Martello e Trofie Wife

Euro Thanksgiving 2.0

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 00:26:00 +0000

Zucca (pumpkin) pizza

It was tough for Trofie Wife to spend yet another Thanksgiving away from home. Apart from special birthdays falling on years ending in 0, 5, 3, or 8, this is the only time of the year when all of her siblings are together. It was at least some comfort that Zurich Sister wouldn’t be making it to the feast in 2009 either, pending her permanent return home two months later. A trip back East (er, I guess it’s west of here) would have also allowed her to attend her 10th high school reunion, but thanks to the wonders of social networking, there was a lot less unsated curiosity.

At least this second Thanksgiving in Italy we’d have guests and proper food, as opposed to the prior year’s debacle of Martello working late and our fish ravoli disintegrating in the pot. Thanksgiving 2009 featured guests from five countries (plus token Americans)—South Africa, Costa Rica, Norway, France, and Italy—and we think we did a fair enough job explaining its significance to them all.

We featured American favorites as well as those with an Italian twist— Gorgonzola on sweet crackers topped with candied raspberries (a recipe I picked up from Housing Works’ catering company and have shared at past family Thanksgivings), pizza with pumpkin, brined turkey breasts (no way a whole turkey was making it into that oven!), Brussels sprouts with craisins (procured thanks to the American bazaar; they were so good that Martello, the avowed Brussels sprouts foe, not only tasted but actually enjoyed them), chestnut stuffing, and of course some cupcakes—peanut butter chocolate chip.

Pette della tacchino

Martello-approved Brussels sprouts

Euro Thanksgiving 3.0 is just around the corner…hope to report back on it before Turkey Day 2011!

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Via della Sfiga!

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 00:22:00 +0000

Trofie Wife saw Avenue Q back when it first arrived on Broadway and her post-college life had close parallels with those depicted onstage (she may have gotten a little weepy when she first heard “I Wish I Could Go Back to College…”). Martello never saw it onstage, but his laptop somehow acquired the soundtrack, and he was familiar enough with the story and music so that when we saw large posters around town featuring mischievous-looking puppets, we agreed that we should give the Italian version playing at the Politeama Genovese theatre --Via della Sfiga-- a shot.

It was fascinating to see how they translated the book, which is tuned to American pop culture and political references. Thanks to our cultural exports, nearly everyone knew (as evidenced by laughter) who Arnold from TV’s Diff'rent Strokes was. During “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” some of the text interludes included jokes that played on Italian regional stereotypes. We kinda missed the one about the Genovese, but the crowd was in stitches, and in the ensuing months as we gained more knowledge of our surroundings, we became fairly certain that the line had something to do with their supposed “cheapness” ...er thrift. During intermission we were intrigued by the ads projected onto a pulled down screen, a la movie theatre previews (American theatre professionals reading this take note!).

Martello and I were surprised that Rod’s imaginary girlfriend still lived in Canada. We were expecting something a little bit more local (there are plenty of corners of Italy that are difficult to travel to and/or European countries composed of three syllables--Rom-an-ia, anyone?). Of course Trofie Wife was anxiously awaiting how the “George Bush is only for now” line would be transposed. They opted to go with Bossi, the head of the anti-immigrant Lega Nord party. Also, finding “my purpose” became finding “my dream” (sogno). It struck me as an especially noteworthy change since American culture is so focused on work and work having meaning (or "purpose") whereas those feelings are a little bit less prominent around here. Finding one’s dream isn’t too shabby a send-off message.

Trofie Wife happily left with a T-shirt commemorating the experience, although Martello wisely advised that she send it back to the States for future wearing, as “sfiga” isn’t quite the nicest word to be displaying when walking down the street (and most elderly Arenzanese residents probably aren’t familiar with the show and won’t get the joke).

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Cinofilo in Centro

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 13:30:00 +0000

Despite subscribing to several “Events in Genova” e-bulletins, we find out about a lot of events here the old fashioned way—billboards and signs. So Trofie Wife was more than a little bit excited when Martello came home one night after having run an errand in Genova and mentioned that a) he saw a little something about a “dog show” at the convention center (Fiera di Genova) and b) he was willing to devote a portion of a Saturday to said event.

Now, Trofie Wife prefers dogs in their natural habitat (on the couch with me getting their bellies rubbed while I simultaneously read a book and they nuzzle me back), so I’m not totally keen on the whole dog show set up—while some of them seem to really enjoy the attention and preening, others seem miserable, bordering on depressed/abused. I witnessed one bearded collie in particular who was whining—she really had absolutely no interest in getting brushed and then prancing in a circle.

One unhappy puppy... I really wanted to help her try and escape...

Despite being morally opposed to the whole dog prancing thing, I have stepped foot inside these shows (and watch them on TV) because it’s a great way for me, a deprived non-dog-owner, to see a whole bunch of them at once and learn about the breeds, knowledge that will hopefully be applied in my real life sooner rather than later. It's a bonus that in Italy instead of denoting itself as a "kennel club," the organizers use “gruppo cinofilo”— at least they demonstrate in their title their clear love of these animals.

Below, you'll find a few more examples of some the adorable and not-so-adorable pups we saw.

This poodle eventually had glitter on its ass...It was horrifying.

My first puli! (They're the rasta dogs.)

Dream dog: Marrone spinone!

Look at those eyes! If only I knew how to jimmy open a lock…

Baci e gelato e latrati (barks),
Martello e Trofie Wife

(Surprisingly) In Praise of American Cookery

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 00:40:00 +0000

These past few posts Trofie Wife has boasted of the wonders of Italian seasonal cuisine. But I need to take a moment to actually scold the Italian kitchen for what it did to me when I was trying to make myself a nice birthday treat last year (surprised that I prefer to dwell on last year's birthday??).

I really, really wanted some cupcakes. I had, of course, made them here several times before, but they just didn’t have the right oomph. Probably because some key ingredients—baking powder and baking soda—were missing from my arsenal. So, I finally decided, upon embarking on vanilla bean cupcakes with salted caramel frosting(!!) that I should buy some proper leavening tools.

Baking soda and baking powder were nowhere to be found. I tried both grocery stores in Arenzano, as well as the one in Voltri, which usually has more “exotic” ingredients. Finally, I settled on some “ammonium bicarbonate.” Yes, as one would surmise, this is a product that by no means sounds appetizing and is not the sort of thing that anyone wants anywhere near her birthday cupcakes (apparently nowadays in the United States it's usually procured at the pharmacy). Instead of having a yummy cupcake smell, my oven spewed forth a plume of aroma that seemed like a mix of clean hospital floors and a stinkbomb. My cupcakes were fluffy, but I had to both air out my kitchen as well as my cupcakes! When they did finally air out, they tasted just fine…[However, Martello was certain to lay on the guilt concerning my carbon footprint, souring the taste a wee bit...]

Thankfully, I was finally able to pick up American baking powder at the annual American bazaar in Genova later that November. Life has been much better tasting (not to mention smelling), ever since!

Trofie Wife contemplating olives (shocker).

I spent the rest of that birthday weekend on a mini sweater shopping spree (thank you i genitori!) and then exploring Imperia, another one of Liguria’s regional capitals, this one west of us, in the direction of France. Imperia is a major center of the olive oil industry, and boy does it show in the food and available products. We enjoyed a lovely lunch by the water, and although it was no longer beach season, the water was blue and the weather pretty pleasant.

Old passageways leading to the sea.

We ventured to the old centro and walked around the ruins, stopping to scoop up as many bottles of local oil and wine as we could carry. All in all, a nice celebration.

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Pay Dirt in Alba

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 00:34:00 +0000

Trofie Wife suspects that when most of you hear the word “truffle,” you think of delectable chocolates filled with yummy ganache. While I’m a fan of those too, when fall comes around in Italy, a different kind of tartufo is on everyone’s mind. Those would be the little, oddly shaped (and to some, oddly smelling) mushrooms uncovered by enterprising dog snouts in Italy and discerning pig snouts in France (either country, Trofie Wife’s in animal heaven!), which are fiercely guarded by the humans who get paid for the animals’ work. These fungi don’t come cheap, with restaurants all over the world paying huge sums for seemingly small portions. We got to see the lumps on display at Alba’s famed market, behind glass as if they were jewels. We exercised frugality, however, and thankfully managed to spend less than 20 euros on one white truffle (Alba’s famous for these) and a handful of small black ones.

Martello and I had actually selected to go that first weekend of November (the fair’s about a month long), because it was dedicated to the truffle-sniffing dogs and their owners (it might have been the other way around, but the dogs should always get top billing in my opinion). However, hard as we looked, said dogs didn’t seem to be on display anywhere. Yet fate shined down upon me anyway, and I met these guys in the piazza:

Spinone!!

Sadly, they did not follow me home...maybe I should consider dousing myself in truffle oil in the future...

We had a delicious truffle-infused lunch (the local pasta is a thin egg variety called tajarin) and brought back a number of delicacies—the above-mentioned truffles, truffle oil, truffle butter, pasta, cheese, wine, and even some chocolate truffles (why not?). Truffles keep best hidden in rice, so we slipped the white and black ones in there for safe keeping. Later that week we made a risotto with the white and then just barely had enough time for another round of tajarin with the black truffles before they turned.

Martello still thinks truffles smell a bit like stinky feet. But having soaked in enough Italian foodiness these past two years, he now appreciates them (but still thinks they’re ridiculously overpriced).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Blender Blunders

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 17:04:00 +0000

After gazing at many a tempting soup recipe that required fine pureeing and reaching acceptance that she would be nowhere near her lovely array of kitcheny wedding gifts for some time, Trofie Wife finally succumbed to her desires and purchased a miniature Moulinex blender that would get the job done, albeit in many small batches. Hilarity (and horror) ensued.

When I first plugged in said blender directly to the wall and put it immediately on top of what I was hoping would become a lovely dinner soup (sans water guard) it nearly caught on fire (there were sparks), and the house went dark. (Sorry, we have no pictures.) Trofie Wife was not looking forward to having to a) explain this to and b) fix this matter via Mrs. Furley. Thankfully, I located the fuse boxes both inside the apartment and in the basement and got the electricity going again (at the time I had no idea whether or not I had blown the entire building's supply).

When he arrived home, Martello managed to get most of the water out of the mechanism and strongly suggested that I not use said appliance unless he was monitoring me. Freaked out by the prospect of actually having to use our remains repatriation insurance, I for once agreed.

A year later, we are now on our second Moulinex (same size). The mechanism never quite got over its initial baptism, and after about seven or so months of faithful service, it finally gave out (after shooting off a parting round of sparks). Trofie Wife quickly got over her fear of the machine, coming up with a multi-part method for using it: 1) Switch off surge protector, 2) Unplug toaster and tea kettle, 3) Plug in blender, 4) Switch on surge protector, 5) Let blender get used to being plugged in, 6) Put mechanism on top of bowl, usually forgetting water guard, 7) Curse at self for forgetting water guard, 8) Put on water guard and blend, 9) Reverse steps 1-4 when finished. [Note: Martello would like to remind Trofie Wife that he invented Steps 1-5, though she's on her own when she gets to 6.]

So we’ve made progress…And continue to enjoy soup and other chopped/mushed things made in teeny, tiny batches. And thankfully our wedding appliances (and their instruction manuals, which will definitely be read!) remain unharmed, secreted in North American closets for eventual use.

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Feste di Maronne e Zucca

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 14:43:00 +0000

People who know Trofie Wife well know that fall is my favorite season. Leaves aflame in reds and orange, slight wind chills that call for boldly colored corduroys, apples and their byproducts, lots of birthday cakes. Well, that’s my riff on an East Coast autumn. Fall in northern Italy is a New York autumn bubbling over like Prosecco, on account of all the sagre e feste celebrating the bounty of this gorgeous land (not to mention the bounty of new fall fashions (secondo me, the only season worthy of slightly fiscally irresponsible splurges) in all the store windows). Autumn in northern Italy above all means tartufo (truffles; more on that in a few more posts), marrone (chestnuts), and zucca (pumpkin).

Martello and I spent last October chasing down sagre. First we headed to Cuneo, which borders France and is close to another of our beloved cities, Torino. In both on a clear day, you can stare at the Alps while standing in the town’s main piazza. Men whose families had probably served in such capacity for generations could be found roasting chestnuts in huge pots.

Chestnuts come in many varieties

Wizened chestnut roasters

We were overwhelmed by the selection of chestnut and general produce offerings (we bought and lugged home 3 kilos of carrots and purple potatoes; we couldn’t quite bring the 3-foot stalks of leeks on the train, nor would we have known what to do with them in the kitchen!). And with so many sweets on display, we finally settled on a single dessert at a famous and elegant café: chestnut gelato injected with chestnut cream and enrobed in dark chocolate.

Cavallino! A tiny horse (not sure why it was there...)

The next day we turned our attention to pumpkins, visiting the small village of Rocchetta di Cengio, where we rode the zucca bus (unfortunately not pumpkin-shaped) up the hill to view the pumpkins in gara (competition for largest and loveliest), buy pumpkiny treats, and dine on zucca frittelle e vellutata di zucca (fried and soupy pumpkin, respectively), all the while listening to mountainy folk music.

Pumpkin My Ride

We didn't make it back to either of these festivals this year, but we're still enjoying marrone e zucca, albeit bought at the mercato!

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Anniversario in Bellagio

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 00:10:00 +0000

Lovely Lake Como

Trofie Wife is frantically trying to catch up with blog posts before the calendar catches up with her, and the events herein described become a year old (almost doesn’t count!).

With our first marriage anniversary closing in, Martello and I decided to use the occasion to take a nice weekend trip, this time treating ourselves to the independence (though often when dealing with parking it can be imprisonment) provided by a car. Since neither of us drives stick and most European cars are outfitted with these tricky tools, we had to pay a premium for an automatic. We got some extra vroom vroom for our buck, though it presented itself in miniscule form. We got 36 hours with a Smart car!

Trofie Wife has had a vehicular crush on Smart cars since she first saw them cruising through the streets of Manhattan (actually probably before that, maybe on another European visit or in a magazine). Given Trofie Wife’s short stature it seemed like a match made in heaven, though there was no way on Earth that I planned to commandeer the vehicle (I don’t drive in this country—the roads are way too curvy and jagged and the drivers make New York cabbies seem like stalwarts of safety). Yet riding along en Smart on the autostrada en route to the Lakes sadly demonstrated that a Smart car would never become a permanent addition to our assets. You can feel the car move and shake as other vehicles whirl by you—clearly not a good sign.

Some of us are excited that we are the same size of the car!

And others of us like to burst that bubble by pointing out how much bigger than the car we are!

We arrived in Bellagio on Saturday afternoon, just early enough to enjoy some strolling and gorgeous lakeside views of the sunset. While our hotel room resembled a Manhattan SRO circa 1985, we had a lovely dinner, enjoying a red blend, Valcalepio (not to be confused with the Veneto's Valpolicella), that’s native to nearby Bergamo. The following day we loaded the little car onto the ferry to Varenna (between this trip and our sojourn up this way in December 2008, we can safely say that we've seen Lake Como from every possible angle). Varenna's also a lovely little town, and we enjoyed walking around and lazing on the shore—it was surprisingly warm enough that bathing suits would have been proper attire, had we packed them. All in all, not a bad way to celebrate 1 year in Italy and 8 years together (the whole wedding anniversary thing as a method of counting a relationship’s length always strikes me as a little odd, since said relationship did not begin at the altar—unless of course you had a really wild night in Vegas!).

To make the celebration even grander, the universe granted me and all womankind the ultimate present at the Autogrill stop on the way home—there was a line for the men’s room!

The one-handed Martello snap, giving professional photographers everywhere a run for their money.

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Oktoberfest in Genova

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 16:53:00 +0000

(Yes, Trofie Wife knows it’s now July and talking about an Oktoberfest that actually happened last September is a little out of season, but who doesn’t feel like a cold beer right now? Well, Trofie Wife for one. Not really a fan…)

Oktoberfest is really not a concept that one associates with Italy. But a branch of Munich’s august brewery Hofbräuhaus (HB) thrives in the center of Genova, and they decided that a tribute to their home city replete with birra, bretzels, e würstel in Piazza della Vittoria (one of the largest piazze in town) would be a huge hit, and it was. The lines for a bretzel were so long that we gave up and opted for pizza around the corner instead, but Martello was sure to return for a birra, and we hit the stands for imported miele e senape (honey and mustard). Given our various preoccupations with beer and mustard (Martello) and honey and efficiency (Trofie Wife), we should probably be living in the Germanic region of the country, Alto Adige, but alas, here in the Riviera we’ll stay.

Inside the tent

Outside. The arch is a tribute to Italy's fallen World War I heroes.

As we looked on at the festivities inside the huge tented biergarten, the extreme irony of it all dawned on me: I was watching Italians, who were gathered in a square dedicated to the war heroes of World War I (felled by Germans), listening to a German band play oompah-pahed versions of American spirituals (“When the Saints Go Marching In” and “Down by the Riverside,” which is apparently also known as “Ain’t Gonna Study War No More,” which seems apt). There was also an impromptu acoustic outbreak of "Hey, Baby, I Want to Know If You'll Be My Girl," which involved lots of Italian teenagers standing on the picnic tables and screaming off key; it somehow reminded me of camp (sorry, we didn't get any footage of that).

Such is the new Europe and the impact of globalization. Have a listen:

Baci, gelato, e birra,
Martello e Trofie Wife

Here's to Cheese!

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 21:33:00 +0000

Trofie Wife’s lactose intolerance is well documented, but that hasn’t prevented me from enjoying the milky fruits of Italia, thanks to online pharmacies and an assist from some good friends with Lactaid connections! So armed to the hilt with my favorite digestive enzyme supplement, on a late September weekday I made my way to Bra in Piemonte to a Slow Food event called Cheese. Yes, just "Cheese"—like Madonna and Prince it needs no further nomenclature. Devoted readers might recall that Martello and I had an amazing time at last April’s Slow Fish event in Genova. Well Fish is merely the warm-up band for Cheese. Whereas Fish is confined to Genova’s convention center, Bra is literally sprinkled with Cheese, each of its cobblestoned streets beckoning to another table of samples expressed from cow, sheep, and goat. There’s a tent of international cheeses, local cheeses, specially Slow Food-endorsed Presidio cheeses, and other affiliated products.

Although I had my trusty pills, I was still overly cautious as to how much I sampled, which was a good thing, because the only facilities were Portapotties. I tried a delicious sedano (that would be celery) sorbetto, which would make an excellent appetizer or amuse buche. I lugged home cheese for Martello, honey (a favorite Trofie Wife purchase at all these fairs), honey wine (which has been since used in many an appreciative baked good), and some chocolate (not featured at Cheese but available in a well-stocked store that was getting great foodie foot traffic). It took me about an hour to consume a very small portion of the delicious beer that we first sampled in the Dolomiti, which I paired with an acciughe (anchovy) and verdure panino.

Nope, that's not a chocolate fountain. It's a balsamic vinegar one!

Small model for Cow Parade Roma

I can't decide whether or not this cow is racist...

Set up in a corner of the Piemonte Region’s featured area were pens containing the real stars of the show—all those animals we have to thank for the milk that makes the cheese and gelato. They appeared quite somber being held in such small pens, a fact that seemingly ran counter to many of the organic, freerange principles held by Slow Food (though I understand that you can’t have the cattle roaming around near the wine tasting area). Here are some of my new friends (though none of them ever called...)

This one is fuzzy!

I really wanted to help this one break free.

Junior getting some of his own free samples.

Brown cow.

I thought this one was going to charge. Maybe the flash was on?

It was a lovely day exploring more of Piemonte and the expansive bounty of Italian food. It's just too bad that it was senza Martello.

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie

Capodanno Ebreo in Milano

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:57:00 +0000

With Passover now upon us, it seems like an appropriate time to review the events of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur…Although we started on our second year in Italy this fall, it was actually our first High Holidays around these parts. Given Trofie Wife’s propensity for online research, we located all possible options for prayer, evaluated (er debated?) them, and then came to a decision with just a few moments to spare.

For Rosh Hashana, we settled on a Progressive community located in Milano, the distance being negotiable due to the holidays falling over the weekend. (For those unfamiliar, Progressive synagogues are affiliated with the Union of Reform Judaism. However, they tend to grow in accordance with the character and practice of the local community and as such, can often appear more conservative than mainline American Reform congregations. In general, they are marketed as an alternative to Orthodoxy with few guidelines other than a commitment to pluralism and egalitarianism.)

We hopped the last regionale train on Friday night (nothing like Chef Express cuisine for an erev meal!) and then settled into a hotel located close enough to the synagogue, though closer to the happening canal- and nightclub-dotted Navigli neighborhood. From the synagogue’s Web site, we had a general sense of what to expect, but we were not prepared for the outpouring of welcome that met us inside. With apologies to any past, present, or future synagogue presidents that might find this post, the community’s president is by far the nicest (and most adorable) that could be created. The rabbi—who incidentally has a family connection to our little neck of the boot and couldn’t understand why in the world we would be living here—is one of those brilliant Renaissance-type characters. Not only is he a skilled orator, but on the side, he’s a classical instrumentalist of some note (with quite the pleasant singing voice), and from what we could understand of his sermon, quite learned (this hunch was eventually backed up by further evidence collected after Trofie Wife joined the synagogue’s e-mail list, where his weekly d’var Torah (which I usually shy away from after a page or so) includes at least 15 citations a pop in about four different languages).

The room was small, resembling an East Coast synagogue’s library or Hebrew school classroom, yet it was packed with a diverse group of Jews (and likely some non-Jewish family members) singing melodies new and familiar. We saw some rituals that neither one of us had encountered before (additional blessings around the Torah reading, widespread sheltering under tallits during the Priestly Blessing and other points), which we assumed were Italian traditions. The synagogue appears to mix Ashkenazi Reform, Sephardi, and Italianate practices, making everyone feel like a piece of their heritage is represented. We were not the only Anglophones to wander in—there was an Australian med student who knew even less Italian than we, yet she managed to snag the kind of High Holiday honors usually reserved for only the choicest members back over the ocean. When the rabbi’s gaze fell in our direction, I allowed Martello to take the aliyah alone because it seemed like there was a one-person-from-each-family rule, plus he could understand the Italian instructions better than I, but I’ll get him back next year.

Following kiddush, we took advantage of our time in Milano, enjoying leisurely strolls, finally scaling the Duomo (and incidentally running into one of Martello’s colleagues atop it!) and, unfortunately, making a bad restaurant choice from among the many along the canals, though recovering with some excellent gelato—the first of 5770. And amazingly, we ran into Martello’s colleague yet again that evening! We felt like we got to experience Milano a bit more than in prior short trips. Perhaps the most humorous sighting of the weekend occurred during a Sunday walk, when we viewed the owner of an adorable bulldog clean the via of his uh “pee-ah” with sparkling, bottled mineral water. Only in Milano…

Despite having found this fantastic congregation, we opted to stay closer to home for Yom Kippur, being that it was mid-week, and Trofie Wife does not fast well and prefers to manage the day in familiar (bed, bathroom) surroundings. Martello had visited the local tribe (which happens to be Sephardic in style, if not entirely in membership) before and knew what to expect, but Trofie Wife was expecting the worst (and Martello was waiting with his “I told you so” ready). Yet as much as Martello may have hoped it would, the moment for reciting it never came. An ardent congregation member around our age who Martello had met on his prior voyage was already on our case to come back the next day, and after I said I wasn’t quite sure if I’d be there but Martello probably would, the "Cheerleader" made blatantly clear that my presence was not of any consequence but Martello’s most certainly was. Well, with that, he lost at least one customer for Kol Nidre (yours truly; I stayed there physically but checked out in my mind) and two customers (or by his count, one) for Yom Kippur.

With a polite smile masking her bitterness, Trofie Wife disengaged from the conversation and climbed the steps to the women’s gallery, sitting next to two Israeli med students, who came and left quickly (some of their male compatriots could be seen smoking outside following official release. Classy). I was then left surrounded by a truly uninspiring group of devotees. The majority of the women up in the nosebleed seats were chattering away (though I noted that pant suits were acceptable should I ever return, so score one) and most of the men below in the privileged seats looked like they’d rather be undergoing a root canal. Martello was surprised that I didn’t storm the main floor and demand that we leave before the end of the service, but I figured that we weren’t going to make an earlier train anyway.

As the droning rabbi thanked everyone from coming from far away to be part of the community, it dawned on me that most congregants under 60 either lived in another city or, if local, never stepped foot in the synagogue any other time of the year and merely returned to pay homage to the congregation of their parents’ or grandparents’ youth, making it truly a memorial instead of a living spiritual home. It was a far cry from the scene in Milano, where everyone present seemed like they had made a conscious decision to be part of this specific community.

Upon our return from the city, Trofie Wife spent the remainder of Kol Nidre praying along with the online stream from New York’s Central Synagogue. We spent Yom Kippur in a synagogue of our own creation, surrounded by a variety of religious texts, thoughts, and streaming services. Trofie Wife enjoyed a variety of sermons, some from rabbis I once knew back in youth group. While certainly not the way our ancestors celebrated, it worked for me, and allowed me to get a little taste of everything. Speaking of taste, we broke our fast with a nice pesto pizza. (Despite Trofie Wife’s mastery of bagel baking and the local availability of lox and cream cheese, I just cannot bear to be in a kitchen preparing food when I cannot eat it.)

During Martello’s first visit to the community the Cheerleader had lamented that most Jews were leaving the area and that’s why the community was shrinking. Perhaps the shrinking isn’t tied to a geographical exodus but instead a distaste for current communal practices coupled with a typically Genovese (as we’re learning) inability to introduce reforms that mess with traditions of any kind, be they related to food, religion, or paperwork. Incidentally, pluralism has been a growing topic in the Italian Jewish community with a large forum taking place just prior to Pesach, and it looks like our Milan-based synagogue is sprouting a new branch in Rome. Who knows; maybe Genova will be next! In the interim, I have my streaming shuls!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Shake Your Pesto Maker

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 14:44:00 +0000

In an afternoon that should go down in the record books as evidence that Trofie is a most easy-going Wife, I suggested that Martello and I train further down the shore to Alassio in order to check out the Miss Muretto contest. Now it wasn’t the beauty pageant’s toned and leggy contestants that was the main draw (at least not for me). Trofie Wife was interested in seeing the much-touted pesto-making competition in which they would partake, a segment of the World Pesto Championships (and as such, I believed there would be some sampling involved). It was also an excuse to finally make it to Alassio, which is one of the more historically popular and luxurious tourist spots on the Rivieria Ponente.

Beyond its beaches and fine cuisine, Alassio is renowned for its painted, tiled wall (the above-noted “muretto,” from which the pageant draws its name) filled with remembrances of visitors and local achievements, including this one:

Always a favorite with the Europeans!

And this one, which Martello insisted I strike a pose by (perhaps to make up for his later close inspection of the candidates during the pesto making; Trofie Wife was barely able to strike an unselfconscious pose on her wedding day; it was even less possible on the main drag of Alassio in broad daylight, without the benefit of cosmetic enhancement).

Yes, that's Trofie Wife behind those shades.

Pesto-making with a mortar and pestle as carried out by beautiful young things is perhaps one of the most suggestive events that a beauty pageant can ever sponsor--are you listening Donald Trump??

The contestants line up to get their instructions.

On the job.

Il vincitore is crowned!

Delightfully, the judging seemed to be based on actual skill and the final outcome of said pesto, not the length of one’s shorts. Sadly, the public was not invited to sample neither the pesto nor the girls (well, I can’t totally vouch for what happened to the girls, but the pesto was off limits). After the show ended and Trofie Wife ceased being complicit in setting women back several decades, we strolled around centro and made our way to a beachfront bar, where we had a refreshing aperitivo, and Trofie Wife got in some ogling of her own (that would be dog watching).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Bambino Barce Brachot

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 11:15:00 +0000

As the slight chill of fall began to descend on Arenzano and we recovered from our first week back at work after that luxurious vacation, Trofie Wife was certain to stay on top of all local events that merely required a short jaunt out of the apartment. As we learned during our first week in Arenzano last settembre, the feast of the Bambini di Pragha (he of the large cathedral/seminary behind our house) is the first week of September, and the town is all aflutter with various minor celebrations leading up to the big event. The Sunday prior to the feast is the annual blessing of the boats and fishermen. The priests become captains for the afternoon, commandeering the faithful with their always trusty megaphones (while the land lubbing faithful and other onlookers watch from the shore), sailing between Genova Voltri and Arenzano, spraying blessings and song into the sea. Since the invention of scuba diving, they’ve managed to send down a diver to place a rosary on the statue of the Madonna di Aggugina, which landed there after some sort of wreckage many years ago; it’s possible that other things get sent down there for blessings or blessings are retrieved from below, but Trofie Wife isn’t totally certain. As an added bonus, footage from the diving is projected onto a screen near the harbor; gotta love technology!

Here’s our own photographic footage from this event:

The locals await the boat.

The boat approaches.

I padri spout blessings from their megaphones.

The barce brachot seemed mainly to attract the older set, but it was nonetheless well attended (probably because the older generation is incredibly well represented ’round these parts). It was a beautiful sight on the harbor as the sun began deliberating a descent, although it was bittersweet as sailors realized that they’d be on involuntary shore leave for several months, a point further emphasized by the beach clubs embarking soon thereafter on the task of dismantling the cabanas.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Prossima Fermata: Summer’s End!

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 22:08:00 +0000

We return to the final chapter of this summertime story to find Martello e Trofie Wife en route to Vicenza, which was to be the last major stop on our epic tour. Due to an unexpectedly long connection, we were able to take a quick walk around Castlefranco’s centro, seeing the outside of the famed castle and a whole passel of bunnies. While we were expecting to land directly in Vicenza, the train only went as far as Padova (a city to which we hope to return at some point) where due to some sort of track issue, we had to take a very long bus. Comedy and frustration continued to ensue as we arrived nearly at midnight at the hotel where we thought we had a reservation but in fact did not (Martello had called the number of one hotel but inadvertently told the taxi driver to take us to a different one). Luckily, there was an available room at what turned out to be a converted monastery, austere but clean and a good value (as of late the New York Times among other publications have been touting the praises of such cloistered lodging; see http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/10/19/travel/19journeys.html?pagewanted=all ).

The arcade between our monastery hotel and the duomo

Vicenza was a sort of Holy Grail for both Martello and Trofie Wife—being architectural godfather Palladio’s hometown (Martello's grail) and the place where Trofie Wife's father lived and my eldest sorella was born (my grail).

Statue of the architectural godfather. The Vicenza commune has not yet commissioned the statues for Trofie Wife's parenti, but I hear that they're working on it...

As we wandered up the hill toward the large duomo Berico, I saw a sturdy American-looking fellow jog by in an Army Ranger t-shirt and felt as though my historical duty had been performed (perhaps we could have seen the base had we taken a normal train into town, but it’s completely closed to the public, as one would expect). Unfortunately, Villa Rotunda—Palladio’s most famous work—was closed on the day we were there, so we’ll have to make it back at some point. Joined once again by i Miamese, we did, however, see some other hallmarks of local architecture including Villa Nani (with its adorable little gargoyles) as well as Palladio’s Teatro Olimpico, the Pinoteca, and a lovely park with Palladian accents.

Teatro Olimpico

Some Palladian accents in various parks

The next morning, we started our journey back to Liguria. If you’ve read all these posts related to our viaggio di agosto (or even just one or two), you can see how lucky we were to have the opportunity to see so much of this varied country—nature, art, food, and friendly people. To return to Arenzano and find that the adventure was going to continue delighted us even more, as there’s just so much more to see both near and far. We’re planning on taking as much advantage of it as possible (and have so far this fall, which in part accounts for why these dispatches are so far behind).

More musings and wanderings to come soon.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

"Miamese" in Mountainous Places

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 21:52:00 +0000

Another unexpected--yet most welcome--addition to our trip was a visit with friends from Martello’s grad school days, i Miamese, who were staying with family in the tiny town of Cesana, near the larger (yet still small) town of Feltre. We were extremely grateful for la Miamese's entire family’s warmth and hospitality. Their history in the town goes far back, and each section of the family keeps a cozy summer home in what Trofie Wife decided was a delightful compound, with shared outside space for large family meals. We spent our first day together touring around Feltre, visiting the church, and encountering an elderly sculptor who showed us around the unique works in his studio:

Artist's studio

View of Feltre

We spent the better part of the evening at the Pedavena beer hall. Given its proximity to Austria, this region of Italy is known for brewing some excellent beer. In fact, Pedavena was so superb that even Trofie Wife (not really a beer drinker) enjoyed it! We didn’t know that the major summer beer fest was in progress that evening, so the crowd grew surprisingly large and the music loud. Though at various stages of pushing 30, we enjoyed the throwback to high school, with la Miamese's mama picking us up when we were good and full.

Autobus to Belluno

Belluno, a noted lovely town at the foot of the mountains, was our destination the following day. Unfortunately, the lack of a train station luggage room required that we schlep our huge bag around with us while touring charming cobblestone streets. This was particularly annoying given that a massive downpour engulfed the town. Luckily, we had already stopped at a gelateria and were safely ensconced inside, scoops at the ready. When the crazy rainstorm finally ceased, we wandered the quaint streets, stopping into churches and doing a bit of bird watching (a mama pigeon was feeding her squawking young). Although we were continuing to journey west (and what a journey it was) we planned to meet up with our friends once again in Vicenza.

Arcades of Belluno

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Pink Mountains Majesty

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 21:13:00 +0000

After two trains, a bus, and a very lengthy uphill walk (seriously, we deserve some sort of public transit medal), we ended up in this stunning locale:

It turns out that the Dolomite resort had a bit of an unexpected architectural pedigree, and Martello was in heaven. Hidden in the woods was perhaps (with the exception of the one in Modena) the most beautiful church we had ever seen, made of natural materials and totally integrated into the forest.

Just a few of Martello's many artful shots of Chiesa di Nostra Signora del Cadore (architects

Carlo Scarpa and Edoardo Gellner)

Cool floor (plus Martello's foot). It's sliced logs embedded in concrete.

To Trofie Wife, it was vaguely reminiscent of (though far grander than) a certain Jewish camp in Pennsylvania’s Chapel in the Woods (perhaps the only good thing to that place’s merit, with apologies to any alums of that institution who might be reading this).

The resort itself was a bit of a mix of Club Med and the Catskills of Dirty Dancing, leaning more in the direction of the latter than the former. We avoided the evening activities (though there was one regrettable aperitivi at the piano bar, which involved watching an awkward pre-teen dance solo to a requested number…) and the food was pretty lackluster (the second night, our dinner was a block of barbequed cheese alongside French fries). They did, however, rent out bikes (yet again, no helmets; clearly they don’t value brains much in this part of the world). There’s a massive trail going through the mountains, and serious bikers do the whole thing.

The view that experienced bikers like Martello can enjoy.

Trofie Wife did okay on the flat and downhill parts (and enjoyed waving to the cows partaking in a meal alongside us) but struggled uphill and just wasn’t down with the whole no-helmet-on-mountain-bike situation. So I sent Martello on a solo trip while I rested and read at a rest stop. Following our gelato lunch it began to rain, which was not helpful as we walked (Trofie Wife) and rode (Martello) our bikes back up the massive hill.

In general, Trofie Wife and bikes seem to get along best when both are walking.

All in all, the resort was just incredibly beautiful and relaxing, and we likely would have benefited from a couple more mornings spent gazing into the mountains.

The view from our hotel balcony

Yet it was time to continue the trek east and south…

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Intermezzo in Udine and Treviso

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 20:54:00 +0000

Udine

As the week continued, we headed west en route to the mountains. We took a quick dip into Udine, enjoying a last-minute lunch at an enoteca with an excellent wine selection (albeit an overbearing cat, who we thought was going to snatch food off our plates). We wandered through the cobblestone streets and along the canal and visited several churches before grabbing a pre-treno espresso.

Our lodging for that evening was at an inn in Treviso that looked as though it might be a drop-off point for Laura Ashley remainders—this is what you get for last-minute booking. Trofie Wife didn’t find Treviso particularly inviting, but Martello enjoyed it (he was particularly interested in the historic significance of the below fountain).

Fontana delle Tette (yup, that means what you think it does). She would bring forth wine for three days after a new governor was sworn in. Trofie Wife does not believe that Former Gov. Cuomo looked into resurrecting this practice in New York, but perhaps his son will some day.

Treviso is known to be a wealthy town, and the streets are certainly studded with many flashy stores. It’s Benetton’s hub, so Trofie Wife was somewhat excited to visit the flagship, yet disappointed that the summer collection was no longer in sight/on ridiculous sale (and it was way too hot to try on fall sweaters; better to stick to the local shop on Via XX Settembre in Genova). We toured the large Baroque duomo and the older San Francesco church, which had a ceiling resembling a ship’s hull (pretty cool). We also got a quick glimpse at the market. Treviso is home to trevisana, which American readers probably know as radicchio. It was particularly purple here.

With afternoon upon us, we began our much-anticipated trek into the Dolomite Mountains. Now you know that much of this trip was planned on the fly, but the story of how we found the resort we were headed to should be one of marketing legend. We were in the pencil-shaped T Hotel in Cagliari—you know in Sardinia, on an island in the sea many, many kilometers from the mountains. And after dinner we decided to look through the brochures—almost all of them to local sites. But what did we find hidden in there but a brochure for the Hotel Boite in Calalzo! Turns out that the developers’ next project was in the Dolomite Mountains of all places! We booked our stay while in Trieste and hoped for the best…

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Time in Trieste

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:29:00 +0000

Trieste does not feel like Italy. Neither Martello nor Trofie Wife has visited Austria, but from everything we’ve gathered, Trieste is more akin to Vienna than Milano or Venice. This is due to the fact that it wasn’t firmly, finally, and officially part of Italy until well after World War II (1954), having spent a good chunk of time as the Adriatic seaport of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (and switching hands numerous times in the first half of the 20th century). Given this history, Trieste is very clean, orderly (they have literally numbered each and every city street lamp), and filled with strudel and schlag.

They count all the public lamps! Pazzo!

Trieste Municipo

Piazza di Unita

It was Ferragosto on our first day in town, so much was closed. Being Mary’s holiday it’s supposed to have religious significance, but in the last 40 years or so, it’s been turned into a sort of American Labor Day, an excuse for beach going and parties (the Vatican is not very happy about this and makes a point of getting on TV prior to the holiday to remind people of its original message). We wandered through the piazza, enjoying klezmer (?!) and classical music played by street musicians. We had an amazing lunch at the “wrong” café (we were headed for a guide book recommendation but turned too soon, with excellent results) and walked along the quays to the decrepit old university building, uphill to the duomo of San Giusto, and then back downtown to the Serbian church of San Spiridione (Trofie Wife’s favorite; loved the gilt).

Well-dressed street performers

Approach to the Duomo

San Giusto

Interior of San Giusto

Serbian Church, San Spirito

Inside San Spirito

We sipped café shakerati (iced espressos) and ate apple strudel filled with raisins and pignoli at the famed Café degli Specchi, right on the Piazza d’Unita. There is a bit of a pigeon problem at the many outdoor cafes, with the brazen birds landing on tables (cleared and with patrons still around) in hopes of getting some crumbs. They are probably responsible for breaking at least a dozen glasses a day at each venue. We returned to the piazza at nightfall (after a pre-dinner gelato; despite the heavy Austrian influence, the gelato is still 100 percent Italian and fantastic) for a jazz concert with a fairly well-known (though not to us) Italian jazz elder. The piazza was lit up and filled with people from front to back; it was quite a sight. We capped off the evening at a beer garden overlooking the water.

Cafe degli Specchi

Jazz concert in the piazza

Sunday was devoted to Jewish activities. We toured the impressive synagogue (Tempio Israelitico di Trieste) and learned about the community, past and present. During the community’s heyday from the mid-1800s to just prior to World War II (the Jewish population was around 5,000 just prior to the start of the war), it was Ashkenazi (German and Eastern European) and filled with major players in the Trieste economy (we think our hotel was a mansion owned by one of those families and run by a descendent, hence the mezuzah). It also notably served as a weigh station for Jews clandestinely immigrating to British Mandate Palestine. Now Trieste is mainly Sephardic (descendents from the Spanish expulsion in 1492), but out of deference to history, services are held in Ashkenazi style on Shabbat. It was always an Orthodox synagogue, but interestingly enough, they have an organ. It was never used on Shabbat, just for weddings and concerts and such, but as the well-to-do community integrated into the secular (yet still heavily Christian influenced) society, they attended functions at their co-workers’ churches and wanted to incorporate some of what they enjoyed into their place of worship. We couldn’t take pictures inside, but Martello snapped many outside. It’s somewhat of a Moorish style in the main sanctuary; one of the side rooms has a low-tech retractable roof that serves as the sukkah (a hut for the fall harvest holiday), which was kind of cool.

We spent the afternoon at perhaps the most embarrassing historical site in all of Italy—the Risiera di San Sabba, an old rice factory that was transformed into the country’s one concentration camp. Neither Martello nor I had ever been to a camp, and it was an intense experience, filled with information and sensory (especially smell) overload. We didn’t feel right or comfortable taking pictures, but here’s what it looks like (http://www.retecivica.trieste.it/triestecultura/new/musei/risiera_san_sabba/). There was a crematorium (hastily destroyed by the commanders as the Allies approached, but the outline is still clear and properly memorialized), but most of the Jews (700 from Trieste; more from other nearby northern regions) brought here were sent on to Auschwitz, Buchenwald, or other death/labor camps, so the Riseria’s main victims were Slavs and Italian partisans and communists (a total 3,000-5,000 people were murdered here; but it mostly served as a transit camp). The museum appears to do an excellent job reaching out to its neighbors in Slovenia and Slovakia, translating the materials into their languages (along with the standard English, French, and German). At least in our educational experiences in the States, the Slavs get brief mention along with the list of the non-Jewish million murdered in the camps. Italy, in concert with the Nazi occupiers, expended great effort “cleansing” Slavs from Trieste and the surrounding multicultural regions. Slavs endured a propaganda campaign and forced name changes and the outlawing of their language and culture. Given that we still live in a world where genocide is a reality (and Trofie Wife spent the better part of her beach time in Sardinia reading Samantha Power’s A Problem from Hell, a history of the United States’s responses to genocide), it behooves us all to learn about each situation and see the similar, sad patterns (this is especially helpful in parts of the world where little is known about Jews and the Holocaust and a multicultural approach has shown to help decrease anti-Semitism and lead to better coexistence).

After recovering from the intensity of the camp, we spent the next morning learning about Trieste’s role in the history of literature at the Joyce and Svevo museums. As mentioned in the last post, James Joyce spent nearly two decades in Trieste, teaching English, writing, and lecturing. At the museum we watched a DVD about his time in the city, particularly learning about his experience tutoring the well-to-do Jewish families and writing alongside Italo Svevo, an Italian-Jewish businessman and author (Joyce helped put his self-published work on the map). Many believe that much of the character development of Leopold Bloom of Ulysses emerged from these relationships. In addition, there’s a strong theory that the language of Finnegans Wake was inspired by Trieste, where at every street intersection a different language could be heard—some critics have gone so far as to say that Trieste is the only city that could have inspired the ruckus within the Wake!

Trofie Wife discusses literature with Svevo

Our last tourist stop within the city limits was to Miramare, a Hapsburg castle built by Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian, the loopy one who was named emperor of Mexico. It was quite stunning (though we’ve been told it’s merely a shadow of what we’ll see one day in Vienna), with lovely sea views and elaborate furnishings. It also held the quarters of the Duke D’Aosta, a much-loved figure. Although we lacked our bathing suits, we waded in the Adriatic on our way back to the hotel. There isn’t really a beach on this part of the coast; instead people just lay out on the sidewalk or park benches. Gotta love Italian improvisation!

Miramare

Trofie Wife surveys her holdings

Improvisational sunbathing

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

A “Capital” Visit

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 16:20:00 +0000

Our first mission in Cagliari—the regional capital—was breakfast (Trofie Wife insists that we never miss breakfast when it’s included in the price of our hotel stay, sleep be damned), not knowing that we would be encountering quite possibly the best hotel breakfast in the history of hotel breakfasts. The buffet table was lined with, amongst a plethora of treats, the freshest, yummiest pecorino sardo, really good jam, surprisingly yummy café americano (Trofie Wife usually avoids it in Italy, opting for the more reliable espresso), and juice from every tree in the orchard. We now understood why there was fairly heavy security at the front door and checking of room numbers.

Cagliari city walls

Our last day in Sardegna was spent touring craft stores, the San Benedetto indoor market (we so wished we had access to a refrigerator for all the produce, fish, and cheese, but we at least came away with some great honey), and sipping drinks in the famed Café Antico, which turned out to be somewhat disappointing along with the gelateria that was supposed to have 280 flavors, but only boasted a paltry two dozen and most of them were canned, not fresh. Far more interesting was the hilly walk through the city walls (though Trofie Wife was a bit tired/complainy—it was super hot), searching for the old Jewish ghetto (evidence remains of the ghetto entrance and old synagogue site, though a church sits atop it now), and seeing the duomo all decked out for the upcoming holiday (Ferragosto—a holiday honoring Mary’s rise to heaven).

Old Jewish quarter

"The Ghetto" is an arts and cultural center that has nothing to do with Jewish culture. It was closed while we were wandering.

Narrow, winding alleys

Although our time in Sardegna was coming to an end, our vacation was not (yes, we are ridiculously spoiled). That evening, we flew from Cagliari to Trieste (pretty much as far north and east as you can go in Italy) on our first Ryan Air flight. For those of you unfamiliar, it’s a budget Irish airline that lets you easily hop from one European city to another. The catch is that while the ticket prices are low, they charge you up the wazoo for all the extras (including reserved seats; it's quite a scramble to grab two together during regular boarding). If your luggage is above weight (as was ours), you pay. Annoying, but still probably less costly than a flight on a major airline.

Trofie Wife believes that the urge to visit Trieste was first implanted in her brain during her much beloved Joyce course in college (which inspired a trip to Dublin several years ago). More on this soon, but Joyce spent nearly two decades here and his experiences in the city likely both inspired much of what appears in Ulysses and Finnegan’s Wake. As we started reading more about Italy, Trofie Wife learned that there was and still is quite a large Jewish presence in the city along with a great deal of other culinary and cultural delights. Martello obliged and found a beautiful little hotel (with a mezuzah, interestingly enough) right in the center of it all—we loved it so much that we booked two additional nights after breakfast that first morning.

Our first view of La Piazza d’Unita d’Italia, the central square in Trieste, was breathtaking, lit up in blue and bustling with activity. We just knew that we had arrived in a special place and couldn’t wait to explore the next morning.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Home Away from Home Away from Home

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 01:47:00 +0000

Alghero, once a Catalonian stronghold, was the next stop on our whirlwind Sardinian tour, which took us north briefly before we continued on southward (Martello had to help me recall the geography; I just kind of followed along without much awareness as to where we were exactly...). After a nauseating (only for Trofie Wife; Martello was snapping away as usual as supposedly it was a “spectacular” unfolding panorama) and windy bus ride, we landed in a walled town with a lovely sea view.

Stunning view of the coast from the bus; Trofie Wife was mostly looking at the backs of her eyelids, trying to avoid soiling the bus with her breakfast. I got glimpses of the mountains and water every so often and am grateful to Martello for documenting the beauty so I could appreciate it after disembarking from the constantly gear shifting autobus.

Needing to catch a train south to Oristano not that long thereafter (and stuck with our luggage until we found the train station and its store room), we quickly toured the perimeter, seeking the vestiges of Catalonian culture (there was paella to be eaten, but we didn't have time for a lengthy meal) as well as signs of the former Jewish community, which had been expelled in 1492 alongside its brethren in mainland Spain. Although one of the towers embedded into the city walls was supposedly known as the "Jewish tower," we couldn’t quite find it (Martello recently remarked that he didn't know that we were looking...). However, we had no problem finding the expansive duomo (in a lovely Moorish style until Baroque elements were introduced and turned it all ungapacthka). We didn’t have much time to explore the sea (or take a ferry out to some nearby islands and grottos), but we did have an opportunity to indulge in some highly recommended gelato and see a pair of deaf parents yelling at their children in what we could only guess was Italian sign language (actual sign language, not just Italian hand gestures).

Ruins of early Catalan walls and towers.

Alghero's walls and the beautiful sea below.

The Duomo--much nicer looking outside than inside.

The real attraction of this portion of the trip, however, was our two-night stay just outside Oristano in Solanas, at the agriturismo bed and breakfast run by the future mother-in-law of one of Martello’s co-workers. The co-worker and her fiancé arranged for our stay and escorted us around the area. The grounds of the B&B and surrounding fields were filled with delicious vegetables and fruits (including plenty of grapes handily turned into wine). Martello’s co-worker was kind enough to brief the innkeeper on Martello’s dietary restrictions (also helping Trofie Wife steer clear of eating any beloved piggies). Like a good Sardinian mamma, she kept insisting that we eat more, hurtling apperitivi, antipasti, primi, secondi, dolci, vini, caffe, e digestivi our way. It was on that first night that we finally bit into seadas, the classic Sardinian dessert. It’s a sort of sweet calzone filled with pecorino sardo and honey. It’s incredibly rich and difficult to eat after a large meal, yet amazingly, people manage to finish their portions (sadly, not Trofie Wife, though I plan to attempt making it on my own at some point). Somehow after dinner, we rolled into Torre Grande, another nearby town with an invigorating nightlife, which we were all too full and tired to partake in. When we arrived home, the family dog—some sort of pitbull mix—was waiting to greet us, but he wasn’t too interested in being pet by Trofie Wife… .

The following morning prior to leaving on a daytrip, our friends were kind enough to locate the bus to Is Arutas, a beach laden with rose quartz instead of sand, and put us on it. The beach was breathtaking and the rocks soft, making for an excellent napping ground and foot massage conveyance.

Quartz! On a beach! (That would be Martello's extreme excitement about this turn of events.)

Martello gives himself a foot massage.

The area seemed to be particularly attractive to German and Belgian tourists--several bars rose their respective flags (and one particularly blond one asked me to guard a bathroom door for her). We stayed long enough to enjoy naps, reading, wading, and photographing.

Is Arutas sunset

With our friends up north, we were on our own for dinner, stuck attempting to make conversation with the other guests in a mix of English and Italian (Trofie Wife failing miserably in the latter and speaking too quickly in the former). Our fellow guests even started planning the remainder of our trip for us, suggesting different spots in Sardinia and further north back on the mainland. Perhaps our best memory of Sardenga comes from that evening: The momma innkeeper explained that while pork was on the menu for the rest of the guests, her husband had grilled us some manzo (beef)--she then placed her fingers on her head (to make little ears or horns) and gave us a moo or two; we so wished we could have captured it on film.

Our last day in Solanas was quite eventful, with a daytrip to Isla Mal au Ventre—yes French speakers, that would be Tummy-ache Island. Maybe not the best locale for Trofie Wife? Along with our now-returned friends we shared a rubber dinghy rental with another family staying at the inn. Now as Trofie Wife has noted here before, I am not so into boats. But at least a regular boat is made from wood or steel or some other heavyweight material, and one is unlikely to be at risk of falling out merely from climbing aboard. Riding a top a rubber dinghy is a whole separate experience. Thankfully no one fell out nor did I create any food for the fish.

Isla Mal au Ventre

We enjoyed an afternoon of swimming and relaxing. I did opt out of the boat tour around the island (back on the dinghy), choosing to save my courage reserves for the ride back to the mainland. Instead Martello and I toured the island by foot. Unfortunately, the camera was with our bags in the boat, but we saw bunnies and a bird skeleton. We eventually met up with the "boat," (I don't even know if it truly merits that description; "oversized inner tube" might be more appropriate) and I endured an extremely choppy journey back to shore, holding on for dear life the whole way (and disappointing the 10ish year old boy who really wanted the vessel to go as fast as possible), and emphatically reminding Martello that he had used up pretty much all of his points in the bank and owed me big time for putting up with this bumpy adventure.

Our friends relax in between boat rides.

Dried off and happy to be back on the mainland, our friends escorted us to the train station, where we hopped aboard a coach to Cagliari, the capital of Sardegna, which sits on the southern coast. En route, Trofie Wife took the unusual liberty of putting her feet on the seat. Most of the trains on the island are in pretty sorry states, but this one was kind of new, and the conductor was being protective and decided to snip at me. Guess I have to get in trouble sometime… .

We were happy to arrive at the über-hip T Hotel (which the locals deride as an oversized "pencil") and enjoy a delicious dinner. The following day we would take in the sounds and sights of Cagliari.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Bosa Bustle

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 18:30:00 +0000

When people go to Sardegna, they usually laze on the beach for a week or more, enjoying the relaxing sand, sun, and hydrating (or not) beverages. Not so Martello e Trofie Wife. Martello wanted to see as much as possible during this trip, since we were not yet sure if we’d ever have the opportunity to return. So we planned (or at least outlined) a most unusual near circumnavigation. From the northeastern corner of the island, we next headed west and south to Bosa, a medieval town on which the guidebook had sold Martello. It being a Sunday in August, our journey there was anything but smooth, involving a bus, two trains, and a chartered taxi since the bus that was supposed to take us from where the train let us off was MIA (though a German–Italian nonna who spotted us at the train station was kind enough to invite us over for a beer; our (or at least Trofie Wife’s) American skepticism/mistrust still hasn’t quite warn off).

During these long bouts of travel, Martello enjoys taking nearly endless pictures of the scenery as the train whizzes by (Trofie Wife prefers to read). Given that Sardegna had just suffered a bout of forest fires (along with nearby Corsica and parts of Spain) in recent weeks, we saw quite a bit of charred fields and huddles of sheep that we weren’t quite sure were alive or dead (Sardenga’s sheep census seems to rival that of New Zealand; Sardinian sheep are responsible for the delectable pecorino sarda cheese. Thank ewe!).

View of Bosa

When our taxi finally pulled up to the hotel in Bosa, it was evident that Martello had hit upon yet another charming spot. The building was of an old world style, similar to our hotel in Pisa. But one of the main attractions (and the reason we put in for two nights here) was the town’s beach, which the guidebook said was quite wide and excellent for lazing about. Unfortunately, as we learned after a very long walk that involved crossing a major highway, while the hotel was in Bosa, the beach was in a town called Bosa Marina; the guidebook did not state this fact. Bus service to and from the beach as we learned on Day 2 was spotty (and the bus stop difficult to locate). Also annoying: Bosa Marina, while boasting many a place in which money can be spent, does not have a single ATM machine (though it does have a tourist office). Given that it was vacation season, there had been a run on the two ATMs in Bosa proper and one machine was not dispensing cash (at that point we probably had five or so euros between us). When we finally were able to get some, the line was ridiculously long (and Trofie Wife feared there'd be no money left by the time it was our turn--they don't accept credit cards at most gelateria--Martello found this anxiety to be ridiculous). Note to anyone doing any sort of city or town planning: if you’re designing a future tourist hotspot, please make the place’s name and location clear and do us all a favor by not naming your town the same thing as a neighboring town!

Beach on Bosa Marina

Bosa Marina beach

The whole distance from the hotel thing aside, the beach was quite spacious and lovely, lest the sulfuric smell emanating from the sea, which we were told was due to the algae (right…). While eating lunch at a beach bar, our waitress mistook us for Spaniards, then when we tried to correct her, she guessed we were every type of European before barely believing that we were American. At this point Martello and I realized we could be secret agents. We’ll let you know how that turns out…. .

We also ate fairly well (not a shocker), enjoying pizza on the first night after our epic nighttime return from Bosa Marina alongside the highway. At that pizza joint we began noticing (but did not order) something called pizza americano. What ingredients is our home country honored with? French fries. On pizza. Strangely enough, people actually order it (upon returning home we started noticing it on Ligurian menus). We, however, like our arteries too much. Our hotel also boasted a well-known restaurant and we had a delightful meal there, albeit it took forever to be served (not so much hustle from the wait staff, though to be fair, they seemed understaffed and overtaxed). We also enjoyed strolling through the lovely cobblestoned streets and seeing Sardinian handcrafts, which include pottery and sheep-based textiles. And then it was on to the next town… .

Bosa proper centro

Where there is zucchero filato, there is Trofie Wife

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

A Real Italian Holiday

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 11:05:00 +0000

As readers can probably guess from the general theme of our marriage, this blog, and knowing us, we often like to leave things to the exact last minute. I mean, once you plan a full-on wedding in a month, what’s a two-week vacation crisscrossing the country? Child’s play. Of course booking a last-minute vacation in August when nearly the entire country is out and about is not advisable. If it were solely up to Martello, we’d have found hotels at each stop along the way, but since this is a shared venture, Trofie Wife insisted that we have sleeping spots booked for at least the first portion of the trip (in a highly-vacationed zone); an idea that Martello finally warmed up to when he starting noticing the price differential between online rates and the significantly higher rates posted on the room’s door.

So, with the first few days of our lodging booked and all of the most necessary plans made, we left Arenzano and headed to the Genova port, where we boarded the ferry to Sardinia (Sardegna in italiano), a lovely island lying off Italy’s west coast and fully part of the country (although it does have an autonomous regional government, a dialect closely resembling Catalan, and unique cuisine). Its most luxurious stretches are famed for hosting the internationally rich and famous, including Berlusconi’s infamous party villa. For the plebians, there are more budget accommodations, but the entire island is covered in gorgeous coastline, so even if you can’t afford to spring for a resort, you can do quite well at the public beaches.

Because one can reach the eastern portions of the island via a relatively quick nine-hour ferry ride, the eastern coast of Sardinia functions as a sort of Genovese Hamptons (yes, people who live along the sea need to summer along a different seaside). People buy season passes for the car ferries and load on and off every weekend; there’s even a special kennel for the dogs. Since we were heading into the two prime weeks of August vacation, the ferry was quite packed (we chose the budget line to Olbia; there are several companies that service the many possible routes between Genova and several Sardinian ports of call; Trofie Wife was tempted to book the boat bearing Looney Toons characters, but, unfortunately, passage was in the realm of Scrooge Duck's budget).

All of the ferries have a pricing system that seems weird if it’s unfamiliar. You pay for the right to be on the boat and then you pay for the seats (or cabin, if you want a bed). Seeing that we booked the budget line, we opted to pay a couple euro more for the first-class poltrone (the seats).

However, upon finding our seats we were quite surprised to notice that many—not only in first but also second class—were empty. We soon realized why:

Apparently people take this whole paying for passage thing quite literally. They pay for passage and then camp out in all sections of the boat. They bring sleeping bags, air mattresses, beach chairs; some board as early as possible to commandeer the bar and cafeteria areas or the staircase landings (some even sleep outside, canines beside them, as Martello learned during a middle of the night walk, which nearly ended in catastrophe with his foot brushing, yet thankfully not smushing, a sleeping dog). All violations of the fire code and all blissfully unenforced in carefree Italia. It’s quite insane and reminded me somewhat of a NFTY shul-in. (Trofie Wife was embarrassed as Martello snapped the above photos, yet I’m using them here, so I guess I should be grateful for the few moments of shame).

We docked not too long after sunrise and then took some time to find the pedestrian exit (apparently cars take priority). And as we began our search for a bus to take us to

Palau

, where we, thankfully, had a room booked, we had our first encounter with what would become a recurring motif: immense hurdles to accessing public transit. It’s pretty easy to get around major cities via train and bus. But to attempt to do so on an island like Sardinia requires immense amounts of willpower and patience (immediately apparent as Martello went through security to enter the building where said bus tickets were supposedly for sale only to learn that he had to buy them from the conductor standing in front of the bus, who had earlier said to go inside…). By the trip’s end we would certainly earn the title of Italian public transit warriors.

As we hurtled toward

Palau

, it became abundantly clear why Sardinia is the vacation choice of discerning Italians—it is absolutely stunning. And hot. We took a lovely nap in the woods overlooking the sea and then a boat over to La Maddelena.

Looking out on the water in Palau

Palau Pineta (woods; excellent napping conditions)

Trofie Wife had recalled once reading something about beautiful pink beaches on La Maddelena (though there was nothing in the guidebook accompanying us that day), so we set out looking for them, merely following vague signs (Trofie Wife’s chosen, and usually correct, mode of navigation in Italy) to the beach. As the local road gave way to a highway and we inched along the shoulder, we (well, Martello) grew increasingly skeptical that such a beach existed. Yet finally, we reached a beach. It wasn’t pink (we’d later learn that those pink beaches were ecologically protected zones that could only be viewed during special boat tours), but it was a pretty, almost otherworldly place on which to view a sunset.

Otherwordly (though, sadly, not pink) beach on La Maddelena

We thankfully caught the day's last bus back to the center of town and had our first taste of Sardinian cuisine—spaghetti e bottarga (dried fish eggs; they would grow on us over the course of the week) and then took our third boat in 48 hours (and Trofie Wife really doesn’t like boats) back to Palau where sweet sleep awaited us (vacation was already tiring us out!).

Moonlight on the water between Palau and Maddelena

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Zipping to Firenze

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 11:43:00 +0000

Despite having lived here for nearly a year, it’s still quite bizarre to Martello e Trofie Wife to be able to look at each other and say, “Hey, want to go to [insert Italian city that’s reachable within a five-hour train ride] this weekend?” With our mega-long August vacation fast approaching (and precious little of it booked), Trofie Wife felt rather indulgent being able to pull this little trick mid-week, while Martello was wrapping up his big deadline. But seeing as she’s not likely to be able to do this when we return to the States, she might as well take advantage of it while she can.

So, waving aside the guilt, Trofie Wife booked a budget hotel, hopped on three connecting trains, and found her way to Firenze (Florence) to meet up with some friends from her high school youth group (as well as their friends). Trofie Wife hadn’t seen one of the friends nor Firenze in nearly a decade (seeing as Martello was there last summer, it hasn’t been high on the weekend priority list), so the journey was doubly exciting. I sneaked through the sweaty crowd in Piazza della Signoria to find my friends and together we headed back to meet the others by the Mercato Sant'Ambrogio, where dinner was already being planned. After a yummy bruschette e pizza lunch and hotel check-in, I managed to run across town to catch the last few minutes (literally) of the synagogue and its museum's opening hours (highly guarded spaces always love a sweaty, stumbling, and stammering last-minute visitor, but seeing just how empty the tour group I joined was, I'm sure the box office appreciated the extra euros). The Firenze synagogue is quite spectacular, due to the fact that the generous endowment donor stipulated that the future building had to match the splendor of the city’s well-regarded masterpieces and houses of worship. With that mission in mind, the architects were sure to make it as un-Italian as possible, focusing on a sort of Moorish/Babylonian design (so that you can loiter in the lovely courtyard while skipping out on services; there was one such girl demonstrating this feature as she played with her Sidekick while her family took the tour). Trofie Wife can only provide external shots as photography was not permitted inside the building, and Martello was not there to surreptitiously break the rules and shoot regardless of the signage.

Following the tour, Trofie Wife re-joined her friends and we enjoyed some excellent (and surprisingly well-valued) gelato (I did, however, take them to task for only ordering one flavor and not two) and we returned to the apartment they were renting where the master chef amongst them was whipping up a fantastic meal with the items procured earlier that day (even more impressively, using his own culinary tools, transported transcontinentally). We dined and enjoyed catching up and reminiscing, bidding farewell on the banks of the Arno as I returned to my meager lodging (actually, for a budget place booked about 10 hours before leaving, it was pretty good).

The next morning, I strolled over to Oltrarno (that would be the side of the river opposite the city center), wandered around (including stopping into the Santo Spirito church), and then crossed back over the Ponte Vecchio (the big-deal bridge here that used to host slaughter houses and now focuses on jewelry sales, go figure). I was crestfallen to learn that I could not enter the Biblioteca Nazionale just to take a look around (my residual anger, however, will not prevent me from posting pictures of the exterior of said library).

Bridge O'Bling: there's nothing to bring foot traffic to a standstill quite like putting shiny jewels on display to mesmerize the masses.

Biblioteca Nazionale (otherwise known as the library that wouldn't admit me). Hint: if you're worried about the state of education in your country, maybe you should consider letting the public access the libraries!!!

Santo Spirito (the one Italian church I've entered in the height of summer where they actually made me cover my shoulders; luckily they ignored the shorts)

Santa Maria Novella (not to be confused with the train station of the same name; I didn't have time for this church as I was headed to the station)

I have to say that when I first visited Firenze during high school I was completely taken with its beauty. Although it was during Easter week and many of the major art galleries were closed, we got to know the streets and various landmarks, and I recall desperately wanting to return (particularly because there was this pair of shoes there that I should have bought and didn’t, and I still have wistful dreams about the experience; the lingering regret was not helped by my beloved French teacher chaperone and i genitori, who, when I returned, said that I should have splurged; and there I thought they would have appreciated my frugal nature with the newly issued credit card; I was sure to have them make up for that instance of thrift in future years). But this visit left me with a different impression. Other than my brief sojourn to Oltrarno, Firenze just seemed overrun with and exploited by tourists. While it’s still beautiful, my initial feeling of wonder at seeing it at 17 dissipated (perhaps by returning with Martello, who always manages to find the hidden and surprising pathways around every city or small village, I will find that feeling again). After a long return journey, Trofie Wife was happy to return home to Martello so we could pack and continue planning our vacation (which started the next day!). More on that soon to come... .

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Arenzano Day

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 21:47:00 +0000

Like every good Italian village, Arenzano has a patron saint and therefore saint day. It’s not enough to just celebrate the regional patron saint (in our case, San Giovanni/St. John the Baptist)—you need a parish one too; it’s good to diversify. Arenzano’s parish church is named after a saintly duo, the martyrs Nazario (according to Wikipedia his father was possibly Jewish!) e Celso. The story is a little bizarre and may even appear to be a bit scandalous (especially to those of us always looking to read a little more into things). In summation, Nazario left Rome to preach in Milan and along the way, at the behest of a mother seeking religious guidance for her son, became a guardian of the then nine-year-old Celso. They proselytized on the Swiss and Italian sides of the Alps, alternately preaching and then being tortured for their beliefs, always together. They were finally beheaded around 400 C.E. Most depictions of them show a man and faithful boy by his side. Make of it what you will.

Statues of Nazario e Celso

Cross being paraded through streets

Parish church lit up and surrounded by crowds

As with most saint’s days, it’s a good occasion for a party. The streets of Arenzano are overtaken by street vendors and the tiny via e vicoli are mobbed by revelers young and old and are nearly impassable. Unfortunately, with the exception of the religious procession after the sun set that evening (July 28), there was nothing very local about this festival. Arenzano Day provides yet another example of something Trofie Wife has decided to term “the globalization of crap.” As they do for the other festivals here and around the region (and in some cases, other parts of the country) the same vendors return with the same cheaply made toys from China, knockoff handbags and sunglasses, and dolce da Sicilia (seemingly-from-the-freezer canoli, stale marzipan fruits, and over-roasted nuts). There’s even a group of South Americans playing wooden pipes and flutes, accompanied by a background CD that you can purchase (it makes Trofie Wife feel like she’s at the 42^nd Street subway station; I don’t have anything against South American music, but there’s something about that ubiquitous CD and flute combo that doesn’t really smack of genuine musical talent, especially when they’re not in sync, which is so often the case). The New York-based Center for an Urban Future conducted a study a couple of years ago about the generic, non-place-based nature of street fairs in New York City (MozzArepas, the sock and underware bins, the live cleaning product and salad chopper demonstrations, etc.; if you’re interested, see http://www.nycfuture.org/content/articles/article_view.cfm?article_id=1167) and it’s quite sad that the same study could be applied to Italian street fairs. Trofie Wife feels deeply embarrassed whenever she sees evidence of this non-particularism sneaking in because she knows that American culture is to blame. Ah, the shame. You know how far American commercial practices have reached? Even street fairs in Arenzano and Genova boast the live cleaning product and salad chopper demonstrations! Complete with headsets! And people crowd around to watch the guy speak really fast. It’s awful!

Well, enough gloom and doom. On the upside, there were fireworks (good import; being that it was July (albeit the end of the month) and I also managed to score a cotton candy, it felt a little bit like the Fourth of July, which we didn’t celebrate properly here). Our landlady avoids the fireworks because they remind her of the bombing during World War II; there were, however, plenty of her contemporaries watching the show, so I guess they’ve had better success working through their post-traumatic stress disorder. Sadly, Martello was stuck at the office, pumping out drawings. At least Trofie Wife could enjoy her favorite raining gold fireworks (see picture below), even if she had to do it alone.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Nearby Adventures

noreply@blogger.com (Trofie Wife) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 12:41:00 +0000

After spending much of the beginning of the summer with family both in Italia and the States, by mid-July we settled back into normal life around here, trying to see as much as possible with our impending departure approaching (of course that departure didn’t come to pass, but we’re still glad that it gave us a swift kick in the posteriore). We enjoyed our first visit to Martello’s annual office barbecue at a senior partner’s country home up in Piemonte. The event feels more like a family reunion than an office party, with the hosts generously inviting colleagues past and present to partake in a mix of Asian, European, and American cuisine. We arrived later in the evening, winding through the treacherous mountain roads, so we missed the tennis and swimming, but we thoroughly enjoyed the food and beverage spread as well as the company. Seeing that the majority of the guests at this event (minus Trofie Wife) are somewhat skilled in drawing, the host has everyone craft a little piece that includes their names (and usually a note of thanks). He then compiles these sketches along with pictures from the party and prints a yearbook; prior yearbooks are on display at the party, so everyone can enjoy seeing how much their hair has receded over the years (in the case of the men) or their sunspots have turned to leathery wrinkles (those Italian women who refuse to wear sun block). In any event, the party was a warm, enjoyable event, and we do hope that we can join in the festivities come next summer.

We spent Sunday of that weekend exploring the Boccadasse neighborhood of Genova, an old fishing community that has seen better days. From both Boccadasse and the neighborhood above it, Albaro, there are gorgeous views of the cliffs and the sea, and Albaro hosts some very lovely villas, some of which have been converted into apartment complexes while others remain single-family homes (one had a drawbridge!).

The sad thing about Boccadasse is that it could’ve been a contender had fate and history taken a different turn. It just as easily could have been beautified to look like Portofino (compare here (particularly the picture of the Portofino Marina): http://martelloetrofiewife.blogspot.com/2009/07/best-monday-ever.html), which was also just a small fisherman’s village until someone decided to transform it into an “it” place. But despite its rough-around-the-edges façade, Boccadasse still attracts visitors and boasts some art galleries, restaurants, and a gelateria or two. It’s probably better to be a working resident here than in Portofino, where the influx of tourists can often be overwhelming.

Our final stop was Nervi, the southernmost section within Genova proper. It is another lovely seaside area dotted with villas and gardens and popularly frequented by British tourists. We enjoyed a short walk along the sea and through the huge parco (trailing behind a lovely, droopy basset hound, Trofie Wife might add) before boarding the train back to our own seaside paradise knowing, with Martello’s huge deadline looming, that we wouldn’t be this relaxed again until August vacation rolled around.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife