Six Steps of Stone

Remember that pickaxe work I was doing a few days ago? That rough hillside of weeds and rocks has slowly succumb to the unstoppable march of progress  Where once there was nothing, there are now six stone steps, and I am pleased-as-punch with them. I had no idea what I was doing, but that certainly didn’t stop me from digging up my host’s property.

I began by sinking those four stakes, then tying two long green cords in parallel, marking the outer borders of the stairs. I used a level to ensure they were at the appropriate height and distance all the way down. Then, with the pickaxe, I tore the ground up between those strings, removing larger rocks, weeds, etc., and attempted to get the earth into a smooth slope that approximated the slope of the strings. Then I measured out the depth of a step (46.8 cm), then tied little knots on the strings to demarcate those distances for each step. That was one day.

Then I spent a day trying to dig post holes from the handrails. It didn’t work out. I don’t want to talk about it.

Then today, with the assistance of fellow helper Jonathan, we began dragging those big, heavy stones into place, and arranging them to look like a staircase. Each stone weighs in the 150-400 pound range. At first we rolled them end over end, but after the third step (which was a huge pain), we began sliding them down from above. It took about an hour for each step: finding the rock, moving the rock, then carefully placing the rock and packing smaller rocks and dirt around it so it doesn’t wobble.

Unfortunately, I’m leaving here tomorrow, so I will not able to see this project through to completion. I’m bummed, but happy with what we’ve done so far. It’s so satisfying to spend a day working, then to be able to see and use the thing you spent your time on.

Devon’s Birthday

Devon’s 29th birthday was on August 18th and we spent it at a little restaurant in a nearby hill town of Tuscany called Castelmuzio. We had a delicious meal. It started with bruschetta mista (mixed bruschetta) as an antipasta that had toppings of eggplant, sausage, peppers and tomatoes. As an entree, Devon had gnocchi with mushroom sauce and I had stuffed eggplant. This was all washed down with a bottle of water (they don’t serve tap here) and 1/2 a liter of house red wine.

For dessert, which we obviously couldn’t skip, Devon had his favorite Italian sweet, tiramisu, and I had a chocolate pudding with mascarpone sauce. The tiramisu was by far one of the best I’ve had and Devon said it’s the best he’s ever had. The tiramisu was served with a candela and all the waitresses passed with birthday wishes, “Auguri!”

Devon Digging Stairs Into A Hillside

Some have commented that, according to this blog, we appear to rarely work. Update after update shows us lounging, sipping cool drinks under cabanas or something like that. So, in response, here is a photo of what I was doing this morning: smacking a pick axe into stone-chocked hillside. I’m helping build and install a stone staircase. I started by sinking those four vertical stakes, which now hold the guide lines that dictate the boundaries of the stairs.

Donkey Loves Kitty

The family donkey wants to be friends with the sleeping, family cat, who does not. This was the scene at this mornings breakfast table. The donkey has been out of its pen, wandering onto the porch, trying to sneak sips of my tea, and of course, harassing the cat.

Under The Tuscan Rain (Video)

Under The Tuscan Rain from Devon DeLapp on Vimeo.

A rainy afternoon at Podere Trove, near Petroio (you can hear their church bells), in Tuscany Italy. Shot with the Canon Rebel T2i and cut in that great and deeply respected stalwart of editing, iMovie.

Pizza Night in Umbria

I was surprised at the number of people outside this late on a Tuesday night. Older people, too. A dozen men and women with gray hair, sitting, talking, playing bridge in front of the bar, all orange in the light of the security lamp above them. Two men passionately argued, or maybe passionately agreed. Anger and enjoyment in Italian still sounds the same to me. Heads craned to watch Halbe and I pass.

We rounded the corner of the bar and went down a small hill to a pizzeria beneath it. Six or seven tables were setup outside. A large group filled a few tables pushed together. The rest were empty. We sat apart from the group and a teenage girl brought us menus. She said something to us in Italian we didn’t understand. We looked at each other, then hesitantly nodded at the girl. I may have said, “Si.” She left, then returned with glass bottle of mineral water. That’s one mystery solved.

Choosing from the menu was easier. Many pizza names looked familiar from pizzerias in the States. I selected a “margherita” (tomato sauce, mozzarella, 4 euros), and Halbe went for “prosciutto cotto” (thin sliced and smoked ham, mozzarella, 5 euros). We started with bruschetta mista (mixed bruschetta: slices of bread with tomato, olive oil, garlic, basil, or melted cheese/sausage, or melted cheese/salami, 3 euros) and went for a half-liter (mezzo litro) of the house red wine (3 euros).

The pizza crust was cracker thin, but pliant, slightly chewy, and with a hint of salt. The sauce was on the sweet side, not sugary like white sugar, but with the sweetness of ripe fruit, or a fresh tomato. It played well with the bubbles of the crust, frozen into brown and black shells by the intense heat of the oven. The cheese was pleasantly creamy with the faintest watery pungency, like that of plain yoghurt, or dry hay. It became a bit rubbery as it cooled, and was arranged on the surface in cut circles, like pieces of pepperoni. The wine, surprisingly, was excellent. Warm, smooth, smokey, and best of all, cheap.

We listened to the large group (who turned out to be English on holiday). They took turns photographing one another. One stuck out her tongue briefly. She snapped it back before the shot could be taken, and uncomfortably chuckled and apologized for her behavior. It all felt very British.

A small dog begged at their table. The cook came out and shooed it away with a dish towel and a few sharp words in Italian. Minutes later it returned and gazed at us with hopeful eyes.

I’m envious of these thin crusts. I enjoy making pizza but I just can’t get the crust thinner than a bready half-inch or so. Any thinner and the dough splits apart. Meanwhile, at a tiny pizzeria in a tiny village, the pizza is almost thin enough to see through.

Sad, yes, but one day perhaps I’ll learn. Our current host has mentioned we may visit a pizzeria owned by a friend of his. Maybe then the secret of Italian pizza will be revealed to me. Until then, we’ll just have to enjoy the pizza from the countless pizzerias dotting this country. I think I can live with that.

Halbe’s first bread-making experience

Halbe's first foray into bread making - and it's vegan!

Okay, I’ll admit it, I’ve always been a little jealous of Devon’s ability to make bread. While in Umbria our host, Michael, asked us to make a loaf. Usually Devon would do this, but he’s baked at least 10 loaves on this trip for our different hosts and was a little baked out. I gave it a whirl. This is the result of my efforts and I’m quite pleased. It’s made with white and wheat flour, vegetable oil, soy milk and molasses (our host was a vegan). You can see the soy margarine in the corner of the picture that was smothered on each piece.

Everyone liked it so much it was gone within a few days and our host brought half a loaf to his girlfriend’s to share. Even though she’s not a “bread eater,” she really enjoyed my bread. I have to say, I’m proud of myself! Now we have two bread makers in our family. Devon still has a hold on the pizza making market though. And we’ll keep it that way because he’s certainly got talent.

Halbe, Carina the Dog, and Responsible Logging

Halbe and I took a hike in the hills around our current host’s home. His dog, Carina (we think it translates to “Sweetheart”) kept us company. Right here they are standing in area logged about two years ago. Italians are fiercely protective of their forests, and have practiced selective logging for centuries. A tree is left every 7 meters, then the area is left untouched for decades to regrow.

Under The Cortona Sun

Cortona is what I feel many of the cities we’ve visited wish they were. Small, but not too small. Personal, charming, and warm. Old secrets rest in the shaded, narrow canyons of cobbled roads, criss-crossing the town like crooked fingers. True, there are tourists (we’re there, right?) but this is not Venice, or Saint Malo. People still live here and it shows. Laundry hangs from lines overhead like flags for a tiny festival. City squares hold tight circles of laughing old men. Children run solo around corners and into darkened doorways.

Halbe and I are staying in Umbria, so we drove a windy road through a mountain pass to approach the city from behind, at its summit. We walked through an arched entry in the high, defensive stone wall then continued along its ridge. Cortona is built on the side of a hill and this wall surrounds and holds up the city. It emphasizes the height Cortona holds over the long valley and low hills below. Tiny, angular farms fill out this valley like shattered chunks of glass swept into colorful piles. This is Tuscany. It continues until atmosphere sucks away the color, then shape, and the blue silhouette of a distant mountain cuts a gentle line along the bottom of the sky.

We cut into the city, not following any particular route. Tourist families passed in three’s and fours’s, huffing up the hills at a chain-gang’s plodding pace. Couples like us wandered, heads titled up to the crack of sky above.

We found gelato for one euro forty. A steal at twice the price. We sat on the stairs in Piazza della Republica and watched the flow of people from the streets terminating here. A traffic cop with supermodel legs and Gucci sunglasses talked with a cab driver blocking an entrance. She squeezed her hand into a purse and waved it in the cabbie’s face, like they were negotiating a price. A massive clock hung behind us, ticking off the time. At the hour, we heard the clanging bells of Cortona’s cathedral, and the airy bells of the church in the valley far below.

The late-day golden light slipped from the building tops and we knew the sun had set. We ate at a small pizzeria (our second in Italy — the first is a coming post). Hungry tourists in line for the place peered in the street level window to watch us eat.

As we left, I felt for a moment like I was on a film set. It’s the Disneyland effect. I grew up with close to home, traditional, suburban experiences, so the jungles of Costa Rica reminds me of Disneyland’s Jungle Ride, and not the other way around.

I took a photo. That could be a recently lit backlot at Paramount. I had to remind myself I’m in Cortona, in Tuscany, in Italy, on the other side of the world. Halbe and I walked hand in hand down these streets, then drove the windy road home.

We are in the Umbria region of Italy

We made it safely to Umbria, and have set up residence with our new host. He lives in a 400 year old home high on hill with a killer view of the farms and other chateaus in the area. Above is a shot taken shortly after we arrived. I’m writing this on the porch shown there, and can hear the church bells from the village in the valley below.

The host is a laid back sort (born in 1951), who did the “hippie trail” (his words) of India back in the 70’s, and now is living a beautiful lifestyle on 5 acres out here. He has a horse, a donkey, a cat, a dog, and three recently acquired ducks.

The work is more standard manual labor stuff. We were clearing brush along a road this morning. We will be building some stone and mortar enclosures for his fruit trees next. We may make a house for the ducks.

Italy has a feel completely unique from France. I would describe it as warmer, more provincial, more run down, but generally more cheerful. People crack jokes with strangers, which I like.