New Feature

A meta-update... an update on the blog itself... I've added a feature: down the right-hand side, beneath the archives, you can now subscribe to the blog. Might be handy if you are tired of my inconsistent updating and wondering when you check if it will be feast-or-famine time. It would seem you can receive updates only when I post or when I post and when comments are made. Please try it and let me know how well it works: specifically if it is easy to use and helpful. Thanks!

A Real Newsflash

For those reading the news headlines about Mumbai, I just wanted to post that I am safe and sound (something to be very thankful for this day) and far, far from Mumbai. I also (fortunately) had no plans to be back there during my travels (I fly out of Delhi).

For those who have not seen the headlines, here is a summary: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/7751707.stm

I want to thank all of you who emailed or posted messages inquiring after my current location. I feel so thankful to have so many good friends and family members looking out for my safety and well-being. Thank you!

I will post more later, but for now I am late to learn how to put on sari.

(Edit: I am back now. The unofficial sari wearing lesson was postponed, but I went to my cooking lesson. I decided I would just add to this post, since my comments are on the same subject.)

Actually, I am finding myself a bit at a loss for words. I don't think I will try to summarize the situation; it is complicated and still unfolding at this moment. Just follow the BBC link for up-to-date details.

I feel a bit as I did on September 11, 2001. Thankful to be ok, confused, and unable to really wrap my head around such a horrific event. I don't want to unsettle anyone, but some details of my time in Mumbai are probably warranted here (scroll to the bottom of the BBC article for a map of the places I will mention). I stayed in a hostel across the street from the Taj Mahal Hotel and Palace, one of the hotels targeted in the attacks. I could see it from my window and have some lovely pictures of its ornate architecture. I walked by Cafe Leopold several times. I was at the train station (CST or Victoria Terminus) three times: once to buy my ticket, once to take pictures (again, it is stunning), and once to actually take my train. The BBC doesn't say it, but in the picture at the top of the article linked above (caption: Indian army snipers climb scaffolding opposite the Taj Mahal Palace hotel) the sniper is climbing the Gateway to India, a major landmark in the city (again, I took pictures of it and wrote down the inscription). It is strange how this city, which literally a week ago was on the other side of the world, is now so familiar. I like Mumbai: I did not expect to from what others had told me. It is a friendly city and very walkable. I am concerned for both visitors to the city and its residents. The sweet Indian family that was on the train with me (with a 5 year old daughter and a 2 year old son, and the mom worked in Phoenix for a while) lives in Colaba-- just blocks from where I stayed and the Taj Mahal hotel. I hope they are still in Bangalore visiting grandparents and cousins. I am also thinking of Natalia, a sweet Brazilian girl who had been stuck at the hostel in Mumbai for two weeks, waiting for a replacement bank card to arrive. I hope she is ok.

I have much to be thankful for on this day of giving thanks, and I am thinking of many others, hoping they will have reason to celebrate as well.

A newsflash! Plus, a recipe and the inevitable.

**We are sorry to interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast for this important newsflash.**

I just saw an ELEPHANT! A giant-- really, really giant-- elephant strolling down the main street of the village. There was a boy riding the elephant and a man walking alongside it. The elephant was at least twice as tall as the man. The elephant was carrying a bundle of palm fronds. They were headed toward the river, so we took off in hot pursuit, hoping to see the elephant get its bath. Once they were around the side of the temple (the elephant is a temple elephant), they stopped, the elephant set down its bundle and bent one front leg, so the boy could use its knee to step on as he climbed down. The elephant then picked the palm fronds back up, turned around, went to the front of the temple and CLIMBED UP THE STONE STEPS-- a full flight of stairs-- and went INTO the temple.

**We will now resume our regularly scheduled broadcast of "Cooking with Brianna goes to India."**

Banana Leaf Ada - a traditional sweet snack in Kerala, perfect for tea time
Ingredients
1 c. roasted rice four (or wheat flour)
a small amount of ghee (or coconut oil)
salt (to taste)
1/2 c. water
1 c. grated coconut
4 T. jaggery (palm sugar)
1 t. cardamom
4 squares of banana leaf (one big leaf, tear off sections)

- Make dough with first four ingredients (flour, ghee, salt, water)
- Grate coconut. Mix with jaggery and cardamom to make filling.
- Roast banana leaf (until soft and supple). (We just roasted it for a few seconds over a gas burner.)
- Spread thin layer of dough on leaf. Cover with filling. Fold in half (the same direction as the grooves of the leaf).
-Steam 10-15 minutes.

Remarkably easy! And tasty! I made these this afternoon in my cooking lesson, and then promptly took the tasty results to afternoon tea to share with my new friends here at the Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural Centre (http://www.vijnanakalavedi.org/). A few notes about the recipe. I know you can buy rice flour in the US, and Nisha, my teacher, said you could roast it yourself (you can buy it already roasted here). She also said wheat flour would work. The dough is very soft and fine. It almost feels like it was made with confectioners sugar (I didn't feel the flour before it was wet, but I expect it is very fine). Actually, the best way I can describe the consistency is to say it is like the middle state of that cornstarch & water mix that stays firm when you play with it and goes all soft when it sits still. We grated the coconut ourselves (tomorrow I learn the proper way to shop one open) on a nifty device that clamps to the table. It is like a flat spoon with sharp little teeth all the way around that scrape the meat of the coconut. The jaggery looks like a stone, but it is soft enough to grate with the edge of a knife. I think you could replace this with any natural sweetener. We also peeled the cardamom seeds and crushed them ourselves. We steamed them in a pan made for making idlis (a breakfast food, more on that later). I really want to bring one of these pans home!

Today I also took a group yoga class and my first individual Kathakali class. Tomorrow I will also join the group Kalarippayatt (martial arts) class. More on these later (it's almost dinner time), but I must share....

The inevitable has happened. I puked yesterday. Repeatedly. Shortly after I got off the train and again after I arrived at the cultural centre. I don't think it was actual food poisoning or any of the other nasty things you can get from food or water here, as I recovered pretty quickly. I think it was just a combination of not sleeping that well on the overnight train (I took sleeper class-- no AC and three berths in the space of only two in the upper classes), getting overheated, not eating much on the train, etc, etc. I had my sleeper berth to myself during the night (thank goodness), but in the morning there were 13 people sitting in our little compartment that was meant to hold 6 (I have no idea, but no one seemed to check tickets for that portion on the trip-- everyone was very nice and well dressed, but I think they just pile on). The train was also too crowded to get to the bathroom (not that I really wanted to visit it with so many people using it....). Anyway, I felt nauseous on the train but survived the ride. I got off at the station in Chengannur and walked through town looking for a bank. I was waiting for them to restock the ATM with cash and felt really queasy, so I walked around the corner and found an overgrown grassy area..... feeling better, I went back to the ATM, got my money, took a rickshaw to the centre, got checked in, and then puked again, with poor Bala-- the director-- watching. I spent the afternoon resting (in my bed caged with a mosquito net). At one point, I went to get something out of my pack and sat on the floor. The tile felt so nice and cool, I ended up laying on the floor hugging my pack for a while. Between not feeling well (you know when you are so sick it seems like the world might just end?), some muggy overcast weather, and realizing that tomorrow is Thanksgiving (how did that happen? isn't it still early October?), I was feeling rather down last night and this morning. And this afternoon things are looking up: my classes were great, I am getting to know the other students (although three I really like are leaving this weekend!), I went for a nice walk to the river, and I saw an ELEPHANT!

I think there will be much more to tell, but for now I am off to eat dinner. Food here is served on a banana leaf (no plate!) and everything-- I mean everything-- is eaten with your fingers (right hand only!). There is silverware available if you really can't bear it.... and just in case I don't make it online tomorrow: HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

Bengaluru?

"Ahh, a good woman with strong muscles!" I could hear a voice behind me say as I heaved my pack on to the upper berth. I turned around and was met with a mirthful grin from an Indian gentleman. I laughed, and climbed up after my pack, read for a few minutes, and fell asleep (three nights in a row of no more than five hours sleep had caught up with me).

I woke up sometime later, groggy, and was greeted with, "You can't sleep the whole day away! You should be looking out the window and seeing the country. You can sleep when you get back to wherever you are from! You missed the hill station. Beautiful! 2000m, where all the British and now the wealthy people from Bombay have weekend houses." It was the same man, still with a friendly smile. I explained the jetlag and clambered down. He pointed out my daytime seat. It was a sleeper car, so there are a variety of configurations of benches that fold in to seats or sleeper berths, depending on the time of day. Our seats were next to the window, facing each other. My new friend turned out to be Dinker, who was on his way to Bangalore to cheer on the Indian cricket team in their match against Britain. He's lived in London for 40ish years, but still roots for India. His son and daughter are about my age, both doctors. We chatted away most of the afternoon, while enjoying the view from our window, getting to know the other passengers traveling near us, and tasting treats from on-board vendors and those at the stations. Dinker made sure I got off whenever the train stopped for a few minutes to stretch and walk ("Exercise and circulation are important! We aren't getting enough sitting on this train all day!").

(I'll interrupt the story here to say that normally when I fly, people look at me little strangely: before the flight I like to do some yoga poses and I'm always sitting cross-legged wherever I go. Let's just say that I wasn't the only person doing stretches on the platform and plenty of men and women of all ages sit cross-legged here.)

As the train slowed at one stop, he pointed out the window and asked if I had tried a certain fruit piled high at the fruit stall. I hadn't, so we hurried off the train to buy a sack-- and carefully wash it-- before the train pulled out again. The fruit was "bor". It is about the size and shape of a roma tomato, but not as red (more similar in color to winter tomatoes, if you have seen those). The texture and taste of the flesh remind me of a pear, but perhaps a bit spicier. They are small, so we each ate several and then started offering them to the other passengers we had befriended.

We had a number of children in our carraige. Three of them (two girls age five, one boy age two) kept stopping by to talk and play and climb like monkeys all over the bars. Shortly before dinner was delivered (veg thali and chapatis), I was singing "the hokey pokey", "head shoulders knees and toes", and "if you're happy and you know it" with them. Not only do these kids speak English, they know our songs too! This morning they asked me to play "stone paper scissors" with them. One of the girls played scissors on every single round.

Dinker kept teasing the children. They would ask where he was going and he would reply "Bengaluru!" They would laugh and scream and say "But this train goes to Bangalore!" The joke is that the two names are, in fact, for the same city. Many places in India have two names, a colonial name and a "new" name (that is usually the original name). I believe Bangalore changed names in 2006. Mumbai (formerly and often still known as Bombay) is another example.

I used an Indian toilet for the first time-- while on the moving train! An Indian toilet is squatting toilet, basically a hole with a place on either side for your feet. It's like being out in the woods, except with more wobbling as the train zips down the tracks.

The train ride went so quickly, I probably only spent a half hour or so reading. I slept well, for almost ten hours! (Even with an afternoon cup of chai from the chai-wallah that circulates up and down the train.) All in all, a great experience!

Even from the train, it is apparent that Bengaluru is a different sort of Indian city. Many of the same shanty structures around the outside of trash, plenty of laundry hung out to dry, cows and goats, and heaps of trash, but there's an addition: giant billboards for electronics and technology companies (including Google). Bangalore is not only India's modern IT hub, but it has a history of technological advancement as well. It was the first city in India with electric street lights!

I checked my bag at the cloak room and grabbed an autorickshaw over to Lalbagh Botanical Garden (Giulia, Rachelle, Mark, Jeff-- you would have loved it!). Almost all of the trees had labels with scientific names, common names, and place of origin. I saw lots of familiar species (varieties of palms and ficus, two mango trees, and a bunch of poincianas). Unfortunately, the cacti house was padlocked shut. Two of my favorites were the tamarind tree and the Bombax. The tamarind tree was covered in dangling pods. I used to buy them at the grocery store in Phoenix; inside the pods are big smooth seeds covered a tart pulp, almost like a fruit rollup in consistency. You could suck on them and eventually the pulp would melt in your mouth. The Bombax tree was enormous. (There are pictures.) You might know it by its other names: Silk Cotton or Kapok tree. Their gray bark wrinkles around the base of each branch, making it look rather like an elephant's trunk.

I am here visiting Catherine, a friend I met while hiking in New Hampshire (see the blog post from June). In a true "it's a small world" story, my friend Kathleen and I met Catherine and her father Chuck while we were all hiking in the White Mountains. They live in New Hampshire, but Chuck runs an IT company based here in Bangalore, and Catherine is studying in a really cool international studies program. She spent her freshman year of college in Costa Rica and is spending this year here in Bangalore.

chooo choooo

The internet cafe is closing (and I need to get to bed anyway.... jetlag is such a pain!), but a quick note to say that tomorrow I am hopping on a 8am train to Bangalore... that arrives at 8am on Sunday. Yep, 24 hours on a train. Should have much to tell. I also have much to tell about my visit today to the Dharavi slums. But I think the internet cafe closed sixty seconds ago....

PS I had more amazing food today. Veg korma for lunch and fresh squeezed sugar cane juice for a snack and some veg roll from a street stall for dinner-- a renowned street stall (I don't know what it was because we just told the guy to bring us the best thing)

So far, so great

Confession: I almost went to see the new James Bond movie this evening. I didn't even realize it had been released until I was on the plane last night. The Qatar Airways magazine had a few articles on the movie. Then this evening I was walking back to my hostel and went by a movie theater. Movies are only Rs70 (Rs = rupees). The exchange hovers around US$1 = Rs45 (today I saw it for Rs49), so that's less than two dollars. But alas, they are just showing it once a day (2pm) and I had missed the showing by about 4 hours. There is much I want to do here in Mumbai (and one more day to do it), but if I need a cool, dark respite tomorrow afternoon, you know where I'll be.....

Speaking of getting news from in-flight magazines, I have had really only two sources of news in recent weeks. The Economist issue with all the election results (the farm was I staying doesn't have internet, but they do get The Economist). That was a nice issue to see. A little funny to think I didn't know Obama won Florida until more than a week after the fact.... I also picked up The Wall Street Journal in the Rome airport on Wednesday. I read it cover to cover. I didn't miss the news the entire time I was in Italy, but then, when it was in front of me, I devoured it. And then I'd had enough.

Sitting in the airport in Rome, a song came on that sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. I had this sudden happy feeling, but something was off... I started thinking it must be a cover of a song I knew. Then the lyrics started and I recognized it: "Singing Sweet Home Alabama All Summer Long." I only heard it once, maybe twice, at home, and I had the same reaction: "hey, I know this song... no wait, no I don't... what is it?" Not as good as the song they pay tribute to, but I enjoyed it, as I munched on my final slice on Italian pizza.

The taxis I mentioned in my earlier post? They are black with yellow roofs. Some are decorated: window stickers or pompons on the back bumper. And apparently there are over 40,000 of them in Mumbai. When I walked out of the airport this morning, I really felt like I had been dropped into some colonial era movie set. I've been paying extra attention crossing streets today (Italy was good practice for that), remembering to look at opposite way! (You drive on the left here... thank the Brits). Best sign I saw today: No Parking - Tyres Will Be Deflated. (Forget towing, they deal with it themselves)

I knew there would be a lot of differences between Italy and India, and they made me extra appreciative of certain little things the last few weeks. Like being able to drink water straight from the tap, or even from public fountains in villages and cities alike. Or eating raw vegetables and fresh salads. I ate a lot of pasta the last few weeks, but fortunately I ate a lot of salad too. Speaking of which, my pack seems to have gained weight-- a fair amount, which is weird. I didn't souvenir shop in Italy, but the few random things I picked up weigh a fair amount. I, on the other hand, don't seem to have gained much weight, if any. I thought I had after a few weeks, but my belt is on the same hole...

One other difference: the language. Thanks to the similarities to English, Spanish (which I don't speak but have been exposed to quite a bit of), and Latin, I could understand a fair amount of Italian, and the key phrases are very manageable. Hindi is another story. A very different story, or rather, a very different language. To say nothing of the 17 squillion other languages spoken here (anybody want to guess the actual number of official languages?). Fortunately, plenty of people here speak English (again, thank the Brits).

For lunch I had veggie samosas, bhaigan bhartha, rice, and a mango lassi. Definitely the best samosas and bhaigan bhartha I have ever had. For Rs105 (remember the conversion rate?). It got me sweating a bit, but then again I was sweating to begin (I think it was 28 degrees Celsius when the plane landed this morning-- that's about 82F, but after the start of winter in Italy, it felt pretty warm). But, it reminded me of an ayurvedic principle: to cool down, one does not have a cool beverage, one has a warm beverage. Having a cool beverage triggers warming mechanisms to bring equilibrium, whereas a warm beverage induces the bodies natural cooling mechanism- in other words, sweat!

Maybe because I am in Mumbai, not Delhi, the touts and street vendors have been much less aggressive than I expected. In fact, they are not pushy at all- a shake of the head, a hand wave, or a smile and clear no are plenty. Most of the areas I walked though today were much less crowded than, say, NYC's Chinatown. And less weird, because the bootleg DVDs were out in the open, but quietly whispered as you passed by. It was weird to be trotted after by a beggar child. I've seen children begging, but this one only came up to my knee. She was with her mother and only stayed with me half a block. I am told that there are plenty of places here in Mumbai that will feed and shelter street kids, but many opt for begging because the money is better.

Speaking of money... I hate feeling like a tourist, and I try not to gawk at people. It's why you won't see many pictures of people on my camera: I don't want them to feel like animals in a zoo, but when you ask permission, the photos are less candid. But here, where I am paying Rs165 (less than US$4) for a hostel with a locker and breakfast included and less than US$2 for lunch.... and the average daily income in Mumbai is only Rs134 (that's under US$3).... and that's three times the national average. Oh, and remember, it's an average.... so for all the people here who make much more than, there are more who make even less. I am curious to know the median income (any of my math rockstars remember the difference and why it would be insightful to know both?). Over 55% of Mumbai's population lives in slums. No conclusions yet, but I'm thinking about it and I expect I'll be sorting this all out for a while.

Oh, and for those begging for photos, I have a new excuse. I got my first wish: internet here is cheaper than Italy. But it is also painfully slow. I think I might break this computer if I hooked my 8GB memory card to it. So, I promise there will be pictures.... eventually!

Hmmm, it is much later than I intended to be up this evening. Apparently jetlag has hit. I am now 10 1/2 hours ahead of EST, and 4 1/2 hours ahead of Italy and my internal clock (love the 1/2 difference), but I have somewhere to be in the morning (gasp! a schedule! actually, I've been getting up between 6:45 and 7:15am almost every day, sometimes even ealier, rarely much later), so I better scoot on out of here and see if I can get some sleep. My morning nap (which I desperately needed) was probably a bit longer prudent.

first impressions

The last few days I was in Italy, I kept repeating to myself, "I am going to India. I am going to India this week!" I couldn't get it to feel real. I felt excited, I felt nervous, but it didn't seem like it could possibly be true.

And now I am here! So far, so great. My flight was mostly men (maybe 90%), and the few that took notice of me were pointedly helpful. We arrived at 4am. Getting my bags and customs were a breeze. I hung out in the arrivals hall and read for a bit until the sun came up. Then I took a prepaid taxi to a hostel. After I paid for my taxi, I walked out to the parking area (no hassling or pressuring) and was greeted by a fleet of very clearly 1950s black British cars, Premieres, I think. They are great-- old, but very stylish, and the numbers are handpainted. If I sat up straight in the backseat, my head touched the roof.

As expected, the streets were filled with people, animals, and trash. Children going to school; adults cooking, ironing, bathing, sleeping; dogs picked through garbage piles, skinny cats (much thinner than their Italian cousins), goats, and oxen pulling some kind of tank/cart that looked like it might hold gas or oil and a driver sitting atop the tank. And trash, lots of trash and rubble. When the sun came up, the air was still hazy: I wasn't sure how much was pollution and how much was fog. At this point, I would say it was mostly pollution. At the hostel, I went almost immediately to sleep (my internal clock thought it was 3:30 in the morning, and I hadn't slept but an hour or two while I was traveling).

On my walk to the internet point, I saw the start of a wedding procession. Two horses pulling a giant silver carraige of shiny hammered tin. A 17-piece band in full regalia (by the way, I enjoyed autumn and the start of winter in Italy, but it is now back to swealtering summer weather). The keboard player was in a silver cart that marched the carriage and was pushed by two other men. When the back struck up a tune (they seemed to be warming up), they were fantastic! I couldn't believe I was hearing this live on a random street.

Now I am off to see a bit of Mumbai and book a train ticket to my next destination.

Oh, but first, for all my Indian food-loving friends (you know who you are), I would like to metion that I had veggie samosas at the Doha airport and saag paneer for dinner on my second flight. Hah! I'll let you know what tasty treats I find for lunch and dinner today :)

D'oh

I am currently in the Doha, Qatar airport (airport code: DOH) on my way to Mumbai. Somehow I have found free internet (on a terrible computer, but hey it's free), so if the blog gets hacked in the next few days.... that's why! Also, it boots you off after ten minutes, so this will be necessarily short.

My flight left Rome today at noon (+1GMT, so six hours ahead of EST) and arrived in Doha at 7:20pm (+3 GMT). I depart again at 10:20pm and arrive in the wee hours of the morning... 4:30am or something equally ridiculous (+5 1/2 GMT, I think... the time zones difference gets weird here).

I ran all over Rome the last two days: Colisseum, Roman Forum, Palatine Hill, Vatican (again), Pantheon (again), Giolitti's gelatteria (again and again) and also did some maintenance tasks (like picking up laundry soap and toothpaste). I wanted to get a bar of soap for washing laundry, instead of liquid or powder. Much easier to travel with. Turns out Italy (where much laundry is still handwashed and almost all is air-dried) is the perfect place to do that.

I didn't think I would even get to breathe the air of Doha, but I did... this is one of those airports where you disembark by a staircase into the open air and onto a waiting bus. So my few breathes of Doha air were distinctly fume-flavored....

I have 56 seconds remaining, so I am going to sign off and go explore.... the airport! Woohoo!

A quick one

Still staying at the farm near Spoleto. Headed back to Rome on Monday. Flight to Mumbai (Bombay), India, on Wednesday. Yikes! Hard to believe. I haven't quite gotten my head around it yet-- I say "I am going to India this week" but it doesn't seem real.

Last night as part of dinner we had fresh pressed olive oil-- it had just come back from the mill! And I helped pick the olives! Much more about olives when I have some time.... Yesterday I hiked out to an abadoned village. Great story, worth telling when I have more time. Today walking around Spoleto I saw lots of Chickweed growing. Now that I can identify it, I wanted to pick it and eat it on the spot. I am spending lots of time walking around identifying everything edible thing I see (wild asparagus, berries, greens).

I am sad that my time on the Italian farms is almost over. My hands are callused from my new pick axing skills and I have all sorts of scrapes from blackberry brambles, but I will miss it. Ah well, on to the next adventure! More soon (but hey, it's only been a week since the last post. Good huh?)

Thanks for all the messages!

Il Piano

Italians love the word "tranquilo" (as in tranquil). According to my phrasebook it means "quiet" but they use it to mean "calm" or "take it easy", except that calmly sing it several times (as they do most words) instead of using the irritatad tone most Americans have when they spit out "take it easy". A favorite synonym- and the name of the current farm where I am staying- is "piano" (pronounced not like the instrument but pya-no).

I am still in Umbria, near the town of Spoleto.

View Larger Map

Today is my day off, so I took the bus to town to gorge myself on the internet. There is not internet at the farm. I can walk to several villages, but they are true villages with ten, maximum twenty residents, and no shops. They all look like stone fortresses clustered on hilltops, but most residents are aging (average age 60-70) and the populations are dwindling. There is apparently one village at the bottom of the valley that has a post office and a bar. One day after I feed the horses, I am going to follow the trail through the woods and see if I can find it.

There are two horses and three donkeys on this farm, so I am happy as I can be. One of the horses is named Sorba, for the berry that also gave its name to the frozen dessert, sorbet. There is also a five month old donkey colt name Fico (fig); his nickname is Ficchissimo (making him the "most figgy", I guess). I am helping halter break him and teaching him to walk with a lead rope.

I am learning to identify a variety of wild greens: amaranto, mallow/malva, dandelion, chickweed, chicory, wild arugula, lamb's quarters, and more. Every morning the valley is full of mist: the house is high enough that we look over the clouds and see the mountains peaks floating like islands on the sea of fog. I have plans to hike out and find an abandoned town, Roccagelli, desserted before villages used cement. We start harvesting olives tomorrow or Monday. I am hoping they will be ready to go to the mill before I leave. I want to taste fresh squeezed oil, just off the presses....

That's all for now. More when I get back to Rome on the 16th or so (that is the next time I will have internet access).

PS Sorry the blog has been a feast or famine thing since I've arrived in Italy. As I mentioned, I haven't had internet access! But I appreciate your patience and love all of your replies. Keep 'em coming! And one day, if I have the time and cheap internet access (not here in Spoleto!), I promise some individual replies...

Pratale

(Again, pretend this was posted Monday, November 3.)

Last week I took a train to Rome's Termini station, followed by a short subway ride to Tiburtina, and a longer bus ride to Umbria, just outside the town of Gubbio (north of Rome, in the mid-calf region of Italy).

View Larger Map

I was worried about getting off the bus in the right spot. After all, I had gotten lots of wrong directions walking around Rome. How could this driver possibly know which stone wall to let me off at? But he did. He knew the exact spot and with calls of "Grazie! Prego! Buonasera! Ciao ciao ciao!" he left me standing at the side of the road in the dark, under a streetlight but in the middle of nowhere. It was a beautiful night, but it had rained that morning and the wind was gusting. With my directions and headlamp (off but in my pocket), I left the streetlight behind and set off on a very dark 4km walk to the fork in the road (go right off the pavement), past five farmhouses (just far enough apart that in between every one I started wondering if I'd somehow taken a wrong turn and would have to sleep in the woods), into Ivo's farmyard and down the track to my destination: Pratale. I was greeted by a warm bowl of soup and a game of Jenga. Shortly after I arrived, the rain poured down.

Pratale is remote. I would have to hike those 4km back up and out and take a bus to town if I wanted to use the phone or internet. They do have electricity and indoor plumbing here, although they frequently forego the indoor toilet for the "ecological loo" to conserve water: they depend on rainwater collection and a solar pump, so water conservation is a daily matter here. Meals are cooked on a wood burning stove, and I helped make bread in the stone oven in the courtyard. Again, the food is tasty- hearty and filling, rivaled only by the spectacular views and rich conversations. Martin and Etain, my hosts here, are the most well-educated, wordly people you will ever meet living in the middle of nowhere with no car. They also have an extensive library. Etain started handing me books to read the first night here. I told she'd be lucky to get any work out of me if she kept it up. But they also have three Camargue horses, a native Italian breed, so I am happy to head for the hills, I m mean fields... because that means talking to the horses. Camargue horses are born solid chestnut, they eventually turn a speckled red roan, and finally mature to pure white. (Side note: I was picking a lot of chestnuts at Sebastiano's farm and one day, admiring the deep brown sheen with rich red tones, I realized with a start why chestnut colored horses are called chestnut....)

I have so much more to tell about Pratale, but I am getting woozy starting at this computer screen and I need to get out of this internet cafe. I leave you with some reading recommendations:
The Glass Palace - Amitov Ghosh (sweeping novel of historical fiction)
A Silent Joy: The Diaries of an Italian Hill Farm -Etain Addey (nonfiction, by my hostess here at Pratale)
Real Horsepower: Living and Working with Horses and Donkeys -Martin Lanz (my host)
The Revolution Will Not Be Microwaved: Inside America's Ungerground Food Movements - Sandor Ellix Katz
wild fementation! -Sandor Ellix Katz (learn to make your own bread, yogurt, beer, wine & kimchi!)

More Cowbell

(Ok, I wrote this post the old-fashioned way, that is to say with pen and paper, on Monday, October 27, but this is the first time I have had internet access in several weeks. So just pretend the post date is a week and a half ago.)

Alas, the cows have been moved to another pasture. I miss the gentle clanging of distant cowbells lulling me to sleep at night.

It's as if this farm has been plucked straight from the pages of a storybook. Before my trip, I was trying hard not to romanticize the idea of working the olive harvest in Italy, a tricky thing to avoid when every person I told gasped, "Will you be in Tuscany? It's just like that movie... Under the Tuscan Sun!" "No," I would reply, "I will not be in Tuscany." This farm is along the is in the village of San Giovanni a Piro (between Salerno and Sapri, next to Parco Nazionale del Cilento and Golfo de Policastro).

View Larger Map

The house and the village were built in the 16th century and are made entirely of stone. Solid stone. This land and the house have been in my host, Sebastiano's family for 500 years. Everything is sloped here, nothing is level. Streets and fields alike are steep climbs. Most of the farmland is terraced. From the house there is a view of the sea to the east and Mt. Bulgheria to the west. The cobblestone alleys of the medieval village are so narrow that in some in places I can touch the walls on both sides when I stretch out my arms.

Despite the fairytale atmosphere, there is a reality to life on this farm. The house is drafty and extremely cold in winter (and even now, in the relatively mild weather). There is a cracked wall from an earthquake in the 80s that is in need of repair soon-- hopefully before another earthquke hits. The farmers here, like in so many places, work hard, long hours to make ends meet. Several of the men I have met have four jobs, and they are not unusual here.

Yet, it is a beautiful place. The villagers are friendly. Everyone greets you with "Buongiorno" or "Buonosera" (depending on the time of day). The landscape is spectcular. With the steep terrain, every turn grants a new vista. As I work, I can't help pausing and looking around in awe. After nearly two weeks here, the first thing I do every morning is look out the window at the sea and the mountains. I look out that window morning, noon, and night-- actually, every time I pass it.

The farm quickly came to feel like home. I think it is the distinct rhythms of our day and the wonderful company. We eat breakfast (toast and fig jam-- we made the jam ourselves) at the table in the kitchen. Lunch is on the terrace with a view of the sea. Dinner is at the great wooden table in the dining room: several of Sebastiano's spectacular dishes that leaves us scraping the bottom of the pan to get every last bit. There's always plenty of homemade wine and even better conversation. Dinner table conversation is largely in Enlgish, but we've had speakers of many languages (Italian and Enlgish- British and American, but also French, Spanish, German, Turkish, Serbian, Swedish and Hebrew), making for an entertaining linguistic melange with topics that equally varied. We've enjoyed sharing and comparing words and phrases from our respective languages. I think my favorite was a discussion of the name for "stinkbugs" around the world. In Sweden, since the bugs sit on berries and emit a distinct odor, they are called "barfis", which translates as "berry fart."

I spend most evenings in the kitchen trying to learn the secrets of Sebastiano's cooking. He was raised in Milan but lived in London for 20+ years, so he is a master of Italian and international cuisine. As my dear friend Giulia has often told told me, the key to Italian cooking is using a few simple, fresh, good quality ingredients. (But simple, I've learned, does not mean always mean easy.) Here are the directions for basic tomato sauce (mom, I still love your tomato sauce, but this requires much less work!): Can of peeled tomatoes (not chopped or diced), clove of garlic, olive oil. Do not saute the garlic; put all three ingredients in the pan together. Cover and heat to a gentle boil. Turn down heat and simmer. Break up the tomato into smaller pieces. Uncover slightly, continue simmering until the water evaporates. Cooking time will be about 40 minutes. Some people are tempted to add sugar and cook for less time, but Sebastiano says be patient. The acid of the tomatoes will evaporate with the water. If you add sugar, you end up with a weird sweet and sour taste. Note: Sebastiano salts his pasta water heavily, which is why the sauce is not satled. You can use this sauce as is or add capers, olives, etc (we did the latter and took it to the beach for a picnic yesterday). You can also use this sauce for parmigiana di melanzane (eggplant-- or aubergine-- parmesan). If you are nice, I might share that recipe, too :)

It's never a good idea to put something in your mouth, unless you know for sure that it is safe to eat. I am one of those people who is always tempted to eat berries and other tasty edibles on the spot, no washing required. Fortunately this farm is organic and has given me plenty of opportunities for munching in the fields: chestnuts, walnuts, pine nuts, hazelnuts, borage flowers, several varities of grapes, mint, apples, persimmon, fig, buckwheat, arbouse/corbezzo berries (those are the French and Italian names, I haven't figured out the English name), arugula, zucchini flowers, tomatoes, and yes, olives straight from the tree (very bitter!).

Humor is supposed to be one of the most difficult things to understand in a foreign language, and I suppose this is true for puns and sophisticated turns of phrase, but laughter itself is a common language. We have had plenty of giggling, chuckling, and gales of outright laughter in spite of (or perhaps because of) our language barriers. Next time you see me, ask about my new Italian nickname.

In related news, my limited Italian vocabulary is expanding. When I arrived on the farm from Rome, I realized that most of the words I had learned so far were food words: and most of those were gelato flavors! (No surprise to any of you who were in Rome with me....) Now I am learning another distinct group of words: farming terms. I'll leave you with another guessing game (no online translation sites allowed). First, an easy one, what is a "trattore"? Next, what is "le tame"? And finally, three names for one of my favorite tools: rongola, pinota, and maccero.