HOW DO YOU SAY

I don't know what this is going to be about, but based on previous experience I can promise that it will be harrowing and bewildering. Perhaps, at turns, entertaining. A couple things we should consider: 1. This blog needs a new name. And I can't take the pressure, man. I'm sure my friends could help because they're all linguistic geniuses--just in the last few days I have been dubbed a "mythical Banshee of the Lake" (new boyfriend, drunk) and "a lightning rod for awesometude" (best friend). Whoops, guess I just inserted my own rave reviews. I'll think of something, but I care too much so it might take a while. 2. This blog is an immigrant. All it has ever known is being a lonely stranger in Italy. Please be patient as it gets its footing in a place where everything is familiar and expected and people do supremely ridiculous or baffling things less often than one would hope. We're not in Italy anymore, Dorothy. Ah, culture. Haven't ...

Wake up in the middle of the night to a loud wailing, think it must be wind but notice the shutters aren't banging.  Fall asleep, wake early, before everyone else, and drink yesterday's cold espresso before lacing up your running shoes and running all the way up the biggest hill, the one you never made it up all those other times, because this is your first and last chance.  Reach the top, feel your fists clenching.  Take your second to last shower and wonder when's the next time you'll count things like showers.  Visit the city and notice the visitor in you is gone.  Notice how the sun feels in your hair, your spine.  Buy stockings because the old one's holes have stretched too far.  Come home and hear someone mention the earthquake last night and inwardly say "oh."  Say "oh" about a lot of things.  About how mental landscapes change.  About how every place you've ever been has been breathtaking, when you think about it.  About how...

Was flipping through a cookbook and came across a photo of what I thought was a scrumptious-looking chocolate tart; scanned over to the recipe, found that the first ingredient is pig blood.  So I'm translating the recipe for y'all and the first person to make me a pig blood chocolate tart wins.  The three black circles next to "difficolta" indicate that this will be no easy feat, but then probably 2.5 of those circles represent the task of procuring pig blood.  Or maybe I'm a total ignoramus and pig blood is really out there, outside of pigs, in abundance?  Like, maybe at Whole Foods, next to the molasses?  Anyway, here you go.  Get on it.  You might have to go make friends with a butcher. Migliaccio alla romagnola   (a traditional dessert made for Carnival, according to the internet; migliaccio actually means pudding) Time: 3 hours Oven temperature: 180 C Ingredients: 300 gr pig blood - 200 gr honey - 100 gr almonds - 100 gr chocolate - 10...

So I found myself at the top of the world yesterday, lost in fields of yellow.  Nearly fell down the hill when I realized there were figs on the trees; nearly fell again, in a more tragic manner, when I realized they weren't ripe (tasted to make sure, flung the unripe fig carcass with appropriate drama).  Also to my dismay, I was writing feverishly in my head as it all whirled around me, the wind and the empty meadow and the blossoms, so I told myself to shut up and forgot all the pretty words that were bludgeoning me and just looked, breathed.  Blew the last of my camera battery on photos of yellow fields and my stupid face before I got to the fig orchard and the dark green slant of San Luca's hill and the dusty sunlight over it all.  Thus camera-less and thoughtless, was overcome with joy, sweat, clear air, and sunburn, and felt a smug pleasure that I didn't have to worry about documenting it anymore. I almost didn't even write this post.  Because it was min...

Mussolini's Republic fell 68 years ago today.  What this means for me: Italy's probably less messed up than it could've been (?); work's out, school's out, allowing for sibling war in the morning in addition to afternoon and evening; more hotshot bikers and ladies with designer fanny packs (gold, with matching shoes) than usual on my morning run; decadent lunch at Nonna's, which, somewhere between rich pasta, red wine, and salame dolce al cioccolato (omg yum), made me serenely happy and brimming with love for the whole world, including my little family of weirdos as they shouted about the mafia and the TV remote and whatever else. Passed a monk on the street this afternoon, his white robes flowing and prayer beads in hand.  My initial reaction: "'sup."  And then, a bit later: wait, were you a monk?  What were you?  Too young to be a bishop.  Probably not the pope, by the same logic.  Oh, priests are a thing, right?  Just gonna call you a monk be...

I saw Bellini's "La Norma" last night, in a gorgeous old theater in downtown Bologna.  Nonna was glammed up like a movie star--sunglasses and big jewelry and elegant shawl--as were most of the other opera-goers.  We had a box all to ourselves, with a great view of the orchestra pit and close to the stage.  This opera is reputed to be one of the most difficult to perform, and as I spent a significant amount of time concerned that someone's vocal chords were going to snap, I'd say that sounds correct.  Favorite part was either the Roman soldiers battling in slow-motion behind a dream-like translucent screen, or the end with all its clashing and the gold curtain fluttering down, death-by-fire, which did, yes, bring tears to my eyes.  Or the moon-worship.  There were also, via the Romanesque costumes, several almost-but-not-quite wardrobe malfunctions involving breasts and long robes that get caught on things.  Nonna and I carried on light but cordial conv...

This afternoon Beppe asked if I wanted to go see some "Buddha relics" that were on display downtown.  I said sure, not knowing what that entailed but sticking to my "yes" policy.  We go by bike, he said.  Be careful, because I don't have insurance for you, and it's dangerous.  Yup, I said, attempting to suppress the death-visions that popped into my head at the thought of riding one of his vintage bikes over Roman-era cobblestones alongside Italian drivers. I got the bright red bike from Amsterdam which I'd date around 1975--a single-speed with questionable brakes, complete with red basket and a bell that rings like a church.  It rattled and groaned as we careened through throngs of people.  I was holding on to the handlebars for dear life.  Think my bones are still faintly vibrating, actually.  I was already lightheaded from a long run this morning, so I still don't understand how I didn't hit anyone, or how that bus didn't hit me, but we...