Moonstruck

Dead center, right above the glowing ring of street lamps is the moon.
Here, it looks like a tiny speck, but in real life, it was so huge, it stopped me in my tracks.

My mom and I had huge crushes on Nicolas Cage in the late 80s, spurred by his turn as a hang-dog sexy Italian baker in Moonstruck.  I've thought of that movie several times since I've been in Italy because the moonglow has been so bright and intoxicating that it consistently rouses me at 3 am, when the moon hits my eye like a big pizza pie of astral formaggio.


The first night we were in Florence, I begged Christine to go to my favorite trattoria.  The thing is, I never remember the name correctly and I never remember the exact location.  It's more like threading my way through the streets and busy pedestrians, licking my finger and holding it up, seeing which way the wind blows me.  The odd thing is that I've found this particular place in the same fashion every single time I've been in Florence.  So, in that way, I felt fairly confident that eventually we'd find it.


Armed with a map and a vague idea of the location of the Duomo, Christine and I set out.  "It's called the Wolf and the Cat, I think," I said.  "I think it's this way."  At each corner, I scratched my head and pointed.  "Or that way."


"Well, we can see if we find it and if not, I'm sure there are other places," Christine said patiently.  And there are other places, but I was determined to find this one.


"I think it's near the Bargello?" I said, without much conviction.


Somewhere along the Proconsolo, I stopped and shrugged.  "Maybe we'll just go one more block," I said, "and then I'm cool with just stopping anywhere."


"You sure?" Christine asked.  I nodded.  "Okay then," she said, "wanna turn down that next block?"


I looked left down the small alley next to us and said, "Hey, look at the moon!"  It was like a giant orange harvest moon, and it beckoned me toward it.  "Let's just go this way 'coz the moon is so pretty," I said, "then we'll turn at the next corner."


And wouldn't you know Il Gatto & La Volpe was right there, waiting for us. 


Thank you, Cosmo's moon.  La bella luna...

Icche c’è c’è

Icche c’è c’è means "whatever there is, there is."  I love it because it implies the changeable nature of life and how we just sort of need to go with it, no matter what happens.

Icche c’è c’è took Christine and I to Florence a day earlier than we'd planned.  When we hiked down to the bus stop at Piazza Garibaldi on Saturday around lunchtime, on our way to buy a few veggies before pranza, we'd planned to simply check the bus schedule and pick out the time we needed to meet the bus on Sunday morning to get to the train station in Camucia, then we'd buy our tickets at the local tabaccheria for the train to Florence the next day (Sunday, for the flea market). But Sunday in a Catholic country means family, prayer, resting... and no buses to and from Cortona.    

"Wanna go today?" I asked.  She shrugged.

Perchè no?

And so, a few hours later, we raced toward my favorite city as the sun set over the Tuscan countryside, no idea if we could get a room at the hotel we'd booked for Sunday night and really no plan other than to trawl the flea market at Fortezza the next day.  Freedom.  Liberty.  Whatever would be, would be.

I'll post a quick video about our first night's accommodations - that seemed to be the only hiccup in an otherwise flawless weekend that wouldn't have gone off in quite the same way if we'd planned it. And isn't that what travel is all about?

Isn't that what life is all about?  Whatever there is, there is...

Talkin' 'Bout Albergo d'Inferno

Our 1st Hotel in Florence - Low-down & Dirty from Erin Shachory on Vimeo.

Why I'll Never Hook Up With An Italian Guy, Part 2

At the San Lorenzo street market, adjacent to the Medici Chapel, I was admiring the stalls of scarves and leather goods, Italian tchotchkes and hats as we took a shortcut to the Duomo.  I had just put my camera back in my coat pocket and as I passed one young, scruffy ragazzo, he smiled sheepishly and uttered, "Ciao, bella."  


I remember when I was a kid living in Naples that many southern Italians would forego the "buon" part of buongiorno (which means "good morning" or "good day"; on a side note, after lunch or pranza, you switch to buona sera, or "good evening," even though it's only about 2 pm...).  Another thing I like to do is stretch out any "r" sound I have, rolling the "r"s and then just sort of hanging out on that syllable like I own it. And because Naples has such a mafioso rep, this sort of utterance is like the equivalent of wearing a full-on gold grill over my front teeth.  Aw yeah. So I got all street on this dude and showed off my street cred, Napolitan style. 


" 'giorrrrrrrno," I said, not pausing as we passed his stall.


"You dropped something!" he called.


Whiplash-like, I turned to look on the ground, which was clear.  The guy smiled back.  "My heart," he said in English, nodding.


"Oldest trick in the book," Christine said, shaking her head at me.


Well-played, signore.

You Can Take the Girl Out of Adolescence...

My Diane Lane Moment

Just a little sunshine on a stem.

I'm lucky that one of my celebrity "look-alikes" (well, hint of a resemblance, I think) is Diane Lane.  I've known people who hear stuff like "You look just like Rosie O'Donnell," which sucks and wasn't at all true, so having Diane Lane as my "if you squint in the mirror, you'll see what I mean" celeb look-alike is a boost to my ego.  Especially if they mean the Diane Lane of "Unfaithful" who gets it on with the hot French dude... but I'm digressing.  


Anyway, I identify with Diane Lane's character in the Tuscan movie, and I realized when I looked at these pix from our walk yesterday that yeah, I do see a little resemblance.  Lucky me.  

Next thing you know, I'll be buying a horse and winning the Triple Crown.  All in good time...

Reaching for the Cortona Sun

Bramasole

Cortona is the beautiful little hilltop village where Frances Mayes, a college professor, and her longtime love (and future husband) Ed fell in love with a run-down house on the outskirts of town.  Through patience, hard work and careful negotiations through a foreign culture and language, they transformed the property a lush Italian homestead for themselves and their family and friends.  Though they no longer live full-time at Bramasole ("reaching for the sun"), their legacy -- and Mayes' well-loved rendering of their journey toward a life as ex-pats in Tuscany, Under the Tuscan Sun -- has inspired thousands of people to travel to Cortona to see if it's really as magical as it sounds.

My first time in Cortona, it was 2004 and I was 4 months pregnant with Marlowe.  That solo trip to Italy was one of desperation and could be considered a pre-"push" gift.  I had been very clear about not wanting more children and already had my perfect duo (Emme was 3-1/2 and Serena was 2-1/2), but the events of late 2003 had changed my mind.  My father-in-law Isaac had been hospitalized for liver failure; meanwhile, Max and Ali had gotten married and I'd been at the birth of Amy's son Donovan.  Something about the fragility of life had changed my mind and I had called Raf on the way home from Donovan's birth, saying, "I think we should have another baby."  By the time I came to my senses, one thought occurred to me - and remember, I was mired in the chaos of small children who were just about out of diapers, so I was really "in it" - and that thought was, "What if I never get to Italy again?"  So I made one crazy request to Raf: I didn't want to have another baby until I went back to Italy.

Wanna know what he said? "Book the trip and we'll start trying to have a baby when you get back."

And so I booked the trip.  But obviously I was feeling generous about this "gift" from Raf... and so I was already pregnant by the time I got on the plane.

Cortona is a labyrinth of small passageways and steep, steep hills.  For a pregnant woman who was constantly out-of-breath to begin with, Cortona was a tough place to visit.  My hotel was in Pienza, so this was a day trip and I mostly stayed on the flat Via Nazionale and ducked into the tiny, touristy shops, my well-thumbed-through Rick Steves guidebook in hand.  I remember the magical feeling I got from wandering alone through the gorgeous Museo Diocesano, filled with golden works by Fra Angelico, Lorenzetti and Cortona homeboy Luca Signorelli, but I couldn't relax enough to really enjoy the city.  I kind of just wanted to go back and take a nap.

In 2006, I returned to Cortona to take an art workshop and was offered the chance to stay here at Casa San Marcos, a renovated 500-year-old home near the Chiesa di San Francesco. Renovated by an artistic woman from Portland, OR, Casa San Marcos is a blend of American comforts (washing machine, dishwasher, heat) and rustic Tuscan style (frescoes on the walls, pizza fireplace, crisp white linens on comfy beds, handmade pottery).  On that trip, I met Christine, and we wandered the streets and hills of the town with our workshop compadres, soaking up the sunshine and local flavor.  We all watched the DVD of Under the Tuscan Sun, starring Diane Lane and many of the local shopkeepers, and we walked past the house that launched a thousand dreams.  Lucky me, too: I ran into Frances Mayes and Ed TWICE on that trip, once in Florence and again in Piazza Repubblica.  It was a good sign.  You're on the right path, Erin. You're supposed to be here, now.

This visit, I'm moved by how easy it was for me to assimilate into the Cortonese way of life.  Sure, Christine and I have spent an inordinate amount of time cackling and chatting, spewing American pop culture, watching our favorite SNL digital shorts on YouTube via the magic of WiFi.  But we have also stocked the kitchen with fresh produce from the store and have "made do" with what we have for our meals, a very Tuscan ritual from which many delicious local dishes have originated (the thick tomato soup ribollita, made with day-old bread, comes to mind).  If we need something, we hike down to Molesini market and then hike it back up the hill, so we only buy what we need for each day.  You may know that at home I'm very attached to my Chevy Suburban, which wouldn't even fit between the houses on the lane, and so this is a very different kind of thinking for me.  But I'm cool with it.  It's not supposed to be American here - it's Italy!  I'm the one who must adapt... and I'm happy to do so.  If my time here is limited, then I must adapt even faster.  

This morning, Christine stopped on her way up the stairs and said, "I've noticed that you glow in the mornings here... I'm surprised you're not all jet-lagged." Much of that has to do with taking a Tylenol PM each night before bed to be sure I'm not up all night, but I'd like to think it also has to do with my desire to wake up and inhabit Cortona as fully as I can on this trip.  I don't have to see the museums or churches.  I don't have to buy up all the Cortonese goods that I see so that I can "bring Italy home" with me.  I don't have to eat up all the rich food that is in front of me (though I would be hard-pressed to decline a fresh espresso with perfectly formed crema on top).  But I do want to wake up at 3 am, as I did last night, with the glow of the full moon shining in my face, and turn over happily, knowing that I'll be waking up in Italy again in a few hours.  And I want to step onto my balcony at 7 am as the bells of St. Francis call the faithful to worship, and inhale the freshness of the air that wafts past me on its way from Lake Trasimeno to Florence.  

I tend to live this way in Agoura Hills, too: mindfully, with purpose and intention and gratitude.  It's not a new way to feel, thankfully, and I know that when I return home, I will be able to recall these gorgeous sensations gratefully while I go about my days on the coyote trail and at the softball field.  But I do have a strong affection for Italy and I will always have an adoring heart for Cortona.