warmth in the cold cellar

Tonight, the girls (Isolde, Thomasina, Caroline and Alex) returned home from a visit to a neighbor after dark. The warm sunny day had turned to a cold fall evening. But instead of entering a chilly, cold cantina, they entered a warm kitchen and sitting room. The previous day, I had finished the stove pipe penetration of our roof; and this evening, I lit the first fire in our new sitting room. By the time the girls returned home, the rooms were unusually warm and cozy. And, boy, did I get a bunch of hugs and kisses! In fact, Isolde announced that we should have our supper in front of the fire as a celebration. And so we did, eleven years since the idea was hatched.

recce on the path of the partisans

 They were communists. The partisans, the local people who resisted the crushing, grinding cruelty  of the fascist regime and it's economic system. Poor people. People of the land. Proud, clever, honest, family, community people. They are still here. They are in every handmade brick, olive tree, terraced hillside, vineyard and crumbling ruin. They are in every bottle of wine, every loaf of bread.
   When we first visited the bar in Moiano, we stood on a large outdoor terrace paved with broken flagstone. In the mosaic of the paving spread a huge hammer and sickle. When clearing out an old partition wall in the house, I found the hammer and sickle stamped into the old bricks; and when removing old plaster from the wall outside what was once the front door, I unveiled a painted hammer and sickle. The proud symbol of the local resistance.

abandoned transit station at top of the ridge with 'modern'
campaign sticker

   The Italian fascists insidiously took control of Citta della Pieve under the increasingly desperate authority of their Nazi occupiers. In June, '44 a local religious leader was killed for partisan sympathy. One by one, two by two, the cittadini abandonded their farms and family homes and hiked their gear from the town to a camp on Mount Pausillo, overlooking tiny, and appropriately named, Paciano, where Isolde and Thomasina attended elementary school. They left a small gravel road contouring near the ridge top across the valley. The victims, the temporary refugees of their own right-wing government, became the communist partisans. The resistance fighters armed with a few farming tools and plenty of cunning determined to defend their common human rights and honest lifestyle.
   In a Santa Fe bookstore, Bob found a book entitled An Umbrian War by Romana Petri, a translation of her Alle Case Venie published in 1997. Romana describes the fall of the fascists in Citta della Pieve through the eyes of a fictitious young orphan and her younger brother. It's told in thoughtful, ephemeral, occasionally confusing style with Alicina having conversations with her father's ghost, coping with treacherous nazi sympathizers, sending her younger brother on spy missions and finally abandoning her old family home and joining the rebel band in the mountains. Hearing the story set in the countryside right around our house thrilled me and inspired me to seek out and follow the the path of the partisans. Any excuse, really, to get up on the high ground and have a look around will do; but the idea of a history lesson as well as a mountain bike adventure turned the idea into a compulsion.
   So Bob arrives. We scramble into the attic and dust off his bike, dig out his helmet and shoes, and have a good hard look at what the girls will ride. We're going to need water, of course, and the promise of a summit picnic as well as ice cream at the end. We'll have no map, but I've been studying the contours with Google Maps for so long, I've got most of it memorized. It'll be a little tricky since it's a point to point ride with the start in Citta della Pieve, about a half an hour away from our house. The girls have actually been to the summit of Monte Pausillo on school outings, so they know the way down from the top to Paciano. I'll have to drive us up to Citta della Pieve, guide everybody across the traverse and then return to the car, leaving Bob to accompany the girls down to Paciano and home.

Monti Cetona e Amiata for anyone who might care

    Realizing it's a complicated route and likely too difficult for our novice crew, I organized a light-weight, low-key reconnaissance by driving the bikes up the Via della Resistenza to the top of the ridge where it intersects the path of the partigiani. Zoe and Alexander, two workaway volunteers, were conscripted making us a party of 6. Two cars. Bob decked out in full regalia on a proper cyclo-cross bike, the rest of us in blue jeans, sneakers and a hodge-podge of children's mountain bikes and used clunkers. One of the bikes I rode had 24" tires and had to be stopped to engage the inner chainring. What looked like a smooth fire road on Google Earth turned out to be nice a steep in places well washed down to babyheads in places. Bob rolled over on one of the uphill pitches putting a gruesome elbow on display. Everybody had to push eventually and from the high turn-around we could see our objective (along with the rest of tuscany and umbria), but it was just out of reach for our preparation. "You can't do that," Thomasina said. "What do you mean? It's right there. We'll go up there, but not today." "It's too steep. A car couldn't get up there." "We'll get up there. We might have to push, just like this; but we'll get up there."

   I watched Thomasina and Zoe walk down from the turn-around thinking it wonderful we wouldn't have any foolish casualties. A little further on, Thomasina got the hang of it and off she went, just to skid and jump off in front of Isolde on the last pitch to the car. Jeesh! We've got some learning to do.

toying with father

   Isolde looked at me and said between gasps, "One lesson from this ride: Stick together." I failed to mention that when we left the Madrevite winery we'd have another hill to climb before we headed home. Thomasina and I had swapped bikes so I was now on the nice Stumpjumper while she was on the heavy clunker. But despite this, she eased away from Isolde and I and by the time we reached the intersection at the top, she was gone. But which way? Back to Villastrada from where we had come or across the white roads to Cioncola in the direction of Le Coste and home. We coasted along looking in both directions until I finally asked Isolde to stop and wait while I raced back to Villastrada. No Thomasina. I rejoined Isolde and we climbed up to Poggi and through the narrow gap between the buildings where the view opened up across the hills. No Thomasina. "Do you girls know these roads? Would she know how to get home from here?" "No!" "OK, I think we should go back to Villastrada and down that way. She'd know that road."
   Earlier that day, on the long climb up from the valley to Villastrada, Thomasina rode away from Isolde and I, establishing herself as the best climber. Light, skinny riders do this to their friends. Being light and skinny myself, I used to do this too. But now I'm old and creaky as well as light and skinny, and my children are doing this to me now. At least Thomasina is. I never felt it was a competitive instinct that would drive me to do this, but now I know better. We found her resting at the top, red-faced and radiant. Isolde and I red-faced and defeated.
   Now, a little worried, Isolde and I huffed and puffed back to Villastrada and began our long coast down through the little town and out onto the open descent to the valley floor. It's a long, straight, gentle descent that makes one feel like a soaring bird. And the landscape sweeps away and it seems miles are covered with no effort. But in all the openness, no Thomasina.
   And it dawned on me, of course she went the other way. She pressed her advantage on the hill to guarantee she arrived home first. From the high country all the nearby landmarks could be seen and the direction home would have been evident even if she had never been on the roads before. She was, right now, home waiting for us. Red-faced and radiant.
    "What if she's been kidnapped? What if she has crashed? Or maybe she's lost." Isolde's worry grew with every pedal stroke. We cranked along the long road home, my shoulders down in the headwind. This, the very same stretch of road where the girls pedaled away from me for the first time as I ran
behind, helping with their balance. "What do we do if she's not there when we get home?" "We'll back-track with the car." Isolde needed a plan. I was the leader, but I wasn't leading now. And I knew the ache in my legs was the same feeling Thomasina must have felt getting closer to home. But better. And only I was feeling the ache in my knees.

Cantinaplex

   OK, I know, it's been a long time since I've written anything; but my excuse is that I've had no descent keyboard. Our two laptops collapsed at the same instant  leaving me a Dell Inspiron mini 10 with the most minuscule keyboard ever sold as a positive asset.  I've got arthritis and I can't work this thing. I'm sorry.
   Furthermore, the Inspiron Mini has been hacked as a HACKINTOSH so I HAVE no Idea how to manage the operating system. ;lwt alone the keyboard, which has all its keys reassigned. When I get the ThinkPad back, I swear I'm going to reboot this thing as a simple Chromebook. I mean, Why?.... What is all this WYSIWYG GUI? Why?
   Off the rant and on to the story.
   And the story is that, as of today, we have doors and windows in the cantina (basement) where we used to have open holes out to the elements. For 10 years. At least that's how long we have lived with open holes. Previous occupants have certainly put up with many thousands of years more than we have, but I don't care. I've put the best years of my life into this goal of doors and windows in the cantina of this wretched Italian farmhouse and it's a big deal for me.
   Now, before you book your holidays, I've got to mention that there is still no GLASS in those doors

mauro buffini, umbrian carpenter with his mahogany doors

and windows. Only wood frames. That's right, just wood frames. One doesn't fit quite right either; but never mind. It's only been ten years. Count 'em. And I'm pretty old already. So when one doesn't fit and there's no glass.... well, what? Who's complaining, right? Before Mauro the carpenter left tonight, I had to take him aside and say: "Ho aspettato dieci anni...TEN YEARS!"
   I have a feeling he will be back tomorrow early with either silicone sealer for the glass, or a straight jacket. Stay tuned.

UPDATE
   The day after I wrote the post above, our carpenter arrived before I delivered coffee to Alex in her bed. I'm forever impressed by the pride Italian workers take in their work. Even if it's terrible. It doesn't matter. If it's crap work, they're as proud as punch. If it's really good, they're still proud. Odd. You can't trust 'em. But then, the coffee I deliver to Alex every morning is, in my opinion, always good. Simply because I've gotten out of bed before she has,
   Anyway, Mauro Buffini drove up and began fiddling around before coffee time. And by the time coffee was delivered, he already had glass in some of the frames.

did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

   Years, I tell you, years. Years of dreaming, deliberating, getting ideas, being inspired, being disappointed, deciding, changing minds, worrying. Fretting, fighting, quitting. It's been years of putting up with delays and being unable for every reason to finish the ground floor of this house. And all this time, one of our most difficult decisions was how to finish the floor. Now the carpenter was demanding a floor. He couldn't take accurate measurements for the doors without a threshold.
   It's an old house, terracotta is traditional. Shall we stick with terracotta? We've lived with terracotta upstairs, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedrooms. We're sick of terracotta. It's dirty. It's porous. It takes more maintenance than we want to do. So what else? Old or modern? Dark or light? Shiny or rough? Underfloor heating compatible? Stone! Cut stone! What stone? Marble? No; surprisingly affordable here but too grand for a farm house. Travertine? Also surprisingly affordable but wine stains. Sandstone? Everything stains. Granite? Ridiculously expensive, dark and also stains. Wood? Really expensive, worthless for a kitchen. Alex fell in love with polished concrete. Very trendy. Very difficult and expensive. I didn't think I could do it. It would require a polisher, and then a treatment. OK, how about Ultratop, a synthetic, 'self-leveling' floor poured in retail stores. It looks like a fake polished concrete in the pictures. No supply store sold it. The experts came out. We ordered a sample bag. We talked a neighbor into trying it. Theirs bubbled and they barely talk to us now.

'Tiramisu' from Carducci l'edilizia
giorgio7carducci@yahoo.it

   Desperation drove us to Omar. Omar is a modern day rug merchant, but Omar doesn't sell rugs. He sells tile. Not Chinese tile. Italian tile. Gres porcellana. Ees beeuteefull. Anytheen you want. Omar has built a three storey temple to Italian tile where people like us can find salvation. We took home heavy samples that looked stunning in his temple and ridiculous in our muddy ruin. With our capacity for decision-making exhausted, we chose a tile identical to our white-washed walls but with one concession to fashion: 'large format.' Our tiles are a meter square. I'm not supposed to lift them by myself. Pondering the methods of laying these monsters, I realized that such large tiles will magnify any

irregularity in the surface of the structure supporting the tile. A wave, crack or seam in the concrete will be amplified three feet away into a sharp, tripping edge. Panicky, I rushed to YouTube for tips and found a genius in southern Italy who has invented a tile spacer with a leveling cap built in. These draw the tile edges level with adjoining tiles while they are still floating on fresh glue. With $100 worth of these gadgets and another $100 worth of high-tech setting cement waiting, I'm now cutting our precious tiles to fit the wavy walls of our rooms.
    I figure by the Ides of March the world will be judging my work. And knives will be waiting for me in the forum.

world champions in Florence

    It was Bob's idea, some time ago. He said, "I'm coming back to Italy and we'll go to the 'Worlds' in September." Great idea, Bob. To us, 'The Worlds' means only one thing: The Rainbow Jersey. It's something a bike racer is entitled to wear all year long indicating that she, or he, is the world champion by virtue of winning one race on one glorious day every year. If you manage to win the Yellow Jersey at the Tour de France, it hangs on your wall all year. You win the Rainbow Jersey; it hangs on your back. The 'Worlds' date back to track events in 1892, and the first road race world championship was awarded in 1921. Italy has won more medals, historically, than any other country.
    This year Italy hosted the 'Worlds' and, in fact, held them in Tuscany for the first time. Bob did show up, and we went to watch the 'Worlds.' Rain and shine.
     The guy who actually made it possible was Max, my best Italian friend from Rome. He's a clever, cheerful Tuscan transplanted to Rome working in TV news production and a very distant employee of Silvio Berlusoni. Who he hates. And so should you. Max's family lives in Pistoia, birthplace of the pistol and a short distance west of Firenze. I visited here once before with Max and the reception was so warm and homey, I was eager to return and equally eager for Bob to experience Italian hospitality at its best. We arrived on Saturday in time to see the women's race.

Max dodging the sun at Montecatini Terme

    The race route passed just south of Pistoia over a daunting climb before heading for 10 circuits between Fiesole and Firenze. Absolutely beautiful weather. We watched the race on TV from behind a feast supplied by Max's aunt after visiting the start in Montecantini Terme. This is an old (seriously) resort town in the grand, over-the-top, Roman style. Colonnaded palaces, huge gardens, fountains, statues, the whole fiasco. Through the spacious wooded grounds, the team vans set up shop with mechanics, trainers, sponsors, racers, and gwakers all milling about in decorative lycra and festive chaos. We studiously noticed surprising gear ratios indicating a much more difficult course than was advertised, and sure enough, the race was wildly exciting with numerous heroics on every hilly circuit. Marianne Vos of Holland is currently the best cycling athlete in the world, seemingly able to win on any kind of bike in any kind of event yet still maintain remarkable popularity 'in the bunch.' She won, predictably, but it is was a good race with tough rides from English, American, and Italian riders.
    We took the train to a crowded downtown Firenze for the men's event on Sunday and spent the day walking up the

Max wringing out in Fiesole

mountain to Fiesole in seriously deteriorating weather. By the time we got to our picnic spot halfway up, we were all completely soaked along with our sandwiches. Despite the misery, I'll never forget the enthusiasm of the crowd. The sound: the vibrating power of the most deafening, sustained boom from the hundreds of tifosi crammed onto the sides of the road. These weren't screams or shouts, but a deep, inhuman, baritone roar so uncharacteristic on what is normally an eerily silent passage of a pack of bike racers up a sustained climb. The climb finished in the town of Fiesole where a huge digital movie screen displayed the video feed from the various helicopter and motorcycle cameras. A good vantage point except for the fact that the torrential rain allowed very little camera action and we were frozen stiff, shivering and soaking wet. Standing in the cold wind in front of a fuzzy tv screen didn't make a whole lot of sense. My hands had become frighteningly uncontrollable. We ducked out of the wind into a crowded, steamy bar to thaw out over a hot chocolate, but the effect didn't last long. Unable to stand still for fear of exposure, we retreated down the hill, more or less ignoring the race, until we reached the 'pit lane.' In each cabana was a closed circuit tv displaying the race which we could see from across the street.
   The sport is famous for awful conditions and it's rare that an event is shortened or postponed due to weather. This race was no different, the race must go on; but many described it as 'epic.' A few tough favorites survived till the end and they must have been angrily determined to see this through. In particular a rough, tough Colombian, Rigoberto Uran, who finished second in the last Olympic road race, looked in perfect position, romping strongly up to Fiesole and recklessly careening down the mountain in true Colombian form. The roads were no longer awash in deep, running water and Rigorberto put his mountain skills to the limit. Until he lost it on the descent and cartwheeled dramatically into the mountainside, raising screams from us frightened tv watchers. The Italian favorite ran out of gas chasing two Spainards. They looked like sure winners, but botched their tactics and allowed a Portugese to win, bringing tears to all eyes.
   Great idea, Bob! He drove us back home that night with the car heater going full blast.

going vegan

   For a long time now, Alex has kept her ear to the rantings on the internet about the quality of our food. Before I knew her, she had tried dieting, fasting and purging to help improve her life with apparently satisfactory results since she was successful in attracting me as a mate. Now that she's succeeded, she's still not satisfied. Now, it seems, she wants to keep her mate in tip-top shape for ever and ever. That's very flattering, but the trouble is, I have to change my habits, which I fear may change what she saw in me in the first place. I'm worried because I might become a little grumpy and her grand plan could backfire.
   Today for lunch, I put a cover over my lentil salad saving it for later. At supper time, we were served garden snails to top our whole grain spaghetti. I'm not sure this is pure 'vegan,' but it may be an abstract contribution to the success of our vegetable garden which will one day contribute to our "vegetable-based, whole foods" diet. In a previous post I have already mentioned bird seed as an important contribution to our youthful complexions. Every morning we get a heap of ground up flax seed on top of our soy-milk muesli. One thing is certain: I remain a lean, mean, fighting machine.
    It's easy to say it all started with a movie called "Forks over Knives," but that's not really true. The movie is just the latest in a long string of reinforcements to the conclusion that what the grocery stores are selling isn't that good for us. Prior to watching the movie, Alex read a book called Fats That Heal, Fats that Kill. The book drags everyone through a first year study of biochemistry, before concluding that veggies are good and meat is bad. And flax seed meal is really good. Full of fresh omega-3s. Now we are moving on to the the writing of Colin Campbell, first his distillation of data in the China Study, and then on to Whole which I have a feeling will promise me an old age of worn out teeth.
    Parallel to this, I accidentally discovered the TED talk by an outrageous English thinker, Aubrey DeGray. His fast-paced argument proposes that my children may be faced with the prospect of immortality and that we need to get our "shit together." I've long wondered that the whole Darwinian thing of adaptation through natural selection is hopelessly old fashioned in the face of modern medicine, birth control, genetics technology, and wealth distribution. After all, we haven't been naturally selecting our food stocks for quite a while. George Bush and the Catholic Church may have interfered with embryonic stem cell research but the delay was brief. In Japan they have figured out you don't need embryonic cells, in fact, you don't need stem cells at all to clone to your heart's content. According to Nina Tandon, replacement body parts built from your own data is only 10 years away. It's nice to know that I no longer need to consider evolutionary improvements to myself, I feel pretty happy with myself as I am. Or do I?
    There is this other podcast (BBC's radio discussion 10 Billion) that's troubling me. Stephen Emmott writes that the global catastrophe is just around the corner. We don't have enough water and we have demonstrated that we have no intention of dealing with it. Apparently it takes four litres of water to produce one to drink, and 100 to produce one cup of coffee. With a growing population and shrinking ability to produce food, due to climate change, we're all going to die. But wait a minute, if we start living forever and stop having babies, maybe we can hold out till .... we're imortal!