune that time forgot. There is a little abbey that has been lovingly restored, and clustered around it is the town, a series of tiny vicoli (alleyways) from which the houses spring. It seems as though it has become something of a suburb (though I hate that word) for country-loving folks that work in nearby Trestina. The people are young and the cars nice and new, which I suspect makes the older folks very happy – this infusion of youth to keep the town alive.

So from the 11th-13th of June, Badia Petroia has the Festa del Corpus Domini. I had the children last night, while Honor was working, and as I was trying to figure out how to keep them entertained, Chiara asked if we could go to the Festa. I was a bit hesitant, knowing nothing about the party and knowing I’d be only the only English speaker there, but I decided what the heck.

More things to know. Parties in Italy don’t start until at least 9 o’clock. Parents have no qualms about keeping small children out till midnight. So we left the house at 9 and headed to the hill….well, let me start from the beginning.

This festa started with a tradition the origins of which I didn’t quite understand…all I knew for sure was that it was a tradition, and that was reason enough. Basically, the older children and a group of adults climb this very large hill (kind of a small mountain, or so it seemed – about a 20 minute walk to the top) and from there, we all waited around till dark. I kept asking the girls what came next but they had no idea (their answer was – you’ll just have to wait and see! – but I found out later that they had never done this before either). While we stood around waiting, someone walked around handing out panini and bibite tickets and the girls tried to find their friends in the near-dark.

As I stood around, watching everything and everyone, a peculiar sensation settled over me that happens from time to time when I am in Italy. It is the feeling of seeing something that no one else you know has ever seen, of being somewhere that most of your friends and family have never been, and trying to reconcile your two lives in your own mind. It is hard to explain what I mean, but as I was standing in a field at the top of a mountain in Umbria, looking out into the violet sky and the dusky half-light, watching farmhouses breathing quietly in the distance, I had this odd feeling that, though I was surrounded by laughter and screams and thirty voices, I was the only person on the planet.

When darkness finally fell, someone lit a patch of grass, which I thought seemed rather imprudent, until the next step when everyone else, who had been carrying long sticks with cloth wrapped around the top, lit their sticks, one at a time, and began proceeding back down the way we came – suddenly the burning patch of grass seemed like a great idea. Keep in mind there were children about 10 years old, carrying flaming sticks down this hill at nearly 10 at night. I overheard the word benzina (gasoline), which didn’t make me feel any better. We merged into the line (no torches for us) and proceeded down with everyone else. I asked a couple of Italians to explain the festa to me, but the two I asked were from out of town and weren’t much help. All I got was what I already suspected – this was a tradition, and it had to do with Corpus Domini (which is today). I later found out that this has been going on for over 100 years in this little community. I am sure if Smoky the Bear found out about this, his little heart would palpitate madly in his chest, because as we descended the hill, I noticed people swinging their torches about, small children nearly dragging theirs on the ground, and occasionally, chunks of fire would sort of leap off the stick and into the nearby brush. The grass would begin to burn, children would shriek and leap aside, and eventually someone would come to flail it out with some of grassy broom thing. I was just glad to get on level ground before the whole mountainside went up in flames.

Once we got back down to the center of town, there was a man with a giant sack of sandwiches, and then I realized that only the people who had climbed to the top received sandwich tickets, so at least we had that going for us. The children ran over to the main attraction, this giant swingset (like at Six Flags, the one that goes round and round, higher and higher) and though it seemed a bit dubious (the “safety” check was a girl walking around with a sandwich in her hand, sort of lackadaisically checking to see if the bars were latched), I told them they could ride it. They had a great time, though I was a bit panicked by the Italians who thought it was a good idea to see if they could sort of propel their chair forward into their friend’s chair and grab on to it, then rock it from side to side. It all seemed a bit mad but the girls were shrieking with delight (as opposed to their frequent shrieks of distress) so I let them ride it twice more before we went home around midnight.

I woke this morning and walked to a café about 4 km down the road. Rather, I intended to walk, but a few paces out of Badia Petroia, Marco passed me on his way to Mass and took me there. This is such a small town that every time I have taken a walk to anywhere, at least one person I know passes me and honks – and I don’t know that many people. Anyhow, I had a lovely coffee, pastry, and sandwich (3 Euro), read a book (Till We Have Faces by CS Lewis), and enjoyed the gray morning. It was very cloudy and blue out, and as I walked back to the house, I felt that feeling again. So I shall tell you that it was lovely out – the sky purple and white, the hills dark green and rolling, and in front of the hills, fields of white-yellow grain, and in front of the grain, rows of brown soil with tiny green tobacco plants sprouting up, and in front of the soil, me, walking on the side of the road in the calf-high grass, among the clusters of bright red poppies.

And now you see, it is as if you were there too.
Buona Domenica,
vanessa

And the last one (though I realize now that this thing posts back to front, and so this is the first one you are seeing) is from this afternoon, just before my break was over...I made myself an Illy cappuccino, sat on a lounger outside, and watched the valley, doing absolutely nothing. It was the first time I have done nothing since I got here and it was bliss. 

And this is the new and, well, differently colored, Norman. She lost her head last week upon arrival, as you may recall. However, Carlos in Gubbio did a fantastic job and she sounds just as good as before - though she doesn't have her name showing anymore - she's a bit shy, what with the injury and all. 

This is the view from the front of the house facing up the hill instead of down into the valley. That little building you see is where Honor (head chef and the mum of the two girls) has her wood-fired pizza oven (and where the cooking classes are held). 

Finally, some rest and relaxation. This is the pool at Terranova, where I spent the better part of the day (it is Saturday, after all). 

Here is another view of the valley, a few paces to the left, from the English rose garden. Charming...deceptively so, let me assure you. And we're not talking about the landscape here!! :) 

They look sweet, don't they? A few nights ago they had a ballet performance in Citta di Castello. A looonnnnggg ballet performance. 

Here is a view of the valley from the terrace. It is a bit washed-out because of the time of day that I took it; I will take a better one soon. 

On Being a Texan

hello there,
I woke up today and realized I had only been here a week. I am not sure how that is possible but the fact remains. It has been a bizarre week of difficult children, lost baggage, broken guitars, and very good coffee. I have to say that things are not what I thought they would be, but that doesn't mean they are bad.

Monday I visited my friends in Castiglion F.no for the day. It was wonderful to see the cooks at the school, to go have Ciaccia with Amanda in Cortona, and to walk in a place that felt familiar. Normally when I go to Italy, I am not that homesick, because Cast. F.no feels like home. It is a bit different this time around, in that I am a stranger in a strange land, so to speak. But it is becoming more familiar by the day, and everyone I work with is fantastic.

Everyone I work with is also British, Australian, or Italian. As a result, I have lost what little Texas accent I may have had. Whenever I meet a new guest at the hotel, the conversation starts with the same two sentences: "What's your name, where are you from?" When I say Texas, the reaction is the inevitable mix of curiosity and surprise, followed by the three sentences: "But you don't sound Texan at all! I thought you were British. How did you end up over here?" I am something of an anomaly, though I can't for the life of me figure out what is so strange about being a Texan in Umbria...as though a Briton or a New Yorker is that much more normal?

I have been very busy this week, between wrangling with the children, who have enormous lung capacity and ear-piercing shrieks, and working the kitchen with Honor or waiting tables with Marco the Roman, both of which I much prefer. The guests are kind of fun to wait on; and they are more fun to talk about in the kitchen. Mario Batali has actually been very nice and has taken to calling me Tex (again, the issue arises). He and his friends are here on some sort of recipe scouting mission - they have been eating out mostly, but they had a huge lunch here yesterday and couldn't stop praising it. There are also some loud, nouveau riche New Yorkers here that have provided for plenty of entertainment, as they are annoyed by bugs, flabbergasted by the unpaved driveway, upset when the side dishes come on the main plate (because then they can't share, and besides, what is this green sauce anyway?) and in general a bit discombobulated, all the while asking me nonstop what Texas is like. Is it all desert? Do I like Austin? They have a cousin who lives there. Someone's nephew took flying lessons in Tyler; do I know Tyler? How did a nice Texas girl like me lose her accent and end up over here? For the life of me, my answers only seem to generate more questions. It's all quite entertaining.

Also: words like charming, quite, rather, and wonky have all found their way into my vocabulary, unbidden by me.

Also: I now have an entire week of shows booked in the midwest in Indy, Chicago, Cincy, Louisville, Dayton, Canton, and soon to be Ann Arbor as well. I will keep you all posted and please, if you have friends up that way, tell them I am coming.

Also: Marco is taking me to Gubbio today to pick up the guitar...we shall see if Carlos is worth his salt or 110 Euro.

I shall keep you all posted; in the meantime, please post something on the website? Eric the Webmaster is feeling quite lonely.
love to you all,
vanessa

No time just now,

But I just wanted to say that I just looked out onto the terrace of the hotel to see who the new guests were...and one of them is Mario Batali, celebrity chef from New York and the one who sued Babbo's in Austin to change their name. What a crazy, small world it is.
Much to report later on tonight, stay tuned to KVKP for all Nessie, all the time.
ciao,
vanessa

Gubbio, by chance

ciao ragazzi,

now that my bearings are straight, let me say that children are exhausting. adorable, especially when they switch from perfect British English to rapid-fire Italian at the drop of a hat...but exhausting nevertheless.

Friday dawned bright and sunny and we took the children off to a school (a luxury I will have only a week longer) and I went with Honor (the children's mum) to the Italian equivalent of a Sam's. We bought 500 Euro worth of food for the hotel and somehow managed to fit it in the car. Off to the hotel and then I went onto Gubbio, a town about which I have heard quite a lot (but I had not yet seen).

Marco is a Roman who works at the hotel. I make the distinction because he does; being Roman is very different from being Italian. He is a musician (waiter by day) and he knew of an Argentinian luthier in Gubbio (yes, I know this sounds made up) who would be able to mend my broken guitar (and heart - like Mr. Fix-it - do you remember that children's book?). Anyhow, off he whisked me, driving faster than Roberto had a few days earlier. Every so often he would hit the gas around a curve, purring and petting the dashboard, muttering "che bella macchina!" Oh Dio!

So we made it to Gubbio, by way of the prettiest drive I have ever been on. Central Umbria is really quite deserted and undeveloped. It is all dark green and gray and dotted with occasional half-crumbling farmhouses. The missing windows and missing doors make for these lovely passageways for light to shine through, so the houses seemed to twinkle as we flew past. Gubbio itself was actually quite pretty, though our stay was less than an hour. It is sort of a gray, rocky outcropping on the side of a mountain. Interesting. Anyhow, Carlos says he can fix my guitar, though I am entirely and completely doubtful. You would be too if you had held the jagged pieces in your sad little hands. Anyhow, I should hear from Carlos in 10 days, and I then I will come either running or crying here to tell you the whole sad or happy tale.

On a happier note, I got my bags last night at 11:30 pm. It had been 3 days in the same clothes, more or less, so I can't express to you my joy at seeing my wrinkled clothes, all crammed happily in my giant backpack. Everything is put away now and all is right in my tiny little room. I even took out the video camera today and tried to take a video of the drive up to the hotel, but the road is so dreadfully unpaved that I am not sure you can watch the video without a bout of Blair Witch coming upon you.

Allora, I must go. I still haven't had gelato, if you can believe it. And I am going to Castiglion on Monday, but drat, that is the day that Coco Palm is closed. Of all the luck.
Don't forget to write and to sign the guestbook on my website! It looks very lonely right now. I know that hundreds of you have the CD...and only two have written? I will cry myself to sleep.
love to you all,
vanessa

And because some of you have asked, you can write to me at:
Palazzo Terranova
Roc. Lonti
Morra
06010 Perugia
Italy

I swear it is a complete address, though I realize it doesn't look right at all. Ciao!

Sono arrivata!

ciao to my beloveds,
well, it goes without saying that there is no shortcut to paradise. this will be a long entry, so prepare yourselves.

i will short cut the front end as best as i can. summer, my dear friend, took me to the airport and there i was. flight to newark was uneventful until we were about 30 minutes out, when the captain came on and told us no flights were being let into newark because of bad weather and we would have to circle. so we circled. and circled some more. and then we ran out of fuel, so we had to land in dulles (washington). the man in front of me was freaking out because he didn't speak english so well and he thought we were having to turn around and go back to dallas. anyhow, we sat at dulles for 2 hours, waiting for clearance into newark, and so that was the beginning.

i missed my flight to london, but i was told there was another one i could get on. fast forward through me racing through newark, trying to find the flight (i was given conflicting sets of directions), finally finding it, etc and then that flight was 2 hours delayed as well. and because that 2nd flight was so late, i arrived at gatwick 4 hours behind schedule. my baggage wasn't there, which turned out to be the best part (this happened once before, and it is actually better, because then they deliver it to you and you don't have to mess with it). but the bad part was that i missed my flight to milan, which was leaving from a totally different airport. i was told there were no more flights till FRIDAY (this was Wed am) but that I could go to Luton and wait on standby. Having no other option, I went and waited for 6 hours. Luckily, there was a seat, so I paid 60£ ($120 "missed flight fee") and got on.

Arriving in Milan, I had to take an hour bus ride to the station, where I then waited 3 hours to take a train that left at 11 pm. A bit seedy that time of night. I got on the train and 6 hours later I stepped off the train onto the platform in Castiglion Fiorentino. A man was standing across the tracks and shouted "Vanessa?"

He was the driver for the hotel and so proceeded to take me there. It was lovely at 5:30 in the morning. We drove around and past Castiglion, which was an eerie feeling, and into the mountains. It was trying to be sunny outside but was succeeding only in being a soft Van Gogh, sort of foggy and streaky and quite lovely. The drive to the hotel consisting mostly of Roberto taking hairpin turns at 90 mph but I survived. There were times when it seemed the road would fold in on itself, so sharp were the turns. But I strained my neck to look out the window into the ghostly valley below, and when the sun finally did break through, I was rewarded with pinks and blues and soft mossy greens.

40 minutes later we began a steep ascent to the Palazzo, which is 1800 m above sea level and at one of the highest points in this area. There is really no road, just a gravel drive (which makes the restoration work seem even more incredible). The drive is lined with gorgeous yellow flowers and cypress trees, which i suppose are meant to distract the tourist from the bumpy ride (and it works). We pulled up and it felt very like a fairy tale. Hazy, misty morning, giant yellow building rising off the side of this hill, gorgeous English garden all around with pink roses and vines and off to the other side, a sheer drop into an amazing valley, partioned in that Umbrian way you may have seen in postcards...the land is sort of rolling and divided by hedges and rows of cypress, like a great green patchwork quilt.

Anyhow, dazed and sleepy (I really hadn't slept at all in the las 48 hours), I stumbled into the dark hotel (it was still only 6:30 at this point). Sarah, the owner of the hotel, had left me a plate of croissants and fruit and instructions to ring her at once, and so I did. She came down and was the best thing so far of the trip. She is so British she seems to be nearly a caricature of herself, but I mean that in the best way possible. She fluttered all over me, asking if I was totally shattered, calling me dear dear dear, instructing me to sit and have a hot chocolate, telling me she would prepare a room for me so that i could shower and sleep...totally fussing over me like a mother hen. it was nice after stone-faced airport employees with whom my tears made no headway.

This, I suppose, is the worst part, so brace yourselves. Just before showing me to my room, she asked if I'd like to take my guitar. I had seen it in the dining area but it was in the case and I hadn't yet opened it. So I did so with great excitement and not a little trepidation, which sadly proved to be completely warranted. In short, the entire head of the guitar was completely broken off. I have no idea how that could have happened unless someone dropped the guitar out of the case while inspecting it. Regardless, the head had been placed inside the compartment on the inside, which means someone knew about it while they delivered it. I was so shocked and tired that I couldn't even think or react or cry, which was probably best. Sarah gasped and said, "my dear! you are fated!" which didn't make me feel terribly better, I am afraid. But she said we would mend it and if not possible she would get me another.

And now I have to go because the children have just arrived home from school and so I will have to pick up later. If you know someone who needs a copy of Sparkler, please tell them to order it so that the proceeds can go into the guitar fund, else the fall tour may be off.

But not to end on such a sad note - it is incredible here, and I promise to upload pictures as soon as I have my camera (which is in my missing bag).
Much love to you all and I will write more soon.
vanessa