A Farm in Italy

I spent several hours yesterday viewing farms for sale in Italy.  I asked myself with each click is now the right time?  Should I buy now and restore a farm and then have a longer-term goal of moving there?  We could spend part of our summers there and I could send Paul and Danielle over. Paul could do the restoration work while Danielle writes and homeschools.
At first when I began searching I thought the prices would be ridiculous and therefore bring be quickly back to reality.  I was wrong.  The prices are comparable to here.



Farm number one.  This one needs total restoration but it is less than $70,000 and comes with just over 1 acre.  It is close to the sea and located on a hilltop with wonderful views.



This one looks huge.  Also situated on top of a hill and close to the sea.  It needs total restoration.  It is close to two lakes and has just over 1 acre.



This one needs no work.  It is already an organic farm which is exactly what I would be looking to do.  It even has a swimming pool and is a total pipe dream because of its price.  It has several more acres than the previous two.  It however, is in a perfect location for attracting tourists and has a separate apartment.  It is close to Florence and Pisa and located in Tuscany.


When they don't even say the price you know it is too much.  Needs minor restoration but has loads of land, 50 acres or so.  It is in a great location.  Over ten acres of vineyards and includes a private lake.  Can someone say heaven?  If I learned anything while in Italy it was that you need a place to cool off, a lake would be ideal.

What I love about looking at Italian real estate is the differences between how they view things and how we would view things.  There are many barns for sale that, "could easily be converted into living space".  They realize the importance of the land surrounding and focus on that when taking pictures.  Many places I looked at are considered, "structurally sound" but I am not sure I would agree.  Sometimes if it is in really poor shape they call it a ruin but that is rare.  There are farmhouses with no roof, no doors, no windows, and no electricity that are being sold as, "a wonderful opportunity for restoration".  Strangely this hasn't deterred my looking or my desire.  I am saddened when I read, "can tear down to build dream home."  That sounds so cliche.
When there is major work required they supply ample pictures to give you a clear idea of what that means.  They don't seem to be overselling the property.  The property is what it is and the price matches the needs of the property.  Their sales tactics are not deceitful.  It is obvious when something needs serious work and when something else is in perfect condition.  They always indicate what the property is near, how close town is and how close places of interest are such as the sea, a lake, a river or a national park.
 
A final picture and a final dream for now.  It is $50,000 with just about 2 acres of land.  The land already has vineyards and is partially forested.  A river runs nearby and it needs a good amount of restoration.  However, there are three levels, a huge fireplace and a large original stone sink.  Paul and Danielle, what do you think?  Are you up for the task?
Should this be my next adventure?

Back to my roots My Kind of Town-Prineville

     I wrote the piece below just a couple of years ago in hopes of having it published.  As I inquire, what if, I feel I should also examine what is and has been.  I am trying to remind myself why I have lived and loved Prineville for so many years.

My Kind of Town-Prineville, Oregon

 “It’s hard to make a living here… but easy to make a life.”

Eleven years ago I loaded up what little possessions I owned and drove thirteen hours to what I thought would be my temporary home, Prineville, Oregon.  Located in the heart of Central Oregon near the well-known town of Bend, Prineville is a small, old-fashioned town with a unique charm and intimacy.  People in this part of the country have a set of values different than you would find in a big city.  We smile at each other, talk to strangers, wave at each other when we pass on the street and we spend much of our time outdoors.   We cherish the outdoors.  We are a community of ranchers, fishermen, hunters, snowmobilers, boaters, hikers and bikers.  There are towns close to us that boast larger populations and certainly higher income levels but none are as friendly.  Our population of cattle is larger than that of the people, and that is a good thing. We buy our beef from local ranchers or raise it ourselves.  Calving season is one of the best times to see our valley, coming upon a new baby being licked clean by a mama that has just pushed it into the harsh winter winds while the bald eagles swoop down to snack on the after birth.

  The scenery is filled with stark contrasts.  Dry sagebrush and juniper-covered mesas drop suddenly into spacious green ranch and farmland.  High Cascade mountain peaks with year-round snow serve as the western background while pine-forested smaller mountains grace the East.  High rimrock buttes jutting skyward greets visitors at all six gateways into town.  

Prineville is like one of the junipers that cover its hills, its roots are deep but only because it seeks the simple necessities of life.  It clings tightly to those roots and yet dwells in the modern age as well.   It grows and shrinks, as most small towns do, with the booms and busts of the business cycle.  We have an economy that has depended at times on cattle, lumber and tires.  Currently it is a mix of the three.  The sheep and cattle wars were big in these parts.  Now many people raise both, a compromise based on the usefulness of each.    

Nature at its finest exists in our sunrises and sunsets, as they blaze red, yellow, purple, pink and blue.  Our town is laid out along the convergence of Ochoco Creek and the Crooked River.  Both have been dammed and the reservoirs that have resulted provide endless water recreation and fishing.  The water system of canals pouring from these reservoirs feeds the farm and ranch lands and is one of the geniuses driven by man’s desire for a better life, taking a once dry desert landscape and turning it green. 

At Christmas time the town adorns the streetlights of Main and Third with lighted candy canes nestled inside cowboy boots and cowboy hats overflowing with presents.  The courthouse, grey stone with a domed white clock tower, is one of the oldest in the state, built in 1909.  Ivy covers the front reaching the third story as it meanders along the stone walls.  A fountain greets visitors and leads to a large staircase and twelve foot tall double oak doors.    We have a bike path which follows Ochoco Creek through town and is frequented by young and old.  Our library is located close to the river, inviting you to check out a book and stroll along the rippling water. 

On the Fourth of July, our fire department puts on a fireworks display from the top of the viewpoint which overlooks our quaint town.   We sit nestled under our blankets watching the colors blaze in the sky while the temperature drops 20 degrees.  Everyone waits in eager anticipation for the hill to be lit on fire.  Town members are disappointed if this part of the tradition is missing.  Our summers are hot, as you would expect from a desert, but not too hot.  We tend to only have a few days in the 90-100 degree range. Most of our summer is spent in the comfortable 80’s. If you are uncomfortable with the heat on any given day you can climb high enough to see that temperature drop into the 60’s or plunge into a local lake to cool off.  We see sunshine almost 300 days per year which improves the attitudes of most of us.  Our winters are cold, sometimes snowy and windy.  It’s hard to make a living here… but it’s easy to make a life.  On any given day we could hike a Cascade mountain, canoe a local lake, climb Smith Rock, snowshoe an unknown trail, or simply sit in the peace of a slow, quiet, sun-filled day and warm our souls. Mt. Bachelor is less than an hour away for skiers and snowboarders.  Bend, a 45 minute drive, offers the best shopping for the necessities of life and wonderful places to eat.  You can drive the Crooked River Canyon as it winds gracefully through the high jagged rimrock cliffs, and caresses grassy fields and imagine how it carved this area with its once fierce waters, now dammed, tamed.  Hawks and eagles patrol the river and I have once witnessed the quick grasp of a trout out of the rippling river by a majestic eagle that took off to savor its kill with the fish flopping in its talons. 

When nature has satisfied, town offers the Pine Theater, a restored single-screen theater from a forgotten age.  The county rodeo and fair are the two biggest events of the year and draw visitors from all over the state.  Everyone turns out for the parade and cattle drive through town.  The grandstands during the rodeo are filled with cowboy hats, brand new Wranglers and stiff, starched shirts.  On Sunday afternoon there is a stick horse race for all the kids.  They are rewarded with ice cream cones for their effort and the winner receives a buckle.  Our fair might be small on rides but it is big on animals.  Future Farmers of America and 4-H are well represented in our community as youngsters learn how to make a living through the proper care and feeding of their animals. 

We now have five stoplights which sometimes feels like too many.   Our biggest traffic jams are during hunting season when it seems as if the whole state passes through to the surrounding mountains on a quest for meat to fill the freezer and possibly a trophy set of antlers.  A large percentage of students in our schools take the time off to hunt as well.  Providing our own food is goal many of us share.  We can grow a nice garden here but always have to be prepared to cover it, even in July, if the frost hits.  We still know how to cook for ourselves from what we grow, gather, fish and hunt.  The Native Americans loved this valley for all it provided.  I imagine the settlers were encouraged by our fertile river bottom soil, the abundance of animals and the long sunny summer days. 

I have been a visitor of Prineville my whole life.  I moved to Prineville from Montana thinking I would someday go back there, but Prineville has held me with its welcoming comfort that always makes me take a deep breath and sigh with a knowing I have found home.

 

Coming Home?

I have lived in Prineville for more than ten years now and have always thought of it as home or at least for the past seven years.  If I was coming home from a journey either short or long; Costa Rica, San Francisco, Portland or just camping as I would drive either down the grade or down the long descent from highway 26 and a feeling of peace would wash over me; I knew I was home.  It never failed.  I have felt that at times just coming home from a trip to Bend.

I had never dreamed of living in Prineville although many others among my family and friends had.  I just ended up here after a hard life in Montana.  I hadn't planned to stay too long either.  Bend was a viable option or other places but Prineville grew on me and I stayed.  So much for those dreams of writing and traveling around the world.  Mine would be the life of jobs that weren't meaningful to me and a marriage that was not fulfilling.  But I told myself things would be great because I am an optimist.  

I have made the best of living in Prineville.  When I was without children my ex-husband and I traveled enough to keep me satisfied but not fulfilled.  I liked the work I was doing well-enough, although it wasn't my calling.  

When my kids came along I thought Prineville was the perfect place to raise them and it has been amazing.  We are blessed to spend our winters snowshoeing, our springs and autumns hiking and our summers swimming, canoeing, paddle boarding and doing anything else that gets us in the water.  And yet still something had been missing for me.  I have stayed in Prineville for the sake of my kids even though many had suggested I leave long ago.  

I have so many things to be thankful for here in Prineville.  I teach with the most amazing group of teachers I have ever met.  Each person cares immensely for each student and I am not just saying that.  Every teacher I work with sacrifices their time and money for our students.  I love my work.  It is fulfilling but still there is something missing in my life.  I have been dreaming of my own farm for many years but it has always hung just out of reach almost torturing me.  I have submitted multiple pieces of writing in hopes that something would get published and each rejection letter stings as much as the first.  I have wanted to live a life greater than the life I was living.  I have longed to travel to many amazing places, leaving for months at a time.  These were my dreams of my youth and they are powerful in my mind.  So I did something bold searching for the link I felt I was missing.

I could not have known that by going to Italy I would find the missing piece.  Something significant has changed in me.  When I last drove into Prineville it no longer felt like home.  It was a weird feeling that I let my heart embrace.  It circulated around me knocking me off balance.  What could this mean?
  Italy felt like home every minute I was there.  I miss socializing in the town squares, staying up late, rising with the sun and watching life being lived in perfect harmony with nature and humans.  Each day I awake thinking, how will I get myself back to Italy?  Of course I am aware of the reality of my situation and Italy is a long-term goal. It has to be except the visiting portion.
  And since I am home now I have decided to try and focus on what I love about Prineville and plan my next trip to Italy; solo or with kids. 

And lastly I have decided to focus on the question, what if I saved my money and bought a farm in Italy? What if?

Lasting Impressions

While in Rome one night, waiting for Allesandro, I grabbed a napkin and began writing my thoughts on Italy. I continued writing until he arrived and wrote more in my journal later.  I have continued to note things that I liked and disliked.
Things I loved and miss:
1.  Waiting on fast Italian men
2.  Eating chocolate for dinner
3.  The view of both Rome and Sora at night from anywhere high
4.  The people and their passion
5.  Being sung to
6.  The fountains-I have water on my soul so I was completely taken in by them
7.  Buying all new clothes in Italy-that should be a no-brainer
8.  Being complimented by men constantly
9.  The peace I felt on the farm and in the countryside
10.  All of the brave, bold, courageous people I met who were not afraid to step out of their comfort zone to become my friend even if it was short-lived for some.
11.  Homemade wine
12.  The price of wine
13.  How good the wine was

Things I didn't like at first but see the value of now:
1.  Siesta
2.  Time being meaningless
3.  Ice in red wine-Rome was hot it made sense

Things I didn't like:
I cannot think of one


Italy is sensuous.  It awakens every part of you.  It takes you and bathes you in it.

To me Italy tastes like a hot apricot after a long mountain climb.  It feels like a shower of sweat pouring off of your body and leaving you glowing and happy and hoping for someone to trace the lines of your body through the sweat.  Italy sounds like loud cicadas, birds chirping exuberantly, church bells ringing and butterflies fluttering.  Italy smells like the sea air slowly coming off the water and lemon mint in the mountains where old villas stand.  It looks like all the pictures you have seen and none of them at the same time.  It is mountain homes, busy city streets, meandering rivers running through valley towns big and small and villages perched atop outcroppings of rock.

It is a place that makes you feel at home, at peace and in a place your heart should have been for a long, long time.


 I was told a couple of days ago that vacation spots always make you feel better because you are not worrying about the day to day of your regular life.  While I can agree with that I also disagree in so many ways.
I have been blessed to travel to many places in my lifetime.  I have never felt absolutely at home in another country.  I always have had the experience of an outsider looking in.  I have tried previously to have authentic experiences in other countries so I don't think that is the factor which is different.  In Italy I felt at home.  I felt at peace.  I felt my soul rest and feel wholesome.  It is not something I have experienced elsewhere and it is not even that feeling I get when I drive down the grade into Prineville knowing that I am home.  It was an all-encompassing home.  It was a feeling of fullness, of all my longing being fulfilled in a brief moment of time.  Why?
Italians live my lifestyle; they grow their own food, appreciate being outdoors, experience the beauty of creation, love people and like to savor things.  As I took my time eating my salad and salmon today I was reminded, most Americans do not appreciate the moments of their lives and their food as much as I do.  I feel as if I live an alternative lifestyle in the United States.  I am a person who wants to have a self-sustaining farm where everything would be grown organically and in concert with nature.  I would not compete against the forces that have lived longer than any human soul.  I would simply enter into that concert and play my instrument. I do things differently.  I love to sit and sip my tea in the morning slowly savoring each drop.  When I am eating something I enjoy I sometimes make noises in appreciation for what has been prepared.  I do not love material things and therefore have very few.  I am a hopeless romantic when I am honest with myself and I fall in love pretty easily because I am accepting of who people are.  And that can make it exceptionally easy to break my heart but at least I have taken the risk.  Others are not so willing and lead a life of solitude, heartbroken and sad.  I refuse!
Italy somehow made me more aware of what I truly want in life and for that I am forever grateful.  So much so that I am trying to go again soon and learn Italian!!! More on that later.

Who says flying should be boring?

 My cab arrives early in Rome and I am off to the airport.  I feel wonderful but exhausted.  It is 3 am, bad travel planning on my part.  When we arrive at the airport people are lined up outside.  This seems strange to me but many things about Italy have been strange.  It turns out the airport is closed, an international airport!  We are all expecting to check into our flight to Amsterdam but instead are left outside without chairs, standing.  When at last we are let in we are directed to use the electronic check-in.  After this we are able to stand in line to check our bags.
I arrive at the bag counter and ask politely if she will check my bags only to Portland as I am not continuing on to Seattle.  She tells me there is no way that this could possibly be done.  I ask what my options are.  She directs me to stand in front of an unopened office and wait until after 5 am for them to open.  I can then pay a fee to change my ticket.  If I wait until after 5, I will miss my flight.  I walk away in try to put my thoughts together.  I have not slept.  I am so tired.
At last an idea comes to me.  The new bag that I bought in Rome is too big to be a carry-on but my old one that finally arrived is not.  I head to the restroom, find a big stall and lock the door.  I unpack everything and repack my backpack and original suitcase.  I have bought souvenirs and new clothes so this will not be an easy task.  I am going to have to leave a few things behind.  I ponder what will make the most sense to leave.  I finally settle on my book and of course the big suitcase.  I also unload all paperwork, bags and wrappings on everything.  I roll every piece of clothing and put on my tennis shoes instead of my flip-flops.
I am ready to go.  I make sure there is no one in the bathroom with me and ditch my beautiful suitcase in the garbage.  (I did want to cry.)  That suitcase had served me well and I figure that it was part of the adventure.
I board the plane and we do not even leave the tarmac before I am out.  I wake up in Amsterdam.  My next connection is tight but I need to pick up a few more souvenirs.  I head through the airport at a fast pace, check in at an electronic ticket station, stop and buy my sister and my Mom some cute little wooden shoes and head to the terminal.  I am there just in time to board.
I head to my seat and as fortune would have it a nice young gentlemen is sitting next to me.  We will be on the plane for more than ten hours together so I decide to strike up a conversation.  His name is Robert and he is a police officer from Hungary.  He plays drums in the orchestra with his girlfriend as a hobby and travels Europe playing.  This is his first day on an airplane.  He is flying to Portland because his friend from Australia is marrying an American girl.
We talk for hours and then sleep awhile.  He is happy that I am helping him practice his English and I am enjoying telling him about my life and travels.  I talk to him about a future trip I am planning with my boys and he suggests we see Eastern Europe.  I already planned on seeing Prague and wanted to go elsewhere in Eastern Europe as well and then head to Italy.  He makes an itinerary for us which he says is easily traveled by train.  It includes a stop in Budapest where he will meet us and show us the countryside.  It sounds perfect.
I ask if he needs a ride to his hotel in Portland but he declines.  I try to insist but when we are separated at customs I am not able to find him again.  We parted with a hug and a promise to keep in touch.  On the plane I quickly realized I should have just checked the bag because of course you go through customs at your first stop.  Unfortunately in Rome I was too tired to realize this fact.
Back home I was welcomed by my parents and taken to lunch.  My thoughts returning constantly to Italy.  Even today I long to be back in the Italian countryside.  It felt like home to me.

A day at the sea-Gaeta

Early Thursday morning the five of us girls planning on going to the sea gather at the table.  We have a little breakfast and discuss the plan.  Will we walk to town to catch the bus or will someone drive us?  We are still unsure as with everything else we will have to wait for an answer.  I am the sole American.  We are two Icelandic girls Melina and Malan, one Irish, Kierra and  one Ukranian, Dasha.  Each of us is looking forward to the refreshing sea.  We are missing market day in Sora and I am a little saddened by this but the sadness doesn't last long.
Linda comes downstairs preparing to go to market and agrees to take us to Frederico's where will take the bus to the rental agency.  I am, of course, already familiar with this whole process.  Melina is worried about having to drive the car off the lot.  She is the only one with the correct documentation but she never drives and doesn't want to practice in Italy.  Malan agrees to drive and I agree to navigate.  We are sure the agency will not even notice if Malan drives.
We reach the agency and Melina fills out the proper paperwork and then we inspect the car.  It is a four-door blue Fiat with a sizable trunk for such a small car.  I stash my luggage and we are off.  Malan and I make a good team.  She is a wonderful driver and the girls are all shocked how well I navigate.  Signs in Italy are infrequent at best.  You often have to make a decision going around a turnabout without a single posting. Each time we continue down the road and the others are shocked when we reach a sign and I have made the correct decision.  They ask where this ability comes from and I attribute it to my Dad, inherited and maybe a gift.
We reach Gaeta and the map that is to take us to a smaller less populated beach is unclear.  There are no signs and this time my natural navigator instincts are not working.  We stop at a fruit stand and I load a huge bag for the day.  I jump back in the car hoping now I will be able to figure it out.  We decide not to waist anymore time and just enjoy the busier beach here in Gaeta. We park by an information center,perfect because I have to figure out how to get the train or bus back to Rome today.  The lady is extremely helpful and loves practicing her English while I practice my Italian.  She explains I can take the train from Formia, a town we passed through on our way.  She gives me a schedule and shows me which routes are direct and which have multiple stops.
Next we look for food and as fortune would have it there is a deli on the corner.  Dasha and I enter and are overwhelmed by all the choices.  We are meat-eaters but Melina is not.  She looks for food elsewhere without any luck.  Dasha and I order salami, prosciutto, cheese and olives.  We grab some water and head out.  Once we reach the beach I am a little shocked at how Italians go to the beach.  There are thousands of umbrellas with chairs lining the beach.  There are tiny white picket fences separating each area and the umbrellas and chairs are different colors in each of those areas.  You simply see the guy in charge and pay for your chair and umbrella or just a chair as we did.  It is inexpensive and he sets it up for you.  Dasha, Kierra and I pay and make our way down the beach.  The other two girls want to look around first.  They end up laying their towels on the beach below but join us later.
Dasha and I are immediately ready for the sea and run as fast as we can, the sand burning the bottoms of our feet.  The water is shallow for at least 100 yards.  We finally reach an area where we can swim and both do so with enthusiasm.  We have suffered the heat of Sora and need the refresher.  The salt water scrubbed my skin washing away the dirt of the farm and Sora.  It will now just be a memory.  After some time we return to our chairs and sunbathe.  It feels amazing.
The girls from Iceland head to town to attempt once again to find vegetarian fare.  They return downtrodden, siesta again.
Instead we all gather up on our three chairs and share the bounty of fruit I purchased earlier, the cheese, crackers, meat and olives.  The olives are seasoned with cayenne pepper and are delicious but require an immediate drink.  The girls are thankful I have thought ahead and purchased enough to give us each about three pieces of fruit.  I guess I fall into that mother role pretty easily these days. Everything tastes divine and the combination of crackers, meat and cheese is no less that perfect.  We eat until we are filled and then return to the sea.
Dasha and I swim the most, the others choosing to sunbathe.  Each time Dasha and I pass the gentleman at the entrance to our area he showers us with a compliment; always differing them and always very flattering.  His eyes are fixed on us each time we pass and he even stops his conversation midstream in order to observe and comment.  It is so flattering.  As we walk down the beach others take notice as well.  I feel more like a woman each day I am in Italy.
After awhile Kierra, Dasha and I decide to go for a treat.  Town is out, it is still siesta but there is a little shop set up on the beach so we head over.  Dasha is looking for something rich and decadent, she settles on an ice cream sandwich with chocolate and cookie wrapped around it.  Kierra chooses another kind of ice cream bar, less decadent, reserved like her.  I go for the lime granita.  Ordering is tricky.  It takes awhile before they understand what I want but finally I get the refreshing drink.  We enjoy our treats under the awning and gaze at the sea.
The sea is Caribbean blue.  The sand white and soft.  Cliffs surround the ocean on both sides, one has caves below.  A church sits atop the cliff and the bells ring every hour.  On the other side of town are farms in the hills overlooking the sea.  I would love to linger and explore more of this area.
We stay at the beach as long as our parking meter will allow.  On the way back to Sora the girls drop me at the train station in Formia.  I say goodbye to my new friends hugging all of them.  Dasha and I have the hardest time saying goodbye.  I know I will miss her.
Luggage in hand I head to the ticket counter as they drive off.  I approach asking for the train without stops only to find the lady in front of me grabbed the last seat.  My next option is not a non-stop or I can wait another hour for the next non-stop.  I choose the one that will stop questioning my decision immediately.  It is supposed to drop me in Rome early enough that I will be able to head to the Pantheon and see the last few things I missed.
As I wait for the train I visit the gift shop looking for souvenirs for my loved ones.  I haven't yet purchased anything for my boys, my Mom, Dad and sister.  I come to a cabinet and in it are little tile clocks, each with a unique Italian scene hand-painted on it.  I decide on the one of the sea to remember this great day.  It is a souvenir for me and the only one I have purchased.  I am content and I board the train.
I was excited for the train because I imagined gazing out the windows at the Italian countryside passing by but instead the windows are heavily graffitied.  My window is cleaner but doesn't face the way I would wish but I do manage to spot farmlands surrounded by hilltop towns.  The towns always look magically placed.  A monastery we saw on the way to the sea had stairs leading to it up this extremely high hill.  How many times do people venture up there we wondered?
My feet are still covered in sand as I ride the train back to Rome.  Once in awhile I reach down and try to dust some away.  I am reminded how universal a smile is while I sit upon this train.  Everywhere I have been in Italy I have approached with a smile and people have welcomed that smile with open arms.  Today at the beach two little girls tried to talk to me but realized I didn't speak Italian.  Later we saw them again and they smiled and said hi.  I returned the greeting.  In Sora at the car rental agency our smiles got us through until we could understand one another.  No one became frustrated because we were light-hearted about it.  In Rome when I needed anything, if I asked it with a smile it was immediately returned. As I sat in the train terminal next to an older woman she attempted to talk with me but she knew no English and my Italian was too poor. She look so happy to be going somewhere as if perhaps she was visiting someone dear to her.  We made the best of our brief conversation and parted with smiles.
The beaches of Gaeta were no different than Rome for Italians expressiveness of their love.  Men and women were making out under their beach umbrellas, in the sand, in the water; wherever they were.  Men wore speedos and for the first time in my life I actually appreciated it.  The men in Italy are so attractive and it puzzles me because it is almost unsettling.  You actually look for those that are not attractive and they are rare.
My choice of train was soon revealed as poor when we stop in a little village and the Italians pour out of the train to smoke their cigarettes.  The announcer explains we have to wait for another train to clear the track before we can move on toward Rome.  I hope this will not be a long wait but as the Italians begin to throw their hands up in disgust after speaking with railroad officials on the platform I know my plans in Rome are doomed.  I won't be back now in time to do much, maybe shop for souvenirs, have dinner  and a late night stroll.
We are finally able to leave and everyone is still frustrated but I am relieved because maybe we will make up time.  Ha!  Our train actually moves so slowly at times that I could walk and keep up.  But it allows me to see an ancient aqueduct, long but with huge missing pieces.  I am able to see more vineyards and read the names of these, making a mental note of the types of grapes they grow.
We finally arrive in Rome and I head to my hotel.  At first they say they have not received my luggage even still but later they find it.  In the lobby while I am there are two other guests, one is asking about food and by now I am so hungry I tell him I will follow him to wherever he goes.
My reservation has been booked for the wrong day but I have now arrived so late that it really doesn't matter.  My plane departs at a ridiculous hour and I can leave my bag at the hotel while I have dinner.
Rob, asks if I would actually like to join him for dinner.  I accept and we head off to the recommend restaurant.  We have to make a reservation and the concierge suggest we have a drink at a bar around the corner while we wait.
We head out and order two glasses of wine from an Indian man who spoke perfect English and was hilarious.  He raves about how good the wine is and suggests we buy the whole bottle.  Rob and I decline.
Rob is in Rome by himself, it seems to draw singles in maybe because of the romance.  He is Polish by birth but now living in Canada.  His family is on a trip back to Poland and he has decided to make a side trip to Italy.  He is a graphic artist and later when we are walking I love to watch him look at the beauty in Rome from a different light.
We finish our wine and head back to the restaurant to eat.  We both order different pasta and he is disappointed I didn't order pizza so that he could try it.  He tells me of his unrequited love for a woman back home who has not yet seen his inner beauty though it shines magnificently to me.  He is quiet and reserved.  He tells me he has not gone out at night since being in Rome.  I am shocked.  He has been watching TV on his laptop instead.  I tell him I have to take him out and he agrees after awhile.  We stash my luggage in his apartment after he carries up five flights of stairs for me.  I ask several times to take it off his hands but he refuses.  I immediately think God has sent me an angel on my last night in Rome.
On our way out we stop at a gelataria and order.  This place is filled with Italians, not one English speaker.  I order in Italian and am rewarded with two huge scoops.  Rob orders in English and is given two significantly smaller scoops.  As we walk away he makes a comment about their size and I know I have been rewarded for the attempt to speak the language but Rob won't understand and so I just shrug it off. We walk first to the Spanish steps passing fountains large and small, all elegant.  He snaps some photos and his perspective is perfect.  He must be great at his work.  At the steps he tries to take a picture of me but becomes frustrated with the imperfection of my camera and throws up his hands in disgust.
I lead him to the Trevi Fountain and his is immediately taken back.  This is what he came to Rome to see and we talk about the different features of the fountain naming our favorite parts.  I dig two coins out of my purse and we toss them over our shoulders at the same time, the wish to return to Rome.  We take a seat and linger.  He is tired and my cab will arrive soon so we head back to the apartment.  I encourage him to experience Rome by being brave and talking to people.  I promise him he will be rewarded.  He is so unsure of himself that I imagine he will sit in his room and watch TV more often than not.  As I reorganize my bag I unload my guide to Rome.  I haven't looked at it once but it seems it would be just the thing for Rob to have.  I leave it in front of his door with a note thanking him for being my angel.
I jump in the cab closing the door on Rome and drive away towards the airport.

Siesta

Siesta time in Italy caused me to miss more than one meal, frustrated efforts to go anywhere and ensured I could not spend money in the local shops.  Myself and my friends spent more than one day planning an activity and then realized we were planning it for siesta time and it would have to wait.  I arrived in Sora on Sunday, the Sabbath at siesta time.  I couldn't have arrived at a worse time because even those few things that might have been open on Sunday which would have been rare, certainly would not be open during siesta.
In Italy siesta lasts from 1 to 4:30 pm.  During this time shops close up, children leave school and parents head home from work.  They all dine together for lunch which usually includes a bit of wine and then they rest.  The temperatures at this time of day are scorching and the faint-hearted wouldn't want to engage in any activity anyway.  In other words, it is a perfect time to rest.
At 4:30 shops begin to open again but you cannot eat dinner until 8.  From 4:30 until 8 you can have pizza, which explains the prevalence of pizza shops or sandwiches usually served in the bars.  Gelatto is of course available and that is usually what I end up having.  I have had gelatto since returning home and though it was promised to be all natural and made the same way as in Italy, it was not.  It was terrible.  Gelatto doesn't leave you feeling tired and heavy but the American version does.  Tired and heavy seems to be an unbreakable pattern in American life.  We are burdened and feel as if we are not taken care of.  Maybe we just need to take a rest midday, a siesta.
  After days in Italy I began to appreciate the meaning and need for siesta.  I even rested in a hammock one-day, swaying in the wind while I read my book.  It was rejuvenating.  I began thinking like a teacher and I realized how good it must be for the students to have this long break from school in the middle of the day.  Families are reunited and allowed to feed each other's souls as well as bodies.  Everyone gets a reset.  Imagine any stressful day in American life interrupted by a required time of rest.  Preschools sometimes require it, kindergartens maybe but the rest of our world is hurried and stressed.  We can get anything at anytime if we live in the right place.  Even in my tiny town things are open from 6 am until 12 pm. What is the reasoning for this?
With a required siesta we would have to be better planners or live without.  On most occasions for me in Italy, I simply went without or waited long enough for things to open.  When I didn't like the option of pizza for dinner, because believe me you get tired of it even if it is great, I went to the deli and made my own creation.
The relaxed pace of siesta seems more natural to me and not one bit lazy.  Italians are seeking a good life filled with good people, good food and good families.  They patiently wait for all three.  Imagine that decisions don't have to be made right away but can be put off until after siesta.  How much better would our decisions be?
 Divorce is still seen negatively in Italy as it should be.  When I explained that I was divorced I always got the same reaction, shaking of heads and mournful eyes.  I believe siesta is one beautiful way they keep their families together.  They reconnect with their spouses and children in the middle of the busy working day and focus on the true meaning of why they have been put on this earth.  It is also easy to see how they can be passionate about everything because they have time to recharge that energy.
In the end although inconvenienced by siesta I came to love and appreciate its beauty, its meaning and its power.

Day Six-Hitchhiking to a hike and Lacerno Waterfall

Bernadette and I have planned to leave for the waterfall at 7 am.  It is an 8 hour hike and we want to be in the forest before it gets too hot.  I wait for her wondering if she will come.  Last night she was supposed to go to town with us but because of some trouble with one of the volunteers on the farm chose to stay at Le Mogli.  I am hopeful but continue to wait.  It is close to 8 when the others in the house arise for breakfast and still no Bernadette.  I am debating whether to hike over to Le Mogli but am waiting for directions from Antonella for a short cut from there.  He does not appear until late and just as he appears so does Bernadette.  We have breakfast and Antonella offers to drops up at Via Piana, the sister house that is being renovated.  This will cut about 20 minutes off our hike.  We decide to wait.
As we ride up in the van with Dasha who will be introduced to renovation work today and Antonella we are given a tip.  Antonella tells us we should hitch-hike to Pescosollido. We ask if it is safe and he assures us that it is.  We ask how to go about it.  Is it still the thumb?  He laughs and says that is the old fashioned way.  Instead we should stick out our pointer finger.  He drops us and we begin walking to Forcella, just up the road.  After we have turned the corner in Forcella Bernadette spots a car backing out.  Without a second thought she yells we should try it and sticks out her finger.  Immediately the little old man stops.  His car is a battered and old, yugo style  two-door.  He has missing teeth and those still in his mouth are stained brown but he has the most friendly smile.  We climb in and he begins speaking Italian rapidly. We both try to catch words here and there.  On the dashboard lays a prosciutto ham that he is delivering to Pescosollido, this much we understand.  He continues to speak constantly pointing to the floormats and shaking his head.  I believe he is apologizing for the mess.  He is cute and excited to have us along for the ride.
The road to Pescosollido is steep, windy and narrow.  We both look at each other and are thankful we didn't walk this piece.  It would have been the most dangerous part of our day.
We had planned on stocking up on snacks at the grocery store in Pescosollido but since we hitched we arrived too early.  I have trail mix in my bag and assure Bernadette that we will be fine.  We part from our ride at the grocery store and thank him, smiling and waving back as he gives us instructions how to continue. We make a promise that for lunch that  day in honor of him we will eat prosciutto, hopefully in Pescosollido.
I am impressed by Bernadette as we talk on the way up.  She is an amazing Christian woman endeavourer searching for her true path.  She is beautiful, scared, intelligent and bold.  She is trying to break away from the common mistakes we make as women.  God intended we compliment men but instead we often bow to them.  We don't understand them and in the modern world the rules are so mixed up that there is no way to clarify.  That is one thing I appreciate about the Italian men; they are frank and bold without asking for forgiveness.  If they want you, they tell you.  But Bernadette and I are both trying to break the patterns we have laid and we set out on this daunting journey together by taking the first few steps to a waterfall that is 1200 meters up in the mountains.  If we can climb and conquer this mountain perhaps we can do the same with the mountains we have built in our lives.
We round the corner and find the entrance to Abruzzi National Park.
We take out our hand-drawn map of the trail.  Antonella has placed landmarks such as animal troughs, horses which are sometimes there, gates and ruins on our map.  There is no sense from the map of distance between things and like Italian time it is long and drawn out.  We follow the path which first climbs slowly on a wide road past the fields of horses with gigantic bells around their necks.  They walk and eat and all the while their bells clang, clang, clang.  We see several broken down villas.  I dream of taking one on.  There is not one that suits Bernadette, she longs to live in the woods surrounded by enormous trees.  I like the villas that are tucked beside the forest with wide pastures stretching in front of them.  We venture inside one and inspect the ingenious way things are built.  Holes are carefully carved in the stone walls and large timbers are perfectly placed within.  The floor of the villa obviously rested on these timbers.  Now vines grow over and around them.  I snap a few photos.  We find the herb garden and I am taken in my the smell of lemon.  I pick the herb and run in under my nose again and again.  It has a citrus smell with mint mixed in.  I decide it must be lemon mint and I stash some in my backpack. We pass under trees with hops-like cones hanging.  I pick a leaf and a cone, examine it and try to determine its species.  I stash it in my backpack hopeful Antonella can tells us later.
We make it to the car park area after climbing at least an hour.  I look at the map and can see the hardest part is coming.  I encourage Bernadette to grab a walking stick as we will need it and we set off again. We climb a hill that seems never-ending  laden with large white stones.  Thankfully the walking sticks come in handy on more than one occasion.  Bernadette is surprised that I made her grab one but I explain I always encourage my kids to have one as well.  It makes any hike easier.  I have been hiking since I was a small child, first with my parents, next with the girl scouts and finally with friends.  The boys and I hike every Sunday after church and get a healthy dose of God's creation.
The long hill finally comes to an end and we see a Landcruiser, labeled as park ranger, sitting in the shade at the top.  We laugh and hope we will run into a handsome Italian park ranger but it is not meant to be.  We find another marker and follow a path along a deep gorge.  We cannot see or hear the water yet but are certain it is down there.  Across the valley wooded hillsides paint the landscape.  Next to us are limestone and granite outcroppings.  We go up and down through the forest finally coming to a dangerous crossing full of loose rocks and a sheer steep cliff.  One wrong step and the tumble down would be deadly.  We use our sticks to brace ourselves and slowly, steadily cross.  We are rewarded at the other end by the sound of water, bold and strong, just like Italy, screaming at us.  We must be getting close.  We continue only taking brief breaks for snacking and water.  We are looking for three sets of ruins and finally after several hours of hiking we spot one.  We spot the creek/river at the same time.  Now we must look for three green doors in the sides of the mountain.  The river is our trail and we follow it up listening to the rushing water in the distance.  We spot our first door.  Literally it is a green door, locked and carved into the mountain.  Water spills from beneath it as if it is guarding a spring, maybe the Italian way of keeping the spring clean and protected.  We pass two more on the way up after zigzagging the river, climbing large boulders and balancing on small rock ledges pulling ourselves around corners.  The water is cold and refreshing on a hot day.  One more crossing and we see it spilling over the soft granite cliff above.  We are in a granite canyon with deep pools of water carving the way through the middle.  The falls are several hundred feet.  We have been dared to put our heads in it; only the brave do so.  We wade in the water and it is so cold that our legs instantly go numb but our senses are on fire.  We don't make it to the waterfall.  We turn back and then at once look at each other, "If we are here we should do it."  We jump back in the frigid water and run. We dip our heads quickly under the waterfall and bolt out to the nearest rock for relief from the pain in our legs. I am reminded of Danielle and Paul trying to live a time full life, being present and appreciative of every moment. 
We take some photos of us with the falls in the background and then find two rocks to lay on and sunbathe.  We look at the time.  It has taken us 3 1/2 hours to hike to the falls.  The way back will not take as long because most is downhill. We take our time at the river.  This is the first time we have felt refreshed since on the farm.  At the farm the heat is inescapable and sometimes unbearable. Although the water is cold it is just what we have longed for.  Italy is a place of extremes.  We began our day with warm fresh figs that in your mouth feel like a woman ready to accept her man.  In the middle of the day we were hot, sweaty and challenged by a climb high into the mountains.  At the waterfall we are wet and cold, so cold we couldn't linger long for fear of hypothermia.
On our way back we relish in the accomplishment; unique and amazing.  We have visited a piece of Italy few others experience.  We make our way back through the forest, spotting the two ruins we missed on the way in.  They are hidden on a hill.  Who would build in these high areas and for what purpose?  Perhaps shepherds minding their sheep needed shelter in the mountains.  It takes us a short while to reach the road that led us into Abruzzi.  We check the time and realize we will not have lunch in Pescosollido because it is siesta time.  We decide to try to hitch hike again.  This time I stick out my finger and a car with three people stops.  They have been hiking in Abruzzi as well.  We ask for a ride to Via Piano and they oblige.  We round a corner and the lady in the front seat excitedly points to the mountain they have climbed that day.  We explain we have hiked to Lacerno.  Their English is as iffy as our Italian but once again we communicate.  In Italy you are rewarded for the effort of attempting to communicate.
They drop us at Via Piano, we thank them and return to the road.  We have a small hike back to the farm and then perhaps a walk into town.  Along the road we pass more small farms with olive groves, grapevines, fig trees and apricots.  The apricots invite us with their deep orange dangling from branches loaded.  I ask Bernadette if we should pick some, no one will see it is siesta and we are hungry.  She suggests we only gather those that have fallen to the ground.  We do so and each hold three.  They are warm and they burst with juice as we bite into them.  The taste is heaven and we groan from deep inside.  The apricot, like the fig this morning has a womanly quality all its own and we are taken away.  We are enjoying them so much we fail to notice the workers in front of us restoring a villa.  They smile knowingly, one is young and handsome and makes us laugh like little girls.  We walk to the farm smiles not departing and arrive just as Maria is headed to town.  We need a ride and ask if we can go along.  She obliges and I quickly go inside to get the things I will need to pick up the rental car for the next day's outing to the sea.
We ride down the hill to Sora bouncing and jolting as Maria speeds through each corner.  She asks to drop us at the beginning of town.  We get out and she speeds away.  We speculate as to why she didn't drop us elsewhere when she knew where we needed to go.  I say she is meeting her boyfriend.  We begin walking and send a message to Antonella that we are in town.  We ask what we need to do to get the car.  It is siesta so we know the response will be slow but it is close to the end so we wait.  We walk along the river over the  bridge and towards the town square.  Once again we are lucky and the gelataria is open.  We wander inside and place our orders.  Our Italian for ordering gelato is expert by now.  I order three scoops; lemon, coconut and melon.  Bernadette orders coconut and melon.  I take a small spoonful of my three choices in my mouth at once; trifecta!  Pure bliss swirls inside my mouth, it is cool, sweet, tart and refreshing.  After a long day hiking it is the perfect treat.  I share with Bernadette and she agrees.  We had hiked for more than 6 hours and this is a small reward.  We are hungry though and looking forward to prosciutto.  We finish the gelato and head to the bar that is just opening up.  The woman at the bar speaks English and tells us the only food we will find right now is pizza or sandwiches.  She shows us the sandwich, the most unappealing food I have seen in Italy.  They look like imported Wonder bread with Oscar Meyer bologna.  We are starving and decide to split one to tide us over.  They taste as disgusting as they look, we pay the bill and leave.
Fortune smiles down on us again as we pass a deli.  We venture inside and find the prosciutto we have been longing for along with cheese and wheat crackers that look like toast.  We order salami, asiago cheese, prosciutto, crackers and look at their selection of wine; all rose.
Antonella sends us a text that tells us to head to Frederico's Pizzeria.  We walk heavy-laden with our prize of  cheese and meat.  It isn't far and we stop in shops along the way picking up things Bernadette needed for her stay on the farm.  I finally find underwear and a bra; I have been donning a bathing suit since my clothes were lost.  We feel we have had the perfect day and nothing could go wrong.  Frederico greets us and we explain why we are there.  He points to the bus we will have to take to get to the rental agency which is in the neighboring town.  He explains he has already told the fat bus driver, ironic because Frederico is bigger than the driver, where we need to go and he will let us know when to get off.  We wait for the bus on the curb and pull out our feast.  It is by far the best meal I have had in Italy.  The salami is sliced so thin you can see through it, the prosciutto salty and the cheese warm and soft.  The hard crackers are a perfect compliment and we make several before the bus is ready to depart.
Off we go.  I am nervous and excited about driving in Italy.  I know that directions will not be a problem but the lack of stop signs or rules of the road make me nervous.  Arriving at the rental agency we find two extremely handsome men and attempt to communicate what it is we need.  They are unable to understand us but we persist.  Bernadette pulls out her phrase book and we giggle and try to make ourselves understood.  We are high from the day and not at our best but I finally snag the phrase book out of Bernadette's hands and find the two phrases, "We are here to rent a car."  I show them to the gentlemen and they laugh and leads us to another office.  We sit and wait for the man who will help us while handsome men parade in front of us.  If I were going to buy a car, this is the place I would buy it from.  They find us one man who speaks some English.  He also is devilishly handsome, we think it must be a prerequisite for working here until the man who is doing our paperwork shows up.  The man who speaks English asks us to talk slowly.  We explain we are here to rent a car and that it has already been prearranged by Antonella.  They find the paperwork and begin writing things down.  I am handed the phone suddenly to talk with a woman who speaks English.  She tells me we cannot rent the car because I do not have an international driver's license but that I can get one in town for just $10.  Unfortunately by the time I could do so the rental agency would be closed.  She also says she had explained this to Antonella.  There is one girl in our group of five traveling to the sea that has an international license and she can rent the car tomorrow morning.  We are deflated and defeated and then Antonella calls.  I ask him why he sent the two of us if he already had this information.  He begins making excuses instead of providing an answer.  I ask again explaining that he clearly knew which two girls were in town because we not only stated it but the others were there at the farm with him.  He begins yelling at me and telling me I should be thanking him for making the arrangements.  He continues yelling so I hang up and we leave.  This is our first bad experience of the day if you don't count the repulsive sandwich.  We walk back to the bus stop and realize the driver had been kind in where he dropped us and we would need to continue down the road to another stop.  We ask for directions from a street vendor, we are tired and weary but I understand what she tells us.  We cross the bridge and are approached by an English speaking woman trying to find the train station.  She needs to catch a train in 30 minutes and we tell her it is too far to walk.  She directs us to the tobacco shop that sells bus tickets back to Sora.  We each visit the grocery store, Bernadette buys water and I buy wine.  It was less than two dollars for a bottle.  I am excited that we will be sharing this wine soon.  The bus drops us back at Frederico's.
He greets us with a questioning face.  We explain what has happened and he is as frustrated as we are.  He begins to say, "Antonella needs to mind his business and let me take care of the other stuff.  I would have never sent you had I known you didn't have the license."  He offers us wine for our troubles and we accept.  He pours it out of a plastic bottle, obviously his home grown.  It is rich, dark and deep in texture.  I enjoy every sip.  Bernadette has a difficult time drinking hers and I end up helping her.  Frederico calls us a taxi back to the farm.  We are too tired for dinner and too tired to walk.  The taxi driver shows up and Frederico pours him the same amount of wine we are drinking.  He shoots it as if it is Tequila.  We explode laughing and pronounce that it will be an exciting ride home.  We finish ours after a few minutes say our goodbyes to Frederico and depart up the winding hill in our taxi.
We arrive at the farm while everyone is having dinner.  It is a bit awkward as it is obvious Antonella has said something of what has happened.  He apologizes and I accept but walk away.  He is not satisfied and persists wishing to talk with me away from the table.  I agree and he explains that he always has sent Americans to that rental agency and they allow them to rent without the international license.  He says it would only be bad if I were to get pulled over.  We are back to the farm and will go tomorrow to pick up the car.  I am not going to hold a grudge.  He asks if I have forgiven him and could we share a kiss.  I agree and things are better.  Dasha brings her dinner to where Bernadette and I are sitting and asks what had happened.  I explain and we talk about going the next day.  Bernadette and I are tired and decide to drink some wine back at Le Mogli by the campfire.  I will follow the path in the dark back home and the girls from Iceland offer me their headlamp.
We walk through the forest once again, arrive at camp, uncork the bottle and enjoy our new friendship.  The fireflies dance around us and it is magical.  We don't finish the bottle before we are both exhausted.  I head back down the trail letting the moonlight guide me.  I only use my light to go under and around the trees.  I arrive at the farm late and collapse on my bed.

Day Five-A day of rest

Once again I wake up early and animal of some kind sleeps outside my window and I hear it snore.  The birds are singing their morning melodies and the sun is just peaking up behind the mountain.  I go outside and find Giuseppe once again.  We speak our hellos and once again I take some time to practice yoga.  When I am through I grab my book and head out to the porch.  I have an hour or so to read before anyone else will be up and before breakfast will be served.  I enjoy the slow pace of the morning, the calmness of all that is around and the beauty of the fruit trees and grapevines.  Giuseppe lays figs on the table for us to enjoy at breakfast.  I break one open and scoop out the warm, sweet filling.  It melts on my tongue as I slowly savor each bite.  It rolls in my mouth igniting my senses.
When the rest of the house rises I encourage each of them to enjoy a fig.  I spend the next hour or so sitting and talking with Dasha and the girls from Iceland.  We are planning a trip to the sea for Thursday, their day off.  We ask Antonella to make the rental car arrangements for us and we figure out that the cost will be about 15 Euros each.  I will be able to mark off one more place off my list of must do's while in Italy and it is totally unexpected.  I am supposed to depart for Rome that day and must make arrangements to leave from the sea instead.  As usual I am greeted with, "get there and check on the trains and buses, it will all work out."  This style of thinking is so un-American but I am becoming accustomed to it.  I know that if all else fails I will ride with the girls back to Sora and then grab the bus to Rome.
Dasha and I talk for hours while she does her work that day.  She has been assigned to the kitchen and the window is always open so I can talk to her through it.  Melena is assigned the task of putting together a cabinet.  She is unsure so I offer to help.  I explain that being the mother of two boys makes me an expert at putting things together even if the instructions are in a foreign language.  We fit pieces here and there and in no time the task is complete.  She feels empowered and shows Antonella.  He is surprised but she explains that I had helped her.
I decide to take a stroll through the woods and try to find Le Mogli, or the Rustic Farm.  The Rustic Farm is being restored by Antonella's family and mostly the volunteers.  Several volunteers are camping out at the rustic farm including Bernadette.  I wander down the hill, through the grapevines and animal pasture.  I scare the baby horse by trying to pet it, stare at the sheep with their un-bobbed tails, open the big green gate and pass over the creek.  Instead of turning right to town I head to the left through the forest.  I follow the creek for a bit and climb a rocky slope, realize it is the wrong path and turn back.  My eyes fix on the butterflies, a countless variety brilliantly colorful.  They flutter peacefully from flower to flower.  In one square foot of space you might see twenty butterflies.  This place is alive with natures peace and beauty.
The path to the rustic farm is rustic as well.  Trees are down in many places and I have to choose whether to go over, under or around.  Around is often dangerous as there is a cliff now leading down to the creek.  I climb and twist my way through the forest.  There is a meadow amongst these trees and it is pristine and still.  I stop in the shade of a tree at the edge and linger for a bit.  I haven't brought the hand-drawn map with me but I can already feel I have gone too far.  I decide to turn around and head back to the farm disappointed I haven't met my goal.  As fortune would have it Bernadette is headed down the path back to her tent at the Le Mogli and she leads me the rest of the way.  We straddle vines and overgrown shrubs and climb little hills but finally the farmhouse appears as well as the orchards.  I immediately understand the appeal of restoring this farm.  There is a view of Pescosollido above and the mountains.  The orchards are laid out to the left of the house and trees surround the house making it cool.  It is two stories, maybe three.  Small but lovely.  The grass in the orchards is three-feet high and we wade through it to Bernadette's tent, perfectly placed between two apple trees.  In the orchard are apple, pear, walnut, and fig trees.  There is a washbasin with a hose which allows visitors to wash up.  There are two bamboo showers, neither functioning.  Still it is a place I would love to lay my head at night listening to the sounds of the evening.
Bernadette promises to join us at the farm later in the afternoon.  We are once again headed to Sora.  We are hoping to do some shopping, check with Frederico about renting a car and the bus to the sea and have a bite to eat.  We pay attention to siesta this time and arrive in town just as things are coming alive again.  Dasha and I make our way to a clothing store and I purchase a few more things to get me through the rest of my trip.  I try on a pair of Italian made shoes but put them back.  (I am still kicking myself for that.)  They were wooden with a strap of leather and a flower, simple and elegant.  The other girls are rushing us or I would have tried on more.
We head to Frederico's to make our arrangements.  Frederico is a large Italian man who lived in New York for twenty years.  He is the guy to go to for anything in Sora.  He has connections everywhere.  He speaks his own version of English but we are able to make sense of it.  He tells us the bus schedule to the sea and instructs us which seaside town to visit. The bus is 8 Euros per person each way and the schedule is unfavorable.  We will go with the car as long as Antonella can arrange it.  Frederico continues to explain what we will need to do but is interrupted by his daughter who comes to put drops in his eyes.  He tells us of his daughter with such pride and love.  He finishes his instructions and sends us off with a warm smile and greeting.  We head to the town square for some gelatto.  The day is hot and I order lemon and coconut, which has become my favorite combination.
The girls have to head back to the farm in order to serve dinner.  I run into some other farm visitors but decide to return to the farm.  Dasha is tired of the same pasta day after day.  She needs real nourishment.  She speaks to me of tomatoes and cucumbers, potatoes and soup.  She hardly eats at each mealtime.  She cannot understand why I decided to return to the farm to eat.  We, however are rewarded whole-heartedly when Maria serves Risotto with fresh basil.  I look at Dasha with a knowing glance, she at last is eating and feeling satisfied.  Next Maria brings out freshly sliced cucumbers and tomatoes drizzled in olive oil and seasoned.  Vegetables are next, zuchini, green beans and cannelli beans.  Salad is served last and it too is drizzled in oil and seasonings.  I am full and feeling blessed by the meal and the company of all of my new friends.
Three new people have arrived at the farm, one from Ireland and two from England.  We talk a bit and the couple from England eagerly listen to my tale of my love affair with Rome.  They have not scheduled time in their visit for Rome but I convince them to change their plans.  He is a surveyor of old buildings and loves architecture and I know Rome will feed his soul.
I drink my own carafe of wine and we talk into the late hours of the night.  Bernadette did not show up for our trip to town and I am concerned about our hike the next day.  I am hopeful she will still join me.  There is no communication with the rustic farm so I will have to wait.
I turn in ready for whatever the next day brings.

Day Four-A hike to a castle and pasta making

I wake up to a fresh morning, as my new friend Dasha would say.  It is cool and crisp unlike the day's heat that will surely come.  Giuseppe is the only one up at this time.  He is a happy small-statured Italian man.  His face is covered in deep creases.  He has done the work of the farm for over twenty years now.  He works all day, pausing only for lunch.  There is no siesta for Giuseppe as there is for everyone else on the farm and in the village.  He works through the heat of the day and into the evening.  He greets me this morning and asks how I am.  My Italian phrases are growing.  I answer and ask him as well.  I then return to my room and do some yoga.
It is finally breakfast time on the farm and I have my first introduction to Italian sweet breakfast.  Sourdough bread, Nutella, jam and sweet biscuits are served as well as coffee and tea.  Not exactly what I would choose.  There are fresh plums from the trees.  I eat mostly fruit.  Antonella comes downstairs and asks all of us who are gathered at the table what are our plans for the day.  I say I plan to hike to the castle.  A group from Detroit is planning on hiking to the waterfall.  They ask if I would like to join them but I have promised to save the waterfall for Bernadette's day off.  After several of their party drop out they decide to join me on the hike to the castle instead.  I am blessed by their presence.
According to the map the hike takes 45 minutes from Sora.  Sora is a 25 minute hike from the farm, (45 on the return uphill).  Since it is a short hike we do not leave early and the day becomes hot quickly.
As we enter Sora we ask for directions.  A kind man who only speaks Italian guides us to the path up which is easier to go up than down.  He instructs us to take the stairs down not up. Antonella's map says to go the opposite way.  We choose the way the man describe and are thankful later.
On the way up this large mountain which has both a castle and church on the top, are the stations of the cross.  As I said before it seems to be a theme of my Italian adventure.  We stop at each one and attempt to decipher the meanings.  The ladies that I am with; Dellashon, Cathy, Chris and Lisa are all Catholic but they do not remember all of the stations.  I am only mildly aware of the stations because of being surrounded by Catholics growing up.  One is particularly disturbing to me Jesus is being pulled by a man and both of their faces are frightening.
After we climb the stations of the cross we find the path to the castle.  It is lined with white rock for the first portion.  It climbs the mountain slowly zigzagging.  Trees drape over the path but every few turns there is a panoramic view of the city below, the farm and other hillside towns.  We stop and take pictures and rest and drink.  The day is hot and we are thankful for the shade.
Lisa and I decide to take the lead and figure out how close we are to the top.  The other ladies are pressing on but struggling.  We take off at a quicker pace and are rewarded by reaching the top within a few turns.  We head back down encouraging the others.  We rest at the top and take in the views.  The castle is just down the path and so we head on.  The stone of the castle has held well.  There are broken portions but some areas are fully intact.  I find the dinning area, obvious because of its huge brick oven and long hall.  The ceiling is domed.  It is cool inside the castle and offer a nice respite.  We didn't bring a flashlight or we could have explore the lower levels.  Still we venture until we can see no longer.  Next we climb the walls and walk the perimeter.  The Cyprus trees sway from side to side.  I step carefully because there are holes, obviously used as a cooling system, in the top of the wall.  In fact the way the castle is set up offers a break from the heat of the day.  Most of the rooms are cool.  We look out the arrow loops.  I imagine a century on guard but I also wonder who would be willing to follow the path we took just to attack a small castle.
After we have had our fill we turn to head back down.  This time we will pass by the church and take the steps back into Sora.  We all hope aloud that there will be water at the church.  The climb down the old rock stairs is not easy.  The steps are gigantic sometimes requiring you to sit.  We arrive at the church, take some photos and search for water.  As we round a corner the caretaker greets us.  He welcomes us into the church through a side door which leads to his kitchen.  He pours us water and speaks to us extensively in Italian.  He is not alone, there are four men sitting in the kitchen area.  We refill our water bottles and then he asks if we would like to see the inside of the church.  We are thrilled.  He leads down the hallway and into the sanctuary.  This church is dedicated to Mary and this happens to be the day of one of the celebrations of Mary.  He hands each of us a card explaining the holiday.  We ask about the large statue of Mary and he explains that five times per year the townspeople bring her down the stairs and back up.  Tonight's celebration is not that kind, simply a gathering.  We find out our journey down includes 300 plus steps, a familiar pattern to me already.  We finish conversing with him and head out refreshed and satisfied to have been blessed to see inside and hear the history.
We make it to town hoping for some lunch only to find it is siesta.  We can get water and there is one grocery store open on the other end of town.  We were hoping to rest, eat and have some wine in celebration of our achievement.  It was not meant to be.  We head to the store and pick up fruit, bread and water.  It is nourishment but not satisfying.  It makes the walk back to the farm more difficult and tiring.
I return just in time for my pasta making class.  I am joined by two ladies from Virginia; mother and daughter.   We will make fettuccine, Maria tells us.   She brings out four large wooden boards, slated with pegs.  She brings out the ingredients.  Fresh eggs from the farm, flour and semolina.  She also brings a little water.  The process is simple.  She puts three heaping scoops of flour in a pile before us.  We make a pit in the center which she quickly fills with a small amount of semolina.  We are then instructed to break four eggs in the middle of the pit without allowing them to overflow.  None of us except Maria are successful at that.  We all chase the eggs with our flour trying to incorporate all of it.  We mix the dough with our hands, add water and flour only when told to by Maria.  Eventually it is the right consistency and we roll it with  three foot rollers.  We use a knife to cut the pasta and then lay it on the board.  Next we join her in the kitchen to make the sauce.  She uses a half a pound of butter at least.  The butter is pure white reminding me that American yellow butter has been modified.  We cut up mushrooms and herbs.  These go directly into the sauce.  Maria offers us wine to celebrate the making of the pasta and then shoos us out of her kitchen.  She is anxious to finish the work of dinner making on her own.  We drink and leave and later eat the pasta we have made.  It is not the best pasta I have had but it will do.  I am hungry from a long day and eager for two days from now when I will hike with Bernadette to the waterfall.

Day Three-A bus ride to the Italian countryside

I awake early ready for the next leg of my journey.  First I decide to have breakfast at my hotel.  They serve me a delicious bowl of oatmeal, whole grain toast and tea.  I am satisfied and feel nourished for the journey ahead.  I check with the front desk, still no luggage in spite of a promise that it would arrive in the middle of the night.  I am not surprised.  I did not expect it and have already purchased all that is necessary to continue my travels.
This leg of my trip has brought me to the most anxiety.  I have to board the subway and get off at a particular stop, then search for the bus that will take me to Sora.  The timetables are iffy and should I choose the wrong time to leave I will wait in the middle of nowhere for hours.  I purchase my subway ticket and follow the signs to the correct line.  I continue following and a train is just arriving.  I rush to board it and as the doors close realize it is the wrong one.  I disembark at the next station and head back the other direction.  I finally board the correct line and watch my time hoping it will arrive at the appropriate time.  The train arrives at the last station and I begin to walk trying to follow signs to the bus terminal.  My Italian is progressing and I read a schedule that tells me to climb up and wait at platform 10.  I make my way to the platform and happen to glance at the bus at platform 9.  It says Sora.  I rush over, buy a ticket and board.
After two days in Rome my feet were blistered in 6 places, the cobblestone streets had taken their toll with their many cracks and rolling walkways all running up or downhill.  My feet only hurt when I put them up at night but now I am aboard a bus and have a couple of hours to rest them.  I put them up and realize how much my legs ache.  I have climbed more than 2,000 steps in the last two days as well as 20 plus hills.
The bus quickly becomes my favorite way to travel in Italy.  It has a slower pace and it winds through hilltop towns instead of sticking to the freeways. I see village after village, farm after farm and vineyard after vineyard.  In the countryside people prefer to have a vegetable garden rather than a large yard.  Most houses have a vineyard, olive grove, fruit trees and large garden with trellised tomatoes and other vegetables.  Some have used the land between houses to plant wheat.  I am immediately inspired by how useful all the land is.  There is not wasted expanses of grass or plants that have no purpose.  Italians are diligently purposeful about how they use the land.  A deep respect for mother nature seems embedded in their culture and nature responds with a resounding thank you in here magnificent splendor; hundreds of varieties of butterflies, bees happily buzzing and not bothering with humans, birds chirping their exuberant thank you. You hear as you wake each morning and throughout the day in the countryside.
The bus squeezes through another village.  Stucco houses with Spanish tile roofs line the narrow streets.  Hills surround the route and large granite peaks jut skyward.  It seems the mountains are huge but later I am told they are only 1,000 meters high not much higher than the elevation of Central Oregon.  The contrast between the valley below and the mountains above give you a sense of something much larger.
I think back on my time in Rome how Italian men ate me up with their eyes as Elida would say.  I have never felt so delicious.  The beautiful men I met and kisses I shared remain written on my soul.  I reminisce.  My face has been kissed by Turkey, the eyes of an angel, Rome the thoughts of the devil and Milan a tenderness lying somewhere in between.  Extreme attraction always makes me think of my devil side but God meant for us to enjoy one another in that way.  In Italy they are not bound by our Puritanical rigidness.  They can both worship God in an extremely humble manner and passionately pursue human relationships. They are not obsessing about worldly pursuits because relationships are a very Godly endeavor. I think back to how Allesandro wore his white linen shirt unbuttoned just so, inviting me to touch.  He and I were born just two days apart and he liked to tease me about being older. He was frustrated that I was leaving Rome.  He could not understand why I wanted to go to the countryside.
I pass hilltop villas baking in the sunshine.  The hillsides are lush with trees and greenery.  The area reminds me of Northern California and it dawns on me that of course Italians chose to settle there; it was so much like home, the mornings cool and fresh and the afternoon hot and sultry.
Waking up each morning with the shutters drawn, window open, birds chirping and church bells chiming would have only been better if I had someone there next to me. Doug went to Italy alone and I wonder if he had the same thought.  I could have of course awoke with one of my new friends but it wouldn't have meant anything and when offered they tried to understand my reasoning.
The road to Sora curves like a woman's body with soft hills in between.  Somehow Italy makes you feel more like a woman, more soft and sensuous.  I needed that.  Life has made me too hard, too rigid, too regimented.
We pass a large brick building, huge and topped with a cross.  A large brick wall surrounds it and I am immediately curious about what it was.  We pass through another village where clothes hang on the line to dry.  I imagine they will dry in seconds as I melt in the heat. We cross a brick bridge over a small river and I finally spot the Cyprus trees that I have always equated with Italy.  Will I keep this idea after spending so much time in the country?
My new wardrobe explains Italy as well as words.  The shirts cut low and lay just so to accentuate your curves.  Everything about Italy screams bold sensuality not to be confused with sexuality.  
I arrive at the last bus stop in Sora and the driver tells me to disembark.  I am looking now for the pizzeria where I will catch my ride to the farm.  I don't immediately spot it so I use my phrasebook to ask a man.  He directs me and I am off.  The men of Sora look somehow different from those in Rome; darker.  One asks if I need a ride when I say no he politely shrugs as if to say "Oh well" and drives off.  It is Sunday and Sora, as with much of Italy, still observes the Sabbath.  Nothing is open and I am supposed to call for a ride.  I look around and spot a payphone.  (Do we even have these still in America?)  I drop in a couple of Euros and make the call.  Antonella greets me on the other end and says he is sending someone.
Maria, Antonella's mother, picks me up in her beat up two-door.  He English isn't too bad.  After we climbed the steep winding hills to the farm I realized I had forgotten to get cash.  As if she knew what I was thinking she directed me down a path through the animal pen filled with horses, a donkey, sheep, goats, chickens and pigs.  The path was a shorter way to get back to Sora.  I am first served a glass of homemade wine and a piece of sourdough bread.  This I am told is how they greet their guests.
I decide to take the path as it is still early in the day and there does not seem to be anyone around.  I later found out I had arrived during Siesta.  The path wound through the forest down the hill and across a creek.  Part of the path was lined with the stations of the cross, a common theme in this town I would soon find out. I was finally dropped into town, the walk was long but it somehow felt refreshing as I poured with sweat.
On my return walk I was thinking how refreshing it would be to jump into the lake, something promised in the advertising.  It turns out the lake was about one hour away by car and they did not always go.
That night we head into town with Antonella's wife, Linda.  We are going to watch the soccer game in the town square and have some pizza.  The first pizza place will not cook anymore pizza because the game is about to begin.  We continue on to the next one where luckily they are listening to the game on the radio.  With pizza in hand, folded of course, we head to the square.  A huge screen is set up and many people are gathered.  This is a beautiful piece of Italian culture.  The game is not going well for Italy.  The men flick their chins and stomp their feet in disgust.  The yell at the referees when a call goes against Italy.  A pageant is played out before us.  My new friend Dasha, from the Ukraine, and I discuss how they behave and enjoy the evening. Bernadette, American but living in the UK,  is there too but exhausted from a hard day of working in the heat.  We have gellato at half-time and finish the game.  Vendors are selling Italy shirts and noisemakers.  Children wave flags bigger than they are.  They drag on the ground as they run around the square.  I watch a Mom buy her son a noisemaker.  She waits patiently until he finds the loudest one.  I think of myself as a mother and how against that I would be.  I have something to learn from her.    Spain wins 4-0.  The men look as if they are going to cry, some might have.  We head home and turn in for the night.

Day two

I awake early to the vibrant sounds of birds chirping and church bells ringing.  I feel alive and rejuvenated and ready to embark on another day seeing Rome.  Today I am scheduled for a tour of the Vatican.  I have to get myself across town and to the specified location all by 9:15.  I head out grabbing a couple of pieces of fruit from the local cart on the corner.  At the bus station I request a ticket for the bus to the Vatican.  I fail to ask at which stop I should disembark.  I climb aboard and watch intently as the city passes by.  When the Vatican is in sight I get off.  I begin walking the Vatican wall.  I run into a priest and ask directions.  He explains that I must follow the wall, cross St. Peter's square and follow the wall more.  I had no idea how long the wall would be.  It feels as if I have been walking at eternity but I finally arrive at the prescribed location.  I ask for assistance only to be told to wait in a line without knowing the purpose of waiting.  I get out of line once to ask if this is truly where I am supposed to be.  It was a good time to leave the line because the gentlemen in front of me was smoking and my lungs have yet to adjust to this common phenomenon.  I wait again to receive my ticket and then wait in a group.  As I am waiting a couple begins making chit-chat.  I am unaware that others are around listening.  As we make our way into the Vatican a handsome American with piercing blue eyes approaches me.  His name is Doug and he quickly becomes my favorite part of Rome.  He had overheard me tell the couple that I was from near Bend. He is from San Francisco and on his own in Rome as well. We begin talking and we are both on the self-guided tour.  We decide to join up and tour together.  He says he is in a hurry but he behaves differently.  We stare at the mummy in the Egyptian room dumbfounded by how clear the features are still.  We talk about each statue that moves us, which are many.  We are astounded by the size of stone baths, infatuated with each dome and its intricate paintings.  We are bothered only by the crowds and the tour guides with all of their sticks held up to keep track of their people.  We snap photograph after photograph and talk telling each other about our lives.  We are herded through the map room, something neither one of us enjoys.  We are shocked to see a souvenir stand placed in the middle of this crowded room.  Each painting on the ceiling is perfectly framed.  We ponder if they were done separately and how it was all planned out and finally who was in charge of it.  There are people snapping photos who are not even looking at the detail in the paintings.  I don't believe they were appreciating what they were seeing.  I look as much as possible first and then take a picture only when the painting or map moves me.  You would need hours in this room to fully gain insight into the works of art. As we continue to follow the crowd we see the signs for the Sistine Chapel.  We are ready to enter knowing that it is a sacred place.  Doug takes his hat off and I cover my shoulders.  The guards remind the people around us not to talk or sit but Doug and I have no problem with that.  We are silently taking it all in.  The first painting that moves me to the depths of my soul is the one where there is a gaunt soul being held by what looks to be God.  There seem to be angels around and I am reminded of the devil being cast into hell.  It has the feel of eternal banishment.  I turn to another wall and am taken in by the Last Supper.  We often see these depictions but we only see a portion.  Above the Last Supper painting are three windows each with its own depiction of events in Christ's life.  One window which drew my focus was the women weeping.  The grief for them was unbearable because they had no idea what would happen next.  The third painting that drew my complete focus was of angels and demons.  My mind turned over how cruel and disturbing the images of the demons were and how saintly the angels looked.  I thought over the years of the many ways angels and demons have been portrayed.  This particular painting seemed the most accurate.  I am not sure how long we lingered in the Sistine Chapel but it was a while. We moved slowly to the exit and came out into the hot Roman sun.  We descended and found the entrance for the cupola a mere 320 step climb to the top. We looked at one another with that adventurous spirit and said of course we are going to do this.  We climbed spinning in circles.  I felt dizzy but Doug just pressed on.  Around and around we went until we reached the first viewing area, we still had many steps to go.  The dome appeared before us a sea-like blue with intricate carvings.  We went to the edge and looked down at St. Peter's Basilica.  Catholics corner the market on making you feel reverent before God.  To look down at the cathedral made me feel so small and insignificant.  We stood in awe for a time and then moved to the next set of steps that would lead us to the tip-top of the cathedral.  We could have never expected what awaited us at the top.  The sun was shining through the door as we exited to the overlook at the top of the cupola.  There we stood looking out over all of Rome, 360 views everywhere.  I breathed deeply taking it all in.  We took photo after photo, looked out over St. Peter's square and once again felt awe, reverence and overwhelmed.  The descent was quick and dizzying.  At the bottom we were dropped into the Basilica and now for the first time we had the opposite perspective.  I felt small and insignificant once more as I looked up at where we had once been.  The altar in St. Peter's is massive.  Doug and I speculated how many people could worship in this cathedral; millions.  We looked at the paintings, sculptures and alters.  We noticed a statue of Jesus.  People were passing by it and touching his feet.  Doug looked at me and said, "I think we should touch the feet of Jesus."  I agree and we got in line, touched his feet and each said a prayer.  I encountered man and God on this trip in many ways.  I was always reminded of God no matter where I was standing in Rome.  And God brought people into my life that I could savor and appreciate. Doug was one of those people.  As we left, both feeling small in the face of God, I hoped our time together was not ending.  We had lunch and more conversation.  He told me about his journey so far in Italy, of the wedding, the wine, running each town to get a feel for it and his departure soon for the Amalfi Coast.  I was jealous of course but knew my journey had only begun while his was about to end.  We parted ways exchanged the quintessential Italian kiss.  I smiled and breathed him in deeply.
My next part of my journey was to see the neighborhood and bridges around the Vatican.  For this Marcello had offered once again to be my tour guide.  Once again his historical knowledge was outstanding.  The first thing he had me do was to look at the columns in St. Peter's Square.  He asked how many rows I saw?  I said three or four.  He led me to a circle in the square and had me stand upon it and look again, now I only saw one row.  He explained there is only one row of columns but our eyes play tricks on us making us think there are more.
We strolled over to the Castel Sant Angelo which guards the Vatican.  Marcello showed me the passageway that connects the two.  The purpose of the passageway was to evacuate the Pope in times of attack.  He would go to the Castel for protection.  We walked across the Ponte Sant Agelo, the bridge that is adorned in saints.  Next we strolled by a monestary, which he had a difficult time explaining in English.  I wanted to walk more but Romans do not like to walk it seems.  He left me to finish my wandering on my own.  I made my way back to the Colosseo and bought my ticket for that and the Palatino hill.  The Colosseum is indescribable.  More steps of course because this is Rome.  I climbed and walked around the top gazing at the relics that have been dug from this site, statues, animal bones and dice to name a few.  I walked to the lower level to see where animals and gladiators would have been kept and raised up.  The structure is a maze. I overhear a guide explain how expensive it was to put on the games.  He said because of the expense it was not as common.  Bears are native to Italy so they were used more in the games than other animals such as lions which would have had to come from the far reaches of the Roman Empire.  I finish circling, taking in the view from all perspectives and move on to the Palatino Hill.  This area is massive in acreage and legend plus archaeology says it is where Rome began.  It is the first settlement and was to home to emperors as well.  The Circus Maximus is located here, thought at first to be for chariots but later determined too small.  It was likely used for foot races.  It overlooks the Forum a place where philosophers and politicians would debate; the roots of our American system likely were discussed here.  The Emperor Augustus made his home here.  Tunnels were built under his gardens, with frescoes of scenery painted on the walls which allowed him to wander his gardens even when it was in the middle of the hot Roman summer.  The gardens are still blooming with purple verbena and other purple flowers; the color of royalty is my guess.  The grounds take me hours to traverse.  There are museums, arches, ruins, gardens, fountains and pathways.  As I make my way toward the exit I hear bagpipes playing.  They are coming from the Scottish church nearby.  I begin the walk back to my apartment, fulfilled and tired.  I pass Mercati Traianei, the Colonna Treiana and start my climb up.  I walk until I reach the Repubblica and the Fontana of the Naiads.  Yet another representation of Neptune.  The sea is a central theme to all of the fountains and perhaps life in Roma.  I check in at the hotel office to see if my luggage has arrived.  I have by this time been wearing the same dress for two days.  They say no it has not arrived and we check with the airline once again.  I have to go shopping in Rome.  I need clothes for my journey South and luggage as well.  I set out before returning to the apartment and buy several outfits.  I haven't worried once about my clothes being lost maybe because I am thinking that God clothes the birds of the air and knows I need clothing so of course he will take care of that.  I buy very nice clothing that will work for the rest of the trip.  Once at my apartment I fall into a deep siesta, taking on the Italian culture.  I awake hungry and ready to go out once again.  Allesandro sends me a message to meet him once again and I am off.  Tonight he is much quieter but still we journey to a few places but in a more silent manner.  He asks when I am coming back to Rome.  I tell him not until Thursday and suggests we meet again then as long as he is still in town.  I am aware I will not see him again but I make no effort to keep contact information.  He was to me a beautiful example of an Italian man appreciating a woman and I will not soon forget him.  I turn in exhausted and ready for my journey to the country the next day.