The less dolce vita

Italy can be a very strange place (the Italian word for strange is strena, if you are interested. It's surprising fun to say, especially in the context Italia e strena. Go ahead and try it for yourself. Make sure you roll the r. See what I mean?) They do the day to day activities that make up the vast majority of life so incredibly well. Cappuccino, wonderful pastry for breakfast, often filled with cream or chocolate, cheap but still excellent wine all the time, great food, a little downtime built into every afternoon. This is what people refer to as la dolce vita, and it is very dolce indeed.

In terms of functioning, you know, as a society, they still have some work to do, which is odd, because they have more practice than almost anyone except the Greeks, Egyptians, and the Mesopotamians. Come to think of it, none of those places are doing so well at the country level either, so maybe practice doesn't make perfect in this case. By the way, since my topic for most of this post is not so photogenic, I'll be interspersing some photos of our lovely weekend in Signa and Prato with Jeremy's new internet-based friends. Consider them your calm blue ocean within a sea of bureaucracy.

(The view from Artimino)

I am here in Italy legally. My status is the result of an enormous amount of time and effort by a surprisingly large number of people who are highly paid by the hour. The process started back in the summer with me having to get my official BA transcript and my CV translated into Italian. I had to take a last minute trip to San Francisco to visit the shockingly rude consulate office that handles visas. They were open 1-3, Mondays and Thursdays. Fortunately there were two people who work there: the largely silent man who handled the work visas, and the shouty woman who shouted at the students. Mainly things like "I already told you to sign on page four. Go to the back of the line" and "until you put your documents in order, go to the back of the line" and "Why do you have so many photocopies of things. Do you have a photocopy of this other thing? Then I can't help you. Please leave" and, many many times "How many time do the words have to come out of my mouth?" Believe me, I understand how annoying american students can be, but in my experience, yelling at them rarely makes them less annoying. But, at the end of all this, much to everyone's surprise, I received my passport with visa before I had to board a plane. Huzzah!

(A Medici Villa, known for its chimneys. Chimneys, it turns out, is a very difficult word to get to when no one knows the translation. The breakthrough came when Matteo pantomimed Dick Van Dyck's dance number in Mary Poppins.)

But, that was not the end of the story. Once here, I had to present myself to the prefattura's office. I have no idea what a prefattura is, but it seems to be surprisingly similar to a refugee camp. It was housed in a large, modern, concrete building with no obvious front door. Instead, one had to sidle around a wall and slip in what seemed to be a side door. Once inside, one is confronted by a large line of people trying to get past the security gate. I should mention that most of those people are clearly and recently African. They don't seem to be having much luck. I should also mention that Gonzaga paid for a lawyer, a full lawyer with full lawyer-like billable hours, to escort me through this process, so we bypassed the line and walked around the security gate, up some stairs, through another holding pen waiting area filled with Africans, most of whose eyes had that hopeless, thousand mile stare of someone who had been waiting in the same place for the same thing for many, many days. My fancy, Italian-speaking lawyer, however, whisked me past these people and directly into an office, and then embarked on an hour long negotiation with a nice seeming woman that involved a lot of passing back and forth of photocopied things, much me signing things in Italian, a good deal of negotiation, and the occasional compliment about my shoes. 

(Jeremy, Matteo, and Matteo's girlfriend. Whose name begins with a G. We are bad, bad people.)

After an hour, I was sent away without the form I needed. Why? Because the silent man in the San Francisco consulate had forgotten to click a button. He issued a visa to me, but he did not then tell the computer system that he had done so. Of course, it was 2:00 am in San Francisco at the time, so, what could one do? I had to return, with my very expensive baby sitter, the next day, received my form after only twenty minutes of negotiation and document shuffling and then . . . was sent off to wait two hours to present myself at the post office, with more forms and with the lawyer's presumably lower-priced associate.

So, now I'm legal. That is, until the end of February, when I must present myself at the Police station to be finger and/or hand printed. The lawyer's associate assured me that on that day, I will need to have patience.

And now, both Jeremy and I are sick. After watching Contagion on the airplane ride over, we both immediately thought that perhaps I had picked up some exotic, African bug from the huddling masses at the prefattura's office, but after listening to the amount of sniveling, sneezing, coughing, hacking and groaning in the halls of school today, I'm pretty sure the source of my illness is far more mundane. Indeed, it seems to be unfolding exactly like a run of the mill, American-style cold. My throat hurt so badly last night that I plunged into a tiny "Erborista Farmicia," hoping to find some throat soothing tea. The wonderfully tiny, ancient woman working there (who spoke no English, by the way), discussed my symptoms with me, and then puttered into the back room where she made up a concoction -- there were bags, glass bottles, an old-fashioned balance scale involved -- of 1 part echinacea, 1 part eucalyptus, 1 part pine, and 1 part something in Italian that isn't in my dictionary. I am to infuse it in water for 15 minutes, and then gargle and drink it, twice a day. It tastes like an unfinished furniture store, and I'm not sure it is any way more helpful than chamomile, but I am following instructions (Jeremy is keeping a close eye on my head, to make sure it doesn't turn purple, a la George Costanza after his trip to the naturopath).

Don't worry -- I also have ibuprofen, Sudaphed, all sorts of good, modern chemicals. I'll be fine tomorrow.

One fine day

Sometimes, living in Italy can be hard. Sometimes, it seems as if even the simplest things take way more energy than they should, and that at any moment someone will start talking urgently and angrily at you in a language you can't understand. Sometimes, you head out to run a bunch of simple errands as soon as you are done with class, only to discover that, once again, you are too late and every store in the country is closed for the afternoon. Sometimes, leaving the apartment seems risky.

And then, sometimes, everything just works. Today was one of those days. I came up with one of my just slightly too complicated plans, the kind with just a few too many dependencies to be safe. I have about a fifty/fifty success ratio with these plans, and I credit Jeremy for going along with them far more than fifty percent of the time.

Here was the plan: we take a bus to Fiesole, get supplies, head out on a 7 kilometer hike in the hills around Florence, end up in Settignano, catch another bus or two, and magically find ourselves back home. Remarkably, that is pretty much exactly what happened. Okay, so the hike was not along the scenic and quiet strade blanche that I was hoping for, but instead along a moderately well traveled and very narrow set of arterials, but the views of Tuscany were gorgeous, as you can see, and we managed not to get lost, which is impressive for us. My Garmin (a Christmas present), preset with the roads of Italy, definitely saved the day a couple of times. The weather was also incredible; I spent most of the walk in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.

But, the best part was when we arrived in Settignana, which I am tempted to call a bedroom community to the northeast of Florence. It has a small central piazza, and great views of downtown Florence. It also has a little restaurant called Caffe Desiderio. We thought we might just pop in for a panini and water, but there were some tasty looking pastas on the daily menu. Plus, once we got inside, we found ourselves surrounded by tables filled with people drinking wine and settling in to a full, Italian style lunch. What could we possibly do but the same? We ordered crostini misti and two plates of pasta, only to be talked into trying the hand-sliced prosciutto plate as well and two glasses of a beautifully dry champagne.

Let me pause to sing the praises of this prosciutto. In the middle of the very small dining space (maybe five tables, total), was a cart with two full, cured legs of pig, complete with hooves. I could watch the owner/waiter (I think his wife was the chef) slice first at one, then the other with a massively long knife. The plate that showed up at our table had both types, one described as a typical tuscan style, the other from Fruili. The Fruili was darker and leaner -- not lean, but leaner. It was noticeably salty, but not overwhelmingly. The Tuscan was about half a beautiful, supple, white fat, so basically it was about half lardo. The one from Fruili was more aggressive, but in a way that started to seem obvious compared to the more refined Tuscan. Sorry I don't have a photo of the legs; Jeremy was worried it would seem gauche. In fact, I should admit that none of the photos of the caffe are mine. They are all stolen from the web, but they seem pretty accurate to our experience.

The rest of the meal was equally good, although it was possible I was just high on cured pork and bubbly. There was a lardo crostini dotted with (I think) persimmons, another crostini with beans and a heady olive oil. One crostini had a warm pork spread that was part rillette, part sausage, and a touch of deviled ham. Jeremy had a cinghiale ragu that was head and shoulders about any meat sauce we have had in Florence. He always orders the ragu, and he is always underwhelmed. They are usually bland. I'm not sure if this one was better because it was cinghale (wild boar), or if it was just better, but it was well seasoned and had a wonderfully mysterious spice lurking beneath the meat. Nutmeg? Cinnamon? Chinese five spice, but without the anise? Whatever, it was good. I had ravioli stuffed with cheese in a creamy leek sauce that was just a delicious cheese bomb, saved from seeming heavy by the soft green leeks. By this point, it seemed silly to stop, so we finished with tiramisu and cafe machiati. I barely kept myself from ordering a grappa -- it was, after all, only two in the afternoon.

The ambiance was as good as the food, although not perhaps in an expected way. The place was very brightly lit, and the decor was pretty minimal (other than the swine legs, that is). For reasons I don't understand, there were empty wine bottles hung menacingly from string above our heads (those wine bottles are missing from the photo above). What made it feel so welcoming, though, was that it was filled with families having leisurely and boisterous meals. The owner's family was in one corner, and his kids kept running around the place, only to have him unconvincingly shush them and wrangle them back to their corner. We were about the last to leave, and as we chatted with the owner, he told us that he had a good friend who was becoming famous as a chef in the US: Fabio Viviani (of Top Chef fame, and shame on you for not knowing that)! They went to school together, although they haven't seen each other for 15 years. The funny thing is that this gentleman had far better English than Fabio did on the show, which makes me all the more certain that Fabio was playing the Italian card pretty hard. As we walked out of the restaurant, the bus to Florence pulled up. Easy. We were back home before four, tired and full of food and the sweetness of life in Italy. Vive la dolce vita!

A short photo-essay

Our apartment is a twenty minute walk from campus. Since I teach at 8:30, I've been making this walk just as the sky brightens and the streetlights go off.

The view to the right as I walk out our front door onto Borgo Allegri. I turn, however, left, and then another left at Piazza Ciompfi, where I am greeted with

Brunelleschi's dome at sunrise! I turn right onto Via dei Pepi

Notice the street lights are off now -- unfortunate in this stone canyon of a medieval street. I turn left onto Via dei Pilastri, which turns into Via deli Alfani, a wider, brighter and busier street. I stop to have my morning cappuccino here

I like this bar. It is friendly, and at this time in the morning, entirely Italian. From the counter, I can see into the closet kitchen and watch the woman making panini for the afternoon. At the next intersection, if I look right, I see

If I look left, I see

(I took these pictures on my way home in the afternoon -- thus the difference in lighting. Oddly, there was too much traffic in the morning for me to dawdle in the intersection, while at 12:30, as you can see, there are almost no cars.) Then a right onto Via Ricasoli, where I walk past the Acadamia, the museum that houses the David.

Barely recognizable without the lines, the carts selling David themed boxer shorts, and the poster sellers with their wares displayed on the street. Finally, I cross Piazza San Marco, and stroll past the Giardino della Gherardesca, designed by Michaelangelo.

Campus and my hungover still drunk eager students are waiting! (Actually, that last joke is entirely unfounded. I expected my students to be constantly inebriated, but so far, I have seen no signs. Instead, they seem remarkably engaged, sharp, and open minded. They are making me intensely happy. I wonder how long it will last?)

Siamo arrivati qui!

We have successfully landed in Florence! In fact, our trip here was as easy as that length of trip could be. All of our planes were on time or early, our bags arrived, the line through security in Zurich was short and there was no line at all for the entry into the EU. That's right: we walked directly up to a friendly young Swiss man who merely cautioned Jeremy not to overstay his tourist visa, and away we went. The food on Swiss Air was almost completely neutral, neither good nor bad, until that is the snack on the short trip from Zurich to Florence, where they served us "butter bretzel," a bagel sized soft pretzel, split in half and filled with a slab of cold butter.  Okay, so do the Swiss like butter even more than the French? Because, honestly, that was too much butter even for me, and I didn't think that was possible. However, the Swiss did not lose our bags, so no complaints from me. Our cab took us nearly to our apartment, where our smiling and thoughtful landlady was waiting for us with a bottle of wine and -- just in case we didn't want to head out to a restaurant after such a long trip -- the ingredients for a simple pasta meal. So much for my fear of starving when we arrived!

As thoughtful as the pantry stocking was, we decided to head out anyway. Our apartment is very close (half a block) to Santa Croce, and there are a number of good and/or well known restaurants nearby. We are essentially on top of Baldovino, which is featured in nearly every guide book but which we have not yet tried. Around the corner from us is Il Francescana, a small, very Italian place, and that is where we settled in. We had the antipasti toscani -- slices of salami, coppa, and proscuitto, plus one tomato and one chicken liver bruschetta. That last is incredibly common here, and I love it, but I realize not everyone does. It reminds me of being in the kitchen while my dad roasted a chicken. He would always pull out the liver, cook it up and mix it with butter and salt for a little "pate" treat. I remember being in school in maybe first grade, and the teacher went around the room asking us what our favorite food was. I took the question very seriously, and while I should have been noticing that all my peers were saying safe, socially acceptable things like potato chips and chocolate cake, I was earnestly trying to figure out what I like best. It was, I recall, a three way tie between chicken livers, fried trout roe, and beef tongue with horseradish sauce. None of these answers was designed to endear me to, well, anyone. Really, could you come up with three stranger favorite foods? I was like a foodie Luna Lovegood. It's a good thing that my peers grew into my taste in food. 

Anyway, the bruschetta was fine, although nothing special. The cured meats were fine, too. And by fine, in this case, I mean they were typical of the cured meats here, which is, in fact, nothing short of amazing. One taste of a coppa here, and you realize that American salami, as good as it can be, never quite trusts the meat to speak for itself. When you cure meat, the flavors deepen, and funkify, and -- oh, I don't know. Something magic happens to them, and I've never really tasted it anywhere but here. So good. We followed up our antipasti with some pasta. I had an herbed gnudi in sage and butter sauce. The gnudi weren't quite as melty in the middle as the ones I make at home, but the butter was redolent of dairy and cow and field, and the sage was the perfect, earthy accompaniment. Jeremy had a squash ravioli in a brilliant orange-yellow saffron sauce. Both were really just lovely: simple flavors, simply prepared, and exactly what we wanted. 

This morning (after waking up ridiculously early), we went shopping. We returned to our beloved Mercato San'Ambrogio, and found, to my utter astonishment, zucchini with flowers! How is that possible? Where are they grown? They must have been fresh and local, because of the flowers, right? But it's January! So for dinner tonight, we made our favorite Florentine simple meal: zucchini, sliced thick and browned on both sides in olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper, and tossed with pici, a very thick, fresh pasta. Toss with lots more olive oil and lots of grated grana. That's it. Now, I know you are thinking that I cooked all the goodness out of that zucchini, and I would agree with most vegetables. In this case, an aggressive browning just brings out the sweetness that much more.  The pici is chewy and surprisingly flavorful, the zucchini is sweet, the oil is fruity and a touch bitter, and the cheese adds a great depth of flavor. To me, this is the essence of Italian cooking: simple, great ingredients, lots of really good olive oil. We were even able to find the olive oil we had last year in Perugia that we loved so much!  

Thanks for all of your good thoughts and wishes, and keep checking in. I'll try to post lots of pictures and recipes!