Salvatore the Muratore
Salvatore the Muratore checks the placement of one of the rafters
This post is for all of you who have waited patiently – or should I say pantingly - for photos of Salvatore the Muratore.

We are feeling good. Round one of the problems with our neighbor is over. Everyone including our hunky Muratore (Moor-ah-TORE-ee, means builder, rhymes with Salvatore) agrees our documenti are good and our neighbor has not one legal gamba to stand on regarding a claim to our property. Whew.

Salvatore discusses the wall structure (note the double row of bricks with insulation between) with his Dad, Franco, as one of the workers listens.
The structural engineer scratches his head over how to solve the problem of a sagging floor as Salvatore the Muratore and Alberto the Architecto look on worriedly. The problem was fixed but we lost a precious 10centimeters of top floor head room
In the meantime two and a half months after commencing work, the project is really looking good, and I’m not just talking about Salvatore il Muratore. It was almost as thrilling to see the first of the Italian red roof tiles being put in place as it was to see Salvatore confidently balanced on the rafters directing the operation - almost. The new dormer windows will add much needed height to the third floor. Because the house sits on a hill it is visible for miles away and when the lights are on inside, the dormers will appear like bright shining eyes looking over the valley towards Terzo.

One of the first steps was the installation of the 'igloos' which add insulation to the subterranian floor. Note the beginning of the curved wall for the circular staircase.
The ultra-modern stainless steel countertops in the kitchen should contrast wonderfully with the rustic stone on the base of the kitchen island Salvatore is building for me. We are using real Piemonte stones, prized for centuries as a building material and now quite expensive. Salvatore found and excavated the stones from the hill next to our house. I’m hoping the stones will give the house both a visual and tactile connection to this ancient land. They couldn’t mean more to me if they were diamonds. And at long last we will have a bathroom bigger than a breadbox – and GORGEOUS. When the magnificent Cosima, our beautifully stylish and extremely confident interior designer described her ideas to me, I started crying. Could all this really, really be coming true? Could I be this lucky? Please don’t let this be a dream.
This shot from the top of our vineyard shows the roof off and the placement of the massive first roof beam

Texas style - we celebrate the 'topping off' of the roof with the placement of a tree at the apex. After a bottle of wine,, we should not have been climbing up on the roof, but we were giggling too hard to think straight

The dormer windows add much to the style of the house

Speaking of dreams, I must run and make the final decision on the floor tiles or risk holding up our Muratore. Hmmmm, holding Salvatore the Muratore, I think I’ll pause for a while on that thought.

FORZA ITALIA!
Fans were decked out and ready. Chris was asked constantly to
Fa il photo! - Take the picture!
For atmosphere, play the Italian National Anthem while you read:


It’s been a long time coming.
Here in Italy the excitement leading up to the final deciding penalty kick of the 2006 World Cup was palpable. Even in our little town of Aqui Terme the fervor had the force of a tsunami – building and gathering strength through the game and then crashing over the crowd, dispersing them like a red-white-and-green flash-flood. A cheering, jumping, hugging, flag-waving tidal wave of ecstatic fans coursed through the narrow cobblestoned streets of Acqui, sweeping up everyone in its path and spilling out onto the main road where they paraded and partied until all hours. It was over-the-top fun for all.


The happiness and excitement following the win was contagious.
Cosima, our fabulous interior designer (left) along with Angela, the owner of Balalah (center), and others celebrate after the game.
Francia e’ morta – was scrawled on the side of one car in the celebratory parade following the game. France is dead. And IMHO they deserved to lose. The French champion, Zidane, in an appalling and shameful flagrant foul, head-butted one of the Italian players. The crowd at Balalah where we were watching nearly rioted at the replay of the head-butt. Everyone was on their feet screaming. All of my Italian was learned in school so Bastardo! was one of the few words I understood during that part. And when the referee finally pulled out the Red Card signifying Zidane’s ejection the cheer was awesome! This game was the last in Zidane’s otherwise long and stellar career. What a sorry way to be remembered. Since he is considered one of the world's best penalty kickers, his unsportsmanlike behavior not only ended his career on a sour note, it probably ended any chance France had for a win. I pity whomever is sitting across the breakfast table from him this morning.

Colored smoke added to the party atmosphere on Corsa Roma

This giant version of The World Cup was greeted with a huge roar from the fans in the streets.

Outlandish was the order of the night. One car sported a stick with 3 bras, one red, one white and one green. We saw lots of nearly nudes merrily jiggling around, but Caesar was my favorite!
Italy has not won the World Cup since 1982. Correction, Italy has had since 1982 to plan a World Cup celebration party. It was pandemonium - and the NOISE LEVEL! The car parade, cheering, singing and dancing in the street lasted until after 2:00 in Acqui, I can’t imaged what it must have been like in Rome. Thank goodness today is Monday when most things are closed in the morning anyway!

Even more of Chris' photos of the celebration.

Torn on the 4th of July

A packed house and fine dining for THE GAME at Cafe Balalah

This Independence Day finds me torn between two allegiances. I was born and raised an American and always will be. But I love living in Italy.

We celebrated the 4th of July by eating outdoors with a big group of people while watching the game on a large projection screen. Sounds like an American 4th you say? Hardly! Our outdoor dining spot was a café in Aqui Terme. Instead of hotdogs and hamburgers we had prosciutto with melon and a pesto lasagna. Instead of beer we drank really good Piemonte wine. The game was football. That’s soccer to you guys in The States, football to everybody else on the planet. But not just any match – it was Italy vs. Germany in the semi-finals of The World Cup.


A parade of happy fans spontaneously happened after the game.

What I know about football you could fit in large type on one of those yellow penalty cards, but WOW it was exciting! And I’m not just talking about how cute the Italian players are. With the whole world watching, Italy won in the last 2 minutes of double overtime. The entire country went berserk. We have a front row table reserved for the finals on Sunday. FORZA ITALIA!!

If there is one thing Italians know how to do well, it's celebrate!
It was a flag waving 4th - just a different flag.

The World Cup is only played once every 4 years, giving it Olympic-like status. Even little Acqui went a little crazy after the game. Superbowl hype pales in comparison.

MORE GREAT PHOTOS HERE

Miei amici italiani: Per tour fotografico di Chris

My Self Portrait




With humble apologies to Yvonne and Chris. This was fun and easy.

Create your own portrait online and send it to me.

A Night at the OperaJosé Carreras concert in Acqui Termi
A magical night under the stars!
I only know 3 true opera fans. They would have killed to be me last night. The rest of you would have loved it, too. Heck even pop-music Chris had a good time.

In the middle of our adopted town of Acqui Terme there is a small outdoor amphitheater with intimate seating for around 300 people. It is located in the historic district, accessible only by narrow cobblestone streets rich in Italian hilltown architecture, ambiance and charm. Part of the amphitheater encompasses the ancient town wall. The original Roman buildings around the periphery are now swanky apartments with windows and balconies overlooking the stage. They have their own box seats for every show. Glancing up during the concert I spied kids in PJs playing with their stuffed animals, couples sipping wine, and even a nonna who stepped out on her balcony fresh from finishing up the dishes, drying her hands on her apron.
The setting was as fantastic as the performance
The weather was perfect. Following an early evening shower the sky was crackling clear. The stars shown down on the performance rivaling the stage lights in brilliance. I patted myself on the back for finally getting into the habit of bringing a much-needed light sweater with me in the evenings, even in summertime.

José Carreras was pure class. From the moment he stepped on the stage through every perfectly atoned note he was perfectly poised, confident without arrogance, and utterly completely in control. The audience adored him, and why not? José Carreras is a musical legend. He’s one of the world renowned Three Tenors that includes Plácido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti. Here’s a fun site about The Three Tenors that includes a couple of short music videos, some basic opera history and some other interesting stuff. If ever there was a ‘fun with opera’ site, this is it.
A voice to die for
I can’t tell you what a thrill it was to be in a crowd yelling “ANCORA!” (Encore!”) and know that was not a foreign word to them. Three encores later, and close to midnight, Chris and I strolled back through town and were tempted by the sound of a jazz band playing at the new bar on Corsa Italia. Saturday night in Acqui Terme is HOPPING with a wide range of social activities for every age and taste. Speaking of taste, there are enough local restaurants here to keep us trying a weekly new spot for way over a year.
In my next life I will have musical talent
I’m feeling really smart. Where else but in the Italian Piedmont could you find gorgeous unspoiled rural countryside, the best wine and food on the planet AND world-class cultural events – AFFORDABLY - all within 5 kilometers? It makes me feel like singing an aria!

Note to legal departments everywhere: While the events in this story are absolutely true, all evil clients depicted in this account are fictitious. Really. I swear. I can’t speak for other photographers but all my clients are saints whose only fault is their non-stop nagging me to charge them more. They never abuse me or my time and treat me like they would their mothers. I love each and every one of the blessed creatures. So please don’t sue me for what I’m about to say.

Shangri-LaLa LandThe Himalayan location shoot from Hell
This photo assignment started with locations in Japan, including Tokyo, which we love. The technology! The pachinko parlors! The endearing and annoying nonstop bowing! The frenzied mass of humanity crossing the streets in Shibuya! The beautiful views of Mount Fuji we’ve heard about but never seen because of the ever-present smog!

The Shibuya area is Tokyo's Time Square. It was featured in scenes of the movie Lost in Translation
People traveling to Asia for the first time have no idea how completely different China is to Japan. Where the Japanese are reserved and standoffish, the Chinese are demonstrative and even loud. Or in the case of this particular client: pushy, manipulative, lying and evil. I should tell you in advance that we survived so you don’t get scared.

Pachinko parlors are colorful and LOUD. Chris whipped through a bucket of steel balls in about 10 minutes with nothing to show for it but partial deafness from the noise
This was our third trip to China. Unlike the first, we felt comfortable negotiating passport control, customs and immigration. We knew from past experience NOT to list ourselves as photographers on any documents, especially our visa requests. The current Chinese government takes a dim view of photographers and journalists entering the country, turning down many. They have been burned too often on negative human rights stories. For years now I have listed our occupation on all official documents as Graphic Consultants. Graphic Consultant is close enough to the truth but does not set us up for immigration or equipment import hassles. If I were to tell the god’s honest truth, I would admit that most of the time we enter countries on a tourist, not a business visa even though we are there to work, not play. Tourist visas are quicker and cheaper to obtain. Because we present ourselves as a smiling middle-aged married couple, we seldom get searched. But still, I secretly hold my breath through each and every border crossing.

Every morning across China people gather in public parks to exercise. Some practice tai chi like the incredibly flexible woman here, some bring boom-boxes and ballroom dance!
In hindsight I should have just said NO to this project, but being naturally stubborn (and greedy) I kept trying to make it work out. It started going bad with a phone message to our hotel in Beijing. “Hello, this is Mr. Li (the client from hell), just letting you know I have changed the whole shoot schedule. You will be leaving for the Himalayan location at 7am tomorrow instead of the following day.” What? We still had a day of shooting in Beijing for our primary client to complete. Our schedule had been approved and carved in stone for weeks. This guy had no right or authority to alter the plans, but he pushed and whined and even insisted that I call my primary client to see if a change was possible. I pretended to call but really didn’t. I found out later the real reason he wanted to change the schedule had nothing to do with business - there was a party in Beijing he didn’t want to miss. Numerous frantic calls and multiple expensive plane changes later, we were mercifully back to the original schedule.

Over 7,000 life-sized terracotta warriors have been discovered in underground caves near Xian, China. Each one is unique with different faces, hair, clothes, etc.
Mr. Li had told both our contact at the corporate offices in the States and us that it would take a 3-hour plane trip from Beijing and a 2-hour car drive to reach the remote shoot location. That was lie number two. It took two planes and all day to reach the closest town to the site. Then, by even the most conservative of estimates, it was a 5-hour drive to the location.

Northwestern China is way, way off the tourist map. It’s located north of Tibet. Our destination was the politically troubled area close to the Kazakhstan border. The area has a mostly Muslim population which means we would find delicious prepared lamb dishes and much political unrest. We heard rumors of terrorist-like activity and of heavy-handed government response. Or maybe it was the other way around - probably was the other way around. It’s sparsely populated, mostly barren, high-desert terrain. The area is dangerously hot in summer and, as we were soon to find out, dangerously cold in the winter. For safety, Mr. Li’s company insists all ground travel must be by caravan of two or more cars, never losing sight of each other along the way. I came to appreciate that rule.

Our caravan struck out very early in pre-dawn darkness. Chris and I shared the backseat of one truck with our driver and another passenger up front. I never figured out exactly what the passenger’s role was, apart from sleeping which he took seriously and was very good at. They spoke as much English as we spoke Chinese. Mr. Li rode in the other car. After about 7 long boring hours the drivers insisted on a break and since my bladder was about to explode I didn’t argue. We stopped at an uncharted village inhabited mostly by fur-bundled ox-chart drivers. At this point Chris and I were fairly frantic about the time and the lack of light that would exist at the shoot sight when we finally got there. Mr. Li said it would only take a few minutes for lunch – it took an hour and a half. He said it was only another 45 minutes to the location, despite the rapidly mounting snowdrifts. It took another 4 hours of slow agony.

The lead truck in our small caravan enters the mountain pass
By the time we finally got on site there was less than an hour of light left. We flailed through the knee-high snow in a panic to accomplish our shotlist. In the back of our heads were visions of the awful and awesome mountain pass we had slipped and skidded through on the way to the shoot and would now have to navigate in the dark on the way back. That, and the fact that it was minus 20C, made it very difficult to concentrate and create. We had no way of knowing that a blinding blizzard was already making it’s way toward the pass, waiting for our arrival.

If I hadn’t been so consumed by a white-hot pissed-off anger at Mr. Li, the little lying weasel, the terror of the drive would have been overwhelming. When I could see anything at all through the snow and the dark, I was instantly sorry I had looked. It took over an hour of white-knuckle time to inch our way through the pass. The new-fallen snow made it impossible to make out the edges of the road and there were very few guardrails. Sudden drop-offs into what appeared to me as bottomless gaping mouths of death were alarmingly frequent. That phrase kept running through my mind with each tiny skid, each surprise pothole, each hairpin turn: bottomless gaping mouths of death – shit.

Things got both better and worse when we got to the other side of the pass. The road straightened and flattened out, but the blizzard hit with full force. At this point we had been in the car for over 20 hours straight with the exception of lunch and the shoot, which due to the gathering darkness took about as much time as lunch. We were exhausted, more from anxiety than anything physical. The car afforded no way to stretch out or get comfortable. Our driver resorted to pinning painful binder clips on his ears, eyebrows and lips to keep himself awake. The unknown passenger snored. Several times either I or Chris commandeered our driver’s cell phone and called Mr. Li in the other car, asking, begging and finally screaming to stop at a hotel for the night. He first told us there were no hotels, then said they were all full, and finally that the other passenger in his car (whoever he was) had to be back in town for a meeting. We found out later he had told the non-English speaking passenger that WE were the ones insisting that we keep going through the storm. The truth was that Mr. Li was still hoping to get back to Beijing in time for his party.

When we mercifully uncoiled ourselves out of the truck at the hotel we only had 2 hours before our scheduled return flight to Beijing. No sleep, and little food for 27 hours! If the plane had not been delayed due to the blizzard, Mr. Li would have made it to his stupid party. It’s the first time in my life I was happy to sit for hours in an airport.

Seeing Doppio

I love having creative friends. They inspire me, challenge my thinking and always have a great sense of humor. Truly creative people are different from the rest of us. They see the world from a slightly off-kelter, sometimes quirky perspective. Such is the case with long time acquaintance, Yvonne Callaway Smith .

I met Yvonne over 10 years ago. She is a good friend; a confidante; an inspiration; a mentor. She has loudly applauded my successes big and small, and held my hand through troubles. I depend on her clever observations to both advise me and encourage me to try harder. I have not seen her face to face since we met. Yet I count her among my dearest friends.

Our communications, with the exception of one exciting phone call when the first of her paintings arrived at my door, have been totally by email. But oh what wonderful, welcomed emails! Before Yvonne took up painting fulltime she was a writer - lucky me, unlucky corporate world for losing her.

Yvonne surprised me with this painting, a rendition of the photo I use for my blog ID. She titled it 'Doppio' which means Double in Italian. What fun! I am also the proud owner of another YCS original, a wonderfully whimsical and wacky painting of me and my two sisters. It makes me smile every single time I look at it.
Yvonne’s portfolio of paintings, including information on her latest exhibitions and installations is a fun and inspiring look-see. If you are in the Montreal area you should go see her work in person. But even if like me, you’re not even in Canada, you can still give yourself the pleasure of owning great original art. Contact Yvonne by email, or through her YCS website. Yvonne is available to do commissioned work. And take it from me, she is a joy to work with and to know.

Ti amo, Yvonne!

There Goes the Neighborhood

Acqui Terme means Thermal Waters in Italian. Due to it's natural hot springs, the town has been on the Italian tourist map since Caesar was a baby. Part of the ancient Roman aquaduct still stands.
Dang. They’ve found us already. A recent series of articles in the well known London based publication The Independent , chronicles the wonders of our undiscovered part of Italy. Up until now only Italian tourists could be found luxuriating in the spas of Acqui, filling the restaurants and sipping the world's greatest wine in the enotecas. Sometimes Chris and I are mistaken for one of the occasional Swiss sightseers, climbing down from their frigid mountains seeking warmer climes. And every once in a while a lost German wanders through Acqui Terme, but not many. We are officially the first American homeowners in the area, making us the only native English speaking couple to set up housekeeping here to my knowledge. But I don’t think that will last for long.

It will start with the intrepid British. They are so good at poking their noses everywhere on the planet. We know of one Brit that has bought in the area recently. At first his plans were to use his house here as just a holiday place. But I heard in the market today that he likes the area so much he now plans to move here permanently. I can’t blame him but I’m not happy about it.
The drive from Acqui to the legendary truffle town of Alba means navigating the thrilling switchback roads with glimpses (when you dare) of the magnificant countryside.
I selfishly wanna say – tick-tock the game is locked and nobody else that speaks English of any accent can move here. This is MY area of Italy, I found it first - go away! Go to overpriced and overrun Tuscany. We Italians (heehee) call Tuscany 'Chianti-Shire' as there are almost as many Brits as there are Italians there now.

I love the coffee culture. I have progressed from an espresso drinker to a hardcore espressor user.
I guess I’m not being realistic. The 2006 Olympics turned a giant spotlight on the many delights of The Piemonte. And it's true that: if you market it, they will come. But I have devised a plan to thwart the arrival of the dreaded tour buses.

I said I wanted the LARGE pizza! Food, glorious Italian food - I'm in heaven
I’m going to start writing articles on how BAD it is here. I will moan over the lack of English spoken (true) and berate the quality of the wine (false). I will scare them with talk of the crazy Italian drivers (true) and bad food (false). I will tell the skiers the Alps are too far, nearly 2 hours away. I will tell the sun-worshipers the Alps are too close, only 2 hours away. I’ll make sure they know Acqui gets really cold in the winter (true) and really hot in the summer (also true). I won’t mention the incredibly long and beautiful springs with amazing fields of wild red poppies everywhere. Nor will I mention the lingering fall with it’s cool mornings and warm afternoons. I will instead write with genuine heart-felt terror of driving in the blinding fog of November.

Dinner with friends. Casual setting, lively conversation, always way too much fantastic food. Note the large bottles of homemade wine. Everybody makes their own!

The boardwalk along the Mediterranean Sea near Portofino is a breathtaking afternoon stroll. Only an hour and a half from my front door.
Mostly I won’t mention the ease with which we have made friends here. You will not hear from me how incredibly generous the local people are; with gifts from their gardens, dinner invitations in their homes and their patience with our mutilation of their beautiful language. No, it’s just horrible here. You will hate it. Tell everybody - DON’T COME.

Festa per Tutti!Literally: Party for Everyone – but I think the intent is more like
Party On!
You could see the smoke from the BBQ for miles!
Every May 1st our adopted town of Terzo throws what in Texas we call a barbeque. The difference is they’ve been doing it for longer than Texas has been in existence.

What can I say except DELICIOSO!
It is with no small amount of chagrin that I admit someplace else besides Texas can do good BBQ. I scoff at the Kansas City attempts with their mouth-puckering vinegary sauce - ick. Don’t even mention New York, and certainly not veggie-centric California. BBQ should be about MEAT. Shrimp on the barbee down under? Fair at best, but see previous comment. I admit Argentina does OK with their salt-brine soaked grilled meats.

The town of Terzo has been around since about 900AD. I think the Terzo church is one of the prettiest in the area.
My Texas ten-gallon hat is humbly off to Terzo’s succulent sausages and crispy skinned but juicy chicken. And ahhhhh, the ribs. To me BBQ success or failure is based on pork ribs. They must be meaty, not dry, tender and full flavored. I give Terzo’s ribs an A+.

We purchased this print at one of the many local festivals. It shows the Terzo Tower (circa 1300s), back some time around 1930. It's the same Tower Chris climbed on the day of the Festa to take the fisheye view below.
Taken from the ancient tower, which is only open on special occasions. It affords a grand view of all of Terzo and the surrounding countryside. You can see the church on the far edge of town.
I've gotten really hungry writing this. That’s partly due to the aroma coming from the stove right now. I’m attempting my first ever pot of pasta e fagioli. I hope it tastes as good as it smells!

If I smash both Avvocatos, can I make guacamole?
The house in progress. The openings for the doors and windows have been enlarged and the new kitchen space added. They rip off and raise the roof on the third floor (pay attention, it will be the guest quarters) next week.
Thanks to all who have expressed sympathy and held my hand through this period of high anxiety. For the past week we have been under the threat of having our new home and land “claimed” by one of our new neighbors. Under the Tuscan Sun? More like under a Piedmont Rock.

According to an Italian rural land law, neighbors have the right of first refusal when a property is for sale. In his initial contact with us through his Avvocato (lawyer), our new neighbor said he planned to exercise his right to our land. Holy merde. By Italian law, he has one year to make a claim. Our year is not up until 1 September 2006.

Good news, I think. At least it’s not bad news.

We had our Genovese Avvocato (attorney) look over our house documents and the notification of the sale that was sent to all our neighbors back last June. Sig. Avvocato says our papers are "very well". I believe he meant they are legally GOOD. He says if we did “stand up before a Judge”, we should win. He then told me “to be quiet”. I believe he meant to tell me to stay calm. Or maybe he was sick of listening to my lousy Italian.

Don't tell Chris, but I have fallen in love with our wonderfully talented and resourceful Italian architecto. He is teaching me to cuss in Italian and we are teaching him the meaning of English words such as 'affordable', which unfortunately he did not understand!
We now think our neighbor , who is rich and powerful and owns lots of vineyards all over the province, wants to make us a legitimate offer to purchase some of our land. Our Avvocato told his Avvocato about our very good documenti and I believe that instituted an attitude change on their part. We think he was just fishing in his initial contact and hoping we had been stupid. Normally that would have been a fair bet, but for once I don’t think we were, at least not about that one thing. We have about 5 acres of very well positioned land and could just maybe be talked into selling some if the price was REALLY right.

This hole will one day be our showcase staircase, spiralling up through all three floors.
We of course don’t know what his reaction will be if we refuse to sell him what he wants. He could still file a claim and potentially tie us up in court for many expensive years, or at least threaten us with that. So things are looking pretty good, but we are not completely out of the woods yet. We will proceed with the reconstruction for the time being and see what he has to say.

But come September 1st, no matter where in the world you are, you will hear me breath a big giant sigh of relief.

Keeping the faith.

We took a walk today

The arrow points out our piccola casa nestled in the Piedmont hills and vineyards with the town of Terzo in the background. Click to enlarge.

Last night we dined with friends at their house. It was, by local standards, a simple meal. There were just 10 of us. There were only 3 different wines served. The salami and bread, along with the pasta and everything else, were homemade. We ate and laughed until it was very late and our stomachs were stretched like pork belly skin, which BTW was one of the delicious courses.

Today we swore to eat only raw vegetables and drink only water to compensate. We vowed to exercise mightily. We failed on all accounts.

Breakfast in Italy is rarely more than coffee and a brioche. So we felt sanctimonious about our melon and fresh-squeezed OJ. Lunch was a healthy chicken soup we pulled down from the freezer and a salad. After the customary Italian lunch nap, we self-righteously donned our hiking boots and headed for the high-road overlooking our house, intent upon at least 2 hours of exercise up hill and down, con fantastic vineyard and mountain views. With espresso surging through my veins, I eagerly anticipated my muscles warming and then burning with the uphill exertion. I imagined the feast of the night before melting off my hips.

We parked the car just barely off the narrow road and headed up toward the charming burgo of Montebone. We walked maybe 30 meters before we encountered Angelo and never got a step further.

Angelo, hoe in hand, was clearing weeds between the cherry trees in his orchard. As he worked he talked to his dog that was lying in the shade, or to the chattering birds overhead, or the dirt, and occasionally I think to God, judging by the pleading/exasperated expression on his upturned face and his oh-so-expressive Italian hand gestures. As near as I could make out he was complaining to whomever or whatever about his bountiful crop of weeds (l’erbacce). When he spotted us he didn’t pause in his dissertation. He just continued talking but now aimed it in our direction, as if Chris and I were just another couple of birds that had landed in his cherry trees.

He told us he was 80 years old and that his wife was gone. I’m not sure if she was dead or just at the market. My Italian is improving but there are still big giant holes in my comprehension. It didn’t really matter to Angelo if we comprehended what he said or not. In Italy with someone his age, it is understood that our role was more to listen than talk. We did – like the faithful dog at his feet and the curious birds in the trees.

Angelo pops the cork on the second bottle of wine.
He proudly showed us each and every little thing he had accomplished that day which, BTW was very impressive. We nodded along appreciatively. From his hilltop view he pointed out his land and named the various townships that seemed to ride the crests of a rolling sea of vineyards. When he discovered we had mutual friends living in the next valley, that was that. We would not be permitted to leave until we came inside and sampled his wine.

The house was typical Piemontese. Parts of it dated back nearly 200 years and contained the traditional arched bricked ceilings that I adore - rustic, beautiful, and now impossibly expensive to build. Other parts of the house were added on as the family expanded first with children and then spouses and grandchildren. It had at least 2 kitchens and probably more to accommodate the individual nuclear family cells within the large compound.

He begged us to sit at his table while he disappeared into the cantina, emerging minutes later with not one but two bottles of wine. He opened the bottles one after the other with the ease and grace that over 60 years of daily practice will bring.

And what wine! One a light and fruity Dolcetto – the other a smooth and rich Barbara. Both superb wines from our region of northern Italy, The Piemonte. We listened and drank, our glasses never allowed to get totally empty, for about an hour. Finally, pleading an appointment with friends we left. Wobbly-legged and without a word needed between us we headed straight back to the car. All thoughts in our heads of exercise having been replaced by a pleasant tingly buzz. Within minutes we were seated at our favorite trattoria, gorging on deliciously decadent pizza.

Tomorrow I swear I’ll be good.

HAYLEY ANNE SALVO DAY!

This day marks the end of an era for us. Our youngest of four children graduates from college this afternoon. WOW. It is with great pride and no small sense of nostalgia that we celebrate, accompanied by several twinges of guilt. Sadly, regrettably, we will not personally witness the event. We are stuck in Italy, minding the house renovations. We will appease our wrong by facilitating her (accompanied by one of her brothers) trip over here immediately following the graduation.
High School graduation, just three and a half years ago - with honors, of course!
My mind wanders back over the years and I can’t help but smile at the long ago memories. To-wit:

Hayley, not even walking yet, but showing signs of her life-long dedication to research, precision and details – she carefully and exactingly removes her shoes with her cute chubby little fingers and meticulously picks the lint out between each and every toe. She is so proud of herself!
Hayley excelled at everything, including temper tamtrums
Hayley at 2, beset upon by clumsy big older brothers who have a talent for brushing by her just close enough to knock her off her feet - she takes to quietly, cleverly carrying a big stick around with her. No more trouble from the males!

Hayley at 4 years old, demonstrating early her unique creative thinking – when asked why the clouds move around in the sky answers – because they are hungry!

And Hayley now: Accomplished way beyond our experiences at her age; superbly well educated; brilliantly clever; sophisticated, stylish, urbane; a beautiful woman who knows her own mind, with a clear vision of where she wants to go in life. Watch out World, this is a Lady to be reckoned with!

That Hayley look! Able to melt her Daddy's heart from 100 feet away!

I can’t think of anyone I would rather be friends with. And we can’t wait to hear what her next exciting adventure will be!

Hayley today, working at KBIA, the local NPR radio affiliate
Stay tuned: Hayley's Comments

TANTI AUGURI NOSTRA FIGLIA!
See you soon.

Feliz Cinco de Mayo!

Cinco de Mayo has always been circled in red on my calendar. In South Texas it’s a given that the banks will be closed and the grocery stores will run out of refried beans. Piñatas in every form and color from elephants to space ships to super heroes will be hung with care and then ruthlessly smashed to smitterings.

My favorite Cinco de Mayo memory is of the Hispanic-themed costume party given by my sister, Mandy. Everyone came dressed in colorful traditional Mexican garb. Chris and I came as a plate of enchiladas.

Only this one photo has survived from that long ago party. Well, there is another one but Mandy (shown here) would KILL ME if I published it

But what IS the significance of May 5th? Why do patriotic Hispanics remember it and drunken Gringos pretend to be spicy food? Well, since you asked….

A long time ago on a continent far, far away, intrepid Spanish explorers set out to conquer a new land. They came equipped with everything they would need to settle in a Brave New World. They brought weapons and wine. They brought fabric and tools. They brought, as Chris and I do when we travel, their favorite foods that would not be available to them overseas. We bring peanut butter, they brought mayonnaise. But alas, soon their stores of the precious spread were depleted and a cry went up from the people, “don’t send wine, don’t send money, send Mayonnaise”. A ship, laden with hundreds of sealed jars, each lovingly wrapped in burlap was dispatched from Spain. But horrors! In the early hours of the morning on May 5th, the ship sank to the bottom of the ocean in a terrific storm. The populace was devastated, dissolution and depressed. They cursed the day and sworn never to forget: The Sinko di Mayo.

Oh god, I’m so bad.

A Perfect Day, Italian Style
The Bubbio Polenta Festival
The entertainment included a reinactment of the medieval battle fought in Bubbio and lots and lots of food and wine. I loved the tight and colorful costumes!

We have been back in Italy for a couple of weeks now. Hard weeks full of really difficult to understand stuff that will cost us a zillion dollars if we get it wrong. STRESS and PRESSURE.




I did my best-est at the annual Bubbio Polenta Festival to sample everything from the homemade cheese and wild boar sausage to this delicious hot out of the oven rosemary focaccia

But today was, well, it was PERFECT. The weather was perfect, the wildflowers and fields of poppies were perfect, the countryside and hill towns on the 20 minute drive to the annual Bubbio Polenta Festival were perfect, the medieval

The long awaited moment - the BIG POUR!
township was perfect, the crowds were perfect, the gelato, wine and cheese were perfect. But mostest perfect of all was the giant flag throwing, darling Italian guys in colorful tights. Dozens of them. What’s not to like about that??? The Groppo Asta is world known, at least in this part of the world. If you watched the Olympics you might have seen them perform.

Here is a 2 minute movie I made at the Bubbio Polenta Festival that includes exciting battle scenes, the making of the mother of all polentas and men in tights. Come on, you've got 2 minutes!!

Too many cooks do not spoil the polenta. These guys had me worried the way they were straining under the weight. They could have used a few more cooks to help hoist it up.
I do realize that a Westerner viewing this event for the first time might find it a little weird. Grown men dressed in tight-fitting multicolor outfits parading around in a synchronized routine would probably not happen much
Besides polenta with wild boar sauce, the crowd was treated to an aromatic onion frittata.
outside of San Francisco in the States. In Italy it’s a macho-badge of courage. Sorta like a Spanish matador dressed in sequins, but here instead of the spectacle ending in something killed, everybody eats and drinks. God, I love that.

With deepest apologies to my videographer friends - watch my movie, Bubbio Polenta Festival. The quality is bad but it's funny! It's my first, so be kind...

Moscow weather forecast:
Red skies in morning, sailor take warning.
Red Square at night, Salvo delight!

I was WRONG. I herewith personally apologize to all 145 million Russians I impetuously offended with my ignorant comments about St.Basil’s Cathedral in my previous post. Like all works of art, St. Basil’s benefits greatly from an understanding of its inherent symbolism and a knowledge of the circumstances surrounding it’s creation. It also benefits from having someone who isn’t a categorically unqualified complete ass review it. So you don’t make the same mistake, here’s the low-down on St. B’s:

Architecturally, Russian churches are a symbolic blend of - sorry I can’t help myself - War and Peace. No, really. The characteristic onion-dome form is based on the shape of ancient Russian Cossack military helmets. Cossacks? Do pictures of Yul Brenner in a fur hat pop into your head, too? St. Basil’s along with many of the churches in Russia, was built to commemorate a military victory. Way back in the 16th century the Russian army, with Ivan the Terrible as Commander-in-Chief (and you thought things could not be worse in The States), defeated the Tartars in bloody battle. So logically the next step was to built a church. Duh – I mean Dah. The number of onion-domes on St. Basil’s was determined by the number of glorious battles fought and won. And because the Tartar’s were known for bright, vibrant colors, (so un-Russian!) the domes were naturally painted to reflect the defeated enemy’s taste.

Moscow scenes

Speaking of taste, I have grown to love the local Piemonte, Italy dish, carne crude (literal translation, raw meat). According to legend, this now world-famous delicious cold raw steak dish was ‘invented’ by those same conquered Tartars.

Back in the day, the Tartars were renowned rapers and pillagers, constantly invading someone or other astride their galloping steads. Descended from the Mongolian hordes of Genghis Khan, the Tartars came by their vicious nature, well, naturally. They were savage horsemen on the make. Compared to the horsemanship and macho-ness of the Tartars ALL American cowboys came from Brokeback Mountain. Galloping into battle on the backs of their fleet-footed ponies, the Tartars seldom took time for a formal sit-down meal.

Utilizing good time-management skills and to keep their ferocity at peak performance levels, the Tartars would place a piece of tough uncooked meat betwixt their saddle and pony. The constant pounding, heat, friction and horse sweat pulverized and marinated the meat, which was then eaten by the Tartars raw. Shew. Is it just me? All that talk of pounding and sweating - Brokeback Mountain has popped back into my head. Double shew. Through the centuries this somehow morphed into what we pay a small fortune for in fancy restaurants - Steak Tartare.

It all makes perfect sense now, doesn’t it – in a Russian sort of way? So I’ve changed my mind and now think St. Basil’s is a BEAUTIFUL work of art. But after doing the research for this I’ve sworn off carne crude for the foreseeable future.

SIBERIAN NEWS
It’s official. I have now actually reached the Ends of the Earth.

To reach our shoot location we had to cross an ice bridge. For safety reasons everyone, including the Michelin Man twin seen here, had to WALK across the bridge, no matter what the weather. Note the tugboat frozen in place.
Growing up, Siberia was not a real place, it was a threat. I remember hearing this phrase frequently - “Suzanne, if you don’t (fill in this blank with any of a large number of things I shoulda but didn't do in my wasted youth) you’re gonna be sent to Siberia!” The reference of course was that there is NO PLACE on the planet worse than the remote, vast, frozen tundra that makes up three-quarters of present day Russia.

If you are referring to climate, I whole-heartedly concur. This past winter Nizhnevartovsk, the unpronounceable place in Siberia where we are shooting, spent over two weeks straight at less than minus 50C (minus 58F). WOW. It’s now mid-April and last week temps dropped to minus 25C. Here, hard-freeze winter starts in November and lasts into May.

It’s a dry cold. Extremely dry. My clothes are static-clinging and every single hair on my head including my eyebrows are standing straight up, giving me an Albert Einstein look if not intellect. Even my armpit hair is standing on-end. And after 2 years of 'going Italian style' I'll bet my pit hair is longer than Albert's ever was. I'm having trouble keeping my arms down at my sides. I won't mention other hairy zones, but just you imagine... I am so electrified I can, at will, shoot small lighting bolts across the room off the ends of my fingers like a super-hero. Call me Ready Kilowat, or ala 007 - OhmFinger, or maybe more appropriately, Flash-Head. But no joke, it hurts. The guys at the base tell me they have fried computers with a single touch from a super-static charged finger. OUCH.

Chris chows down on a steaming bowl of traditional Russian borscht (beet soup) and a Siberian delicacy - thin slices of raw fish served frozen. Since I tend to like my sushi well done, I was not a fan but ate it anyway. Maybe a little (ah-hem) TARTAR sauce would have helped?
The deadly Siberian cold is not the worst part. For me it’s the time it takes to put on all the bulky layers that culminate in me and the Michelin Man being twins. I’m used to grabbing my gear and rushing out the door. There is no rushing in Russia. I can put on thick enough gloves to prevent frostbite, but then my hands become dumb, clumsy stubs at the ends of my arms, unable to adjust camera modes or do anything that requires opposible thumbs.

And I’m moving to a place in Italy that actually has snow each and every year? Santo Cialo! Devo essera pozzo! (Good Heavens, I must be crazy!) Right now the only ice I want to see is in my martini glass - with good Russian vodka, of course!

Seeing RED
What’s one more? I became one with St. Basil’s Cathedral with my own onion-dome addition.

I have stood on the same ground where once walked Catherine the Great, Ivan the Terrible, Stalin the Butcher and Khrushchev the Shoeless.

Chris and I arrived in Moscow in time for dinner and a brisk walk along and under the Russian capitol’s wide boulevards to – gasp – The Kremlin. Standing in Red Square at the epicenter of the once-labeled Evil Empire, I was overwhelmed with…. underwhelmness. I was completely filled with indifference and swept away with ennui. I expected awe at the architectural structure or at least a tingly creepy feeling from the power structure it represented. Instead I thought: Is that all there is? Everything I saw looked so familiar it didn’t seem exotic. There were no surprises and I felt, how can I describe it - all too safe. There was no sense of adventure, no drama, no real feeling of foreign-ness. Definitely no lingering threat of The Bomb which so underscored my childhood understanding of all-things-Russian back in the 60s.

What was I expecting here? I don’t know. But the Muscovites look and dress so normally - the streets, stores and maybe not a Starbucks, but at least a coffee shop on every corner. It was just so typical of any large city in the world. Yawn pie with snore sauce. Ho-hum.

And Red Square? Well really, whatsup with that, dare I say it - gaudy – St. Basil’s. In person it’s much smaller than I imagined and the overriding thought in my head standing there was…. Disneyland. I felt like I was at Epcot viewing some scaled-down over-stylized version of the real thing. It’s how I feel looking at Cinderella’s Castle after having been to Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria on which the Disney model was based. With it’s profusion of cutesy onion-domes and REALLY outlandish colors, St. Basil’s looks like a part of the It’s a Small World ride.

I hung with the locals on the fast and efficient Moscow Metro. Many of the subway stops were ornately decorated with bronze statues or crystal chandeliers – beautiful, but oddly out of place with the plain, cinderblock style Communist architecture elsewhere.
OK, OK. So maybe I’m being harsh and maybe my expectations are a bit too high these days and maybe I’ve grown a bit travel-jaded and skeptical of the usual tourist attractions. Then again maybe St. Basil’s is really some sort of sneaky communist plot to subvert our sense of good taste! I did enjoy our tour of the Moscow markets and subway system. And it’s probably telling that it didn’t upset me in the least when the big, stern Russian policeman yelled at us and demanded to see our documents (I carry photocopies of our passport IDs and Visas at all time and leave the originals in the hotel safe). With all our camera gear we are a spectacle, try as we might to be inconspicuous, and I understand some places and all military don’t relish being immortalized on film. Apparently ALL places in Moscow fall into that category - oopsy. But hey, we’ve been escorted out of better (and scarier) places than that. It was no big deal, just a lot of yelling and violent hand gestures. He never touched us or his gun.

The Moscow markets were brimming with interesting stuff and soooo crowded! I lost out on the last red prom dress to the woman seen here. I didn’t argue long as I was fairly sure she could beat me if it came down to an arm wrestling contest.
I also enjoyed trading scraps of language with our driver, who, as I found out later, understood a lot more English than he initially let on. Reminder to self: Never, never, never talk about (ah-hem) ‘personal stuff’ in the backseat of a car in a foreign country – again.

You can learn a lot about a culture by reading what they consider the most useful phrases in a translation book.

For example, closely following the usual hello, goodbye, thank you, how much is it and where’s the toilet, I found:

Let’s hurry to the hall for a smoke.
Where are you taking me?
In my purse there was…
I am a venturesome gentleman and I stand the slots beautifully.
It is not tasty.

And my favorite:
I’m impatiently waiting for the trained animal act.

Obviously I have been looking in all the wrong places for a good time here.
More later from Siberia.

HOMELESS, HAPLESS, HELPLESS, HOPELESS, and more or less CLUELESS in Italy
Our house from the top of our vineyard. You can see how the basement level sits into the hill where the drive is gouged out. Note the tiny workers in the field across the valley.

We currently own two homes on two continents purchased with two different currencies in two different decades and right now it’s all TOO much for me. Both houses are simultaneously undergoing massive revisions and neither is habitable and both are costing a FORTUNE. I’m feeling really stuuupid. We’ve made several costly errors lately and our good spirits have vanished as completely as a pizza in a room full of hungry Italians.




Going over the plans with Alberto, our wonderfully talented and patient Architecto



Worry and I are old friends. But now his big brothers Anxiety and Panic have come calling. Like ravenous wolves they are eating their way through my wallet and my stomach lining.


Neither of us is sleeping well and Chris’ face and neck have broken out in a pattern that reminds me of one of the alien characters on Star Trek. For your sake I will abide by the First Rule of Travel Writing and won’t speak here of my alarming very personal gastronomic woes. DON’T ASK.


Somehow we have to divide this tiny space into bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, etc. I'm not sure it can be done.
The last couple of days have been brutal. To-wit:

• Our departure delay from The States caused by the perpetually striking French.
• The anxiety caused by those same French losing all our luggage including all our photo gear (thankfully recovered after much hassle).
• The meeting with our architecto where our nightmare scenario of double the anticipated price came true.
• Like pouring salt in our wounded wallet: we learned of the not-one-but-TWO fines we somehow unwittingly incurred while driving in Torino thanks to some facist hidden traffic camera.
• And l’ultima Agony and Ecstasy of deciding whether or not to make an unscheduled, unbudgeted quickly-trip back home to attend daughter Hayley’s sooner-than-anticipated college graduation.

MADONNA!

We currently live in an apartment that is smaller than our garage in Houston. Sky-high energy costs make clothes dryers and dishwashers practically nonexistant in Italy. We'll be here until Christmas!

On the positive side:

• We ARE after all, in Italy.
• Our Italian car (Ippy is her name) started after 5 months alone in our garage.
• It’s Primavera (Spring) and the weather is gorgeous.
• The wine is every bit as good and cheap as I remember.
• We had our first official Italian baby oogle when we ran into our language teacher/friend Valentina and her adorable newborn during passegiato (traditional evening stroll).
• Best of all, landlord/friends Mario and Tilde have invited us to dinner Tuesday night.

Come to think of it, that alone just about makes up for all the bad stuff.

But with neither of our houses currently inhabitable we are essentially: HOMELESS - without a house or country or even continent to call our own. It’s disconcerting, disorienting, discombobulating and shockingly, horribly, excruciatingly expensive.

In this dismally low state of mind and bank balance we begin the Herculean task of remodeling our Italian home. It currently is just four bare walls filled to the brim with our hopes and dreams and NOTHING else. There is so much to figure out and we are at such a disadvantage due not only to the language, but also the culture – houses are built differently here using a different hierarchy of workers, different materials and don’t even get me started about what we don’t know about living in a cold climate. Radiators? I thought they said Gladiators so I only ordered one - extra large…

Right now it feels more like we will be stuffing the four empty walls full of euros instead of tile, fixtures, furniture, gladiators, etc. This is scary stuff and I’m not feeling brave. I hope I have the fallopian tubes to pull it off.

But FAH-GEE-TAH-BOUT-IT! And fill my glass with more of that fantastico vino.

In the words of M. Scott Peck: Life is hard. Nothing worthwhile is simple or easy, but then who promised me it would be? I’m doing my best to enjoy the journey as much or more than the hoped for destination. But right now it’s very tough going. Are we doing the right thing? Should we stop this insanity and go home? What would you do? Words of advise as always would be appreciated.

More later down the road less traveled,

Suzanne

click the arrow to start

The Olympic blog post I never got around to
I’m sitting at my computer in my office instead of on an airplane thanks to the French and their propensity to strike. We were suppose to leave for Italy today but (surprise-surprise) the French transportation folks have gone on strike again, paralyzing anyone foolish enough to travel into, out of or around France. It is not the first time those pesky Socialists have scrambled our travel plans. I hate Charles de Gaul airport and its HORRIBLE bus system between terminals. Depending on the French to conduct business in an organized manner that is courteous to others is well, like asking the Italians to drive slowly and not make rude gestures with their hands.

By the way, are you humming along with the music? Or are you already sick of it and desparately looking for the off button? Trust me, it will stop all by itself in a minute or two. But if you are desparate, just click the stop button on the bar above. So I'm grumpy and taking it out on the French. And probably you with this music. We are back at the house in Houston after a fun-filled trip to the airport with 275lbs. of luggage in tow. I am not amused. I’m kicking myself for cleaning out the fridge and throwing away the rest of the really good takey-outey orange beef with steamed rice and the 2 Gala apples and WORST OF ALL, the rest of the milk – LATTE CRISIS!!
Santo Cielo!

Are you still listening to the music? Unmute for a second and see where it is in the song. Ahhhhh. I love the Olympic Theme. And I am stupidly proud of myself for figuring out the HTML code to program it to play here. Did you know The Olympic Theme was written in 1984 by John Williams who also wrote The Star Wars Theme, Superman Theme and lots of others? I thought it was a classical piece but no! Did you know I can play The Olympic Theme on an accordion? Does that make you feel better about hearing this version? Anyway, I’m hoping it puts you right back in an Olympic frame of mind for this piece I wrote and never got to post:

Olympics in our Backyard
Just another spectacular view along the road from our place heading towards Torino
We’ve made a horrible mistake. We are positively sick about not being in Italy for the Olympics. How often will it happen that you can attend an Olympic event and sleep in your own bed that night? Our new home in Italy is about one and a half hours from the bella citta (beautiful city) of Torino. It makes a great day-trip from our tiny town of Acqui Terme as those of you smart enough to venture beyond Tuscany will discover.

Tartufi, the white truffles of the Piemonte, are coveted by gourmets around the world. Truffle festival time (in October) is one of the best times to visit the Piemonte. A golfball sized truffle in a restaurant here (delicious grated over pasta!) will cost around 50euros, (USD$60). Double that price in The States, IF you can find any!
Our kinda town - the Acqui Terme fountain at night
Don’t get me wrong, I think Tuscany is beautiful. But The Piedmont countryside is every bit as gorgeous – rolling vineyards accented by towered hilltowns - and spectacular views of the Alps. And I really love the food of southern Italy. But the Piedmont food benefits from its proximity to France and is more diverse and sophisticated. So maybe I'll forgive France for the strike - again. And certainly everybody including me enjoys the sunshine of the Amalfi Coast. But the Piedmont offers all four seasons in moderation, without the prolonged heat of the south.

A typical antipasti plate in the Piemonte: Fresh and sun-dried tomatoes, parmesano, prosciutto cotto, marinated beans, and my favorite - torte verde!
Our daughter Hayley discovers Torino chocolate is delicious hot or cold in one of the many chocolate shops on Via Po. The addition of hazelnuts is what makes it unique to the area
I hope you watched the Olympic coverage – at least the opening segments that had all the cool info about the food, wine and culture of the area – and that it opened your eyes to the possibilities Northern Italy has to offer. Get beyond the Rome, Florence, Venice route and find the real Italy – in the Piemonte!

Savannah is like a box of chocolates.

You never know what you will see next, but you can be sure you are gonna like it.

If a real-life Forrest Gump sat on a park bench in Savannah, Georgia chatting-up total strangers in his off-beat way, just like in the movie Savannahites would smile, listen politely and consider him just another of the wacky characters that spice up their daily life.

Some real characters! Dan, Amy, me and Aunt Kay get ready for some down-home eating

Oddly for a city in the Deep South, Savannah is proud of its cast of kooky town characters as accurately portrayed in the best selling book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. It’s a place where ultra conservative DARs (Daughters of the American Revolution) and drag queens happily share a seat on the town’s trolley cars. Quaint, captivating, oozing Southern grace and hospitality – just when you think Savannah is all hooped skirts and chittelins, the town surprises you with something quirky and well, in some cases down-right, down-home twisted. We had a blast there!
Dan learns the fine art of stuffing artichokes - always from the bottom up!

Savannah is a world-class walking town. In 1733 founding father General James Edward Oglethorpe laid out the settlement in a grid-pattern generously studded with 24 squares of enticing green-space. Somehow the town has managed to resist ‘progress’ and hang on to these jewel-like parks. On a town map the utterly delightful and individually unique squares really do look like a partially eaten box of chocolates.

Strolling along from one square to the other is one of the main tourist attractions. Discovering the individual flavor at the center of each square - a statue in one, another with a small formal garden, yet another with a whimsical fountain - is almost as rewarding as eating your way through a Whitman’s Sampler. Unifying all the squares are the cool and oh-so-Scarlett-O’Hara oak trees elegantly draped in long flowing Spanish moss.

Savannah Fun Facts

Voted one of the "World's Top Ten Trendy Travel Hot Spots" by the New York Times and was a "Top 10 U.S. City to Visit" in Conde Nast Traveler.

America's first planned city

America’s largest historic district

The Girl Scouts were founded in Savannah by Juliette Gordon Low in 1912

The bench used in Forrest Gump was moved to the Savannah History Museum for safe keeping.

Lyricist, composer and singer Johnny Mercer was born in Savannah in 1909. Mercer was one of the most prolific songwriters in history with 1,500 titles to his credit. To name only a few of his zillion hits: I’m an old Cowhand, Moon River, Skylark, Satin Doll, Goody-Goody, Fools Rush In, Come Rain or Come Shine, That Old Black Magic, You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby, One for My Baby and One More for the Road, plus many more.

The Mercer House located on Monterey Square was the real-life scene of the Jim Williams murder of his gay lover as depicted in the book, Midnight in the Garden or Good and Evil.

St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in Savannah are second only to NYC.

In 1864, the city fell to Northern troops led by General William Tecumseh Sherman in his infamous scorched-earth March to the Sea (those pesky damn Yankees!). After taking the city General Sherman offered Savannah to his Commander-in-Chief telegraphing President Lincoln with the following message: "I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the City of Savannah."

Paula Deen (of Food Network fame) Lady and Sons restaurant has THE BEST fried chicken I have ever tasted!

You're never too young or too old to enjoy PERFECTLY prepared fried green tomatoes
But none of the Savannah sites could compete with the real reason we were there: To visit our son - newly discharged from the Army, Ranger Sergeant Dan the paramedic, and his lovely bride-to-be, the newly graduated SCAD student, Amy.

If this plate of Southern food doesn't make your mouth water, you're no friend of mine!

The only thing we didn’t like about Savannah was the fact we had to leave it so soon.

The Reason I Haven’t Updated Lately
When I looked at this picture, taken a week ago, I was shocked to realize how GOOD my patio looked then compared to now!

I’ve stayed in some horrible places in the world, to-wit: A dilapidated trailer inhabited by giant spiders in the jungle of Bolivia. A sandbag-reinforced bunker in Baghdad where the sound of incoming missiles kept us awake all night. But nothing and nowhere has been as bad as where I am right now. That’s right, WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF HOME REMODELING HELL.

The first thing they did was demolish our bathroom. FINISHING it will apparently be the last thing done.

The first step in the process was ours alone and really, really hard. We had to literally touch every single thing in this house and put it into one of three giant G piles: Goes to Italy, Garage sell or Garbage. This was at first very confusing because we were labeling ALL the boxes G.

The sorting and packing was mind-boggling

The Construction Workers Ten Commandments

1. Thou shall first reek havoc and total destruction throughout the kingdom.
2. Thou shalt not clean thy boots nor thy hands so all will know of thine passing.
3. Thou shalt not arrive when promised nor verily thine supplies.
4. Lo, though the rains may die away, be there but a single cloud in the heavens cease thine labors and seek ye repose.
5. Spake not the words of the infidels but only the one true tongue of the Construction Gods: solo habla espanol.
6. Thy kingdom come but not the carpet guy.
7. Honor thine union and change not yonder light bulb without a licensed electrician.
8. Ask not what your contractor can do for you, but what you can feed the crew for lunch.
9. Seek and ye shall find, ask for the tiniest change and the price shall double.
10. To err is human, to plumb divine.

Chris stood still for too long and I accidentally bubble wrapped him. He's lucky he didn't end up buried in styrofoam peanuts!
For the past 5 days we have had no hot water, no shower, no dishwasher, no stove and for several days no toilet. I confess that several times I have gone shopping just so I could pee in peace without construction workers just a piece of sheetrock away. Fortunately we have been on the road off and on through most of it. We joke about how nice it is to “go back home” to our normal hotel living.

The granite guy was a shifty weasel but I adore the detailed precision of Mattao, our cute little painter. The new tile looks beautiful and I’m hopeful that one day we really will be able to use our bathroom again.
WE SHALL OVERCOME!
Or in the words of some unknown optimist: TRIUMPH is just try with a little umph added.