I’ve said it before but we’re having an unusual spring – much cooler and wetter than normal. It’s fine for me. I don’t think it’s particularly cold or particularly wet. Certainly not by Portland standards. However, this week was a normal week for spring. Oh crap. It’s hot. Not really, but it’s ”afoso, humido cento percento. I can’t stand it. It feels like this maybe a week out of the year in Portland and it's a horrible week. It feels like this maybe five months out of the year in Ancona. Porca miseria! Constantly sticky. Oppressive. I need a shower after walking up the four flights of stairs to the office in the morning. I need a shower after eating lunch. I need a shower after walking home in the evening. My hands always feel dirty. On the plus side, this sort of weather is condusive to thunderstorms and we get some doozies complete with sheet lightning, stomach rattling thunder and fat drops of rain. Fortunately, on most evenings, a breeze usually starts blowing in the early evening and the air clears-up and the temperatures come down.
With the warm weather, life is moving from inside to outside. The night air rings with the sound of people freed from the clasp of their winter solitude, set loose on the sidewalks and squares of the neighborhood. My apartment is in a building that backs onto an open square in the center that is bordered by separate buildings on the other three sides. In a nicer complex, the open square would be a garden or a courtyard but in ours we have a parking lot. Va bè. As life moves outside, the evenings are filled with the sounds of the residents in the other apartments: the couple arguing about something from the day, an old lady singing to herself as she hangs her laundry, two young sisters playing on their porch, a father singing to his baby-daughter as her puts her to bed. There is something to be said for having a house and the space and privacy it affords (and I certainly miss my basement full of bikes) but it’s also charming and comforting to be surrounded by these lives and to share a glance or a smile with a neighbor on a balcony across the way.
I don’t see much of the neighbors who live on the floor below me, but two floors down I know there is an older couple, retired I think. The wife is a whiz of a cook and most mornings, as I walk down to go to work she is already busy preparing the meals for the day and I can smell the results from the floor above to the floor below. On Thursday, it was some kind of roast, the air heavy with the smells of browning meat, roasting garlic and other spices. The memory of those smells left me hungry for the rest of the day and completely unsatisfied with anything I had to eat.
On Wednesday we had a staff meeting to be introduced to the new workflow software that is being installed. I haven’t had to be in a meeting since I started working at PSG, and business meetings are a lot like running. You have to train for them and then keep doing them or you get badly out of shape which leads to serious bodily injury! I had forgotten how exhausting they could be. Add to that the effort to understand and follow the presentation which was being conducted in Italian. The main theme? Check. Details? We don't bother with details. I definitely strained my thought muscle. I did find very interesting the name of the software though: “Nemesys”!
Although spelled differently in English, after seeing how the program works, as they say, the irony fairly drips off the name. I doubt that the creators know, or even care (indeed why should they?) what the name of their software implies in English, but I fervently hope they decide to release it in the US market. It would cause a sensation – at least in segment of the population looking to purchase workflow software with ironic names. You see, what we have here is a case of a False Friend - a pair of words in two languages that look the same but have entirely different meanings. In the sweet language of Italian, Nemesi means “divine justice”. Of course in English it means “archenemy” which this software is no doubt going to be. No matter how you cook this egg it turns up scrambled. While we’re at this, beware the stranger bearing gifts that is Idiosincrasia meaning “a strong dislike” in Italian and in English as Idiosyncrasy, “a peculiar behavior or temperament” . Ain’t it grand?
For this weekend, if I can convince someone to go with me (and by that I mean someone with a car who feels like driving) I hope to catch the final game of the season for the Ancona Dolphins. It’s an 8 game season. The Dolphins have played 7 of their8. They have lost 7. On Saturday they play for pride (more important than any trophy) against the Bolzano Giants (4-3), a fearsome team with a powerful offense but a suspect defense (I made that last part up).
American football in Italy is a real thing. It's little understood, hardly followed, and for the most part poorly played (albeit with passion and enthusiasm) by athletes with little or no previous familiarity with the sport. For those who want more, John Grisham wrote a not incredibly interesting short novel called Playing For Pizza that looks at Italian life, culture and food through the eyes of an American quarterback playing in the Italian league.
Heavy snow is in the forecast in the Gavia Pass tomorrow. Hopefully it's bad enough to make for a memorable day without being so bad that they have to use the alternate route.
Every time I take the train somewhere I’m reminded again just what a great and easy way to travel it is. For whatever reason it’s always a fresh surprise, like the goldfish with a three second memory at feeding time, maybe because back home the train is not the most practical option for getting from point A to point B, or even point G if that’s where you really need to be. Here, for most trains, it’s only slightly more complicated than buying a ticket for a ride on MAX, only instead of untraining in Beaverton, you’re in Jesì (which is good thing if that’s where you intended to go as I did, but a nightmare if you’d hoped to be in say, Beaverton).
It would seem I haven’t done enough to take advantage of the convenience of the trains to inexpensively and conveniently explore my new home. This point was made abundantly clear on Saturday when I stepped off the train in Jesì, thirty minutes after I boarded it in Ancona. About 30 minutes away in the direction of Rome, it turned out to be a cool little place and the ticket was only €2.00. What a deal. Thanks trenitalia!
The plan was to meet Valentina and Giordano at 7.00 when we would then drive to Fabriano for the night’s festivities. Jesì made for a convenient place to meet, being on the way to Fabriano and central to both Osimo where they live and Ancona. Jesì has been around in one form or another since the second century A.D. and as a result of the sprawl of time you get to walk through Italian suburbs for about ten minutes from the train station in order to reach the historic district. The “old” part of town is built on a hill and the walls built to ward off Mongols, Brazilians and other invaders are still visible although now they support apartments instead of vats of scalding oil. I though it must be something to live in one of these apartments. Although with anything, after a time you probably start to take it for granted.
The streets must be hundreds of years old and they are all made from stones which make an interesting slapping sound as the tires of cars pass across them. And the houses and buildings have probably been continuously inhabited for just as long (philosophical question: what came first, the house or the street), some having been preserved and updated with clean, new bricks and others looking like not a thing has been done since the original laborers schlepped the bricks into place.
One of my secret thrills is when walking along a sidewalk I am lucky enough to catch a glimpse through the entrance doors of a building. These doors are usually massive wood things, fifteen or more feet tall, double width – probably designed originally to allow a horse and cart through – and while the exterior of the buildings usually suggest age and neglect, the stolen glimpse often reveals a cool, classic marble hallway or an inner courtyard garden, immaculately maintained and full of flowers and other greenery. It’s so mysterious and private that to see it feels a little wrong yet thrilling, like stealing a piece of candy.
After wandering aimlessly for about an hour (textbook aimless wandering I might add), I wandered, with aim this time, into the main piazza. The area is closed to cars each Saturday and the people take over the streets. This is every Saturday, in the central part of town. People, not cars, take priority and it’s not just on a few, negotiated weekends per year. This being Italy however, the occasional driver still insists on making their way through the masses on an errand of national importance that precludes them from following the closure, but no one seems to mind that much and it’s like the parting of the Red Sea as the car inches its way through the crowd.
Along the edge of the square I found a nice bar, bought a couple slices of pizza and a beer and sat back to enjoy another one of those “just sitting in a piazza in Italy having a beer” moments. It was sunny and warm with a slight breeze, there was an abundance of people watching opportunity and I admit I’ve developed an affinity for this type of tourism – sans goal, sans intent (sans underwear?), just appreciation and passive participation. I’m acutely aware though that not being faced with a two week holiday deadline to fit in sixteen cities affords me the luxury to actively pursue this slothfulness and it’s another reason why I’m glad I made the decision to give this a go for a bit. As seven neared I paid the bill and walked back to the station where I met Giordano and Valentina and we made our way to Fabriano, another hour towards Rome.
Fabriano is an industrial town at the center of the bathroom and kitchen appliances industries of Italy. There is also a famous paper mill that makes the paper used to print Euros. While renowned for industry, its reputation for culture is somewhat less so. At least it was until a couple years ago when the daughter (or wife, or mistress, again I’m hazy on the specifics) of a wealthy industrialist in town decided the reputation of Fabriano needed polishing and the elbow grease would be a three-day poetry/art/music festival each year called Poiesis.
The mainstage at the Poiesis Festa
Well there is now quite the cultural sheen to the city, at least for one long weekend during the year. And the marquee attraction this year, and the reason for our little excursion, was a free concert by Sinead O’Connor in the main square.
Our joining Valentina for this concert had been in doubt up until the day before because the Champions League final featuring Intern vs. Bayern was the same night and there was no way we were going to miss it. The concert organizers and Sinead’s people must have made the same connection because the concert was scheduled to start at 11.00 which would be just minutes after the match ended. Valentina had booked a table at the Tanning Pub (check them out on Facebook!), an “authentic British pub” in the heart of historic Fabriano. There were plenty of TVs, no Peroni in site thank goodness, and an entire page of hamburgers to choose from in the menu. We were set. The Champion’s League final is a big deal and whichever team won would win the treble for the first time in their club’s history; the bar was packed and rowdy, actually rowdy which is not typical in my experience. One table packed air horns which they fired as the spirit moved them which was often. Another table had regular horns and the rest of the crowd had strong opinions and a desire to share. For me, there was a double cheeseburger on the menu that I just had to try.
The Tanning Pub's soon to be famous "The H-Tower"
It was really good. Except. No mustard. When I asked for it the waitress said they didn't have any and that I was the first person to have ever requested it, go figure. Or pickles. Oh well. Intern won, the crowd went crazy, tumbling out of the bar to sing and celebrate.
And for us, we headed to the concert and arrived just as it began. Even though there was a huge number of people there, most of the crowd was there just to be there so we easily made our way to near the front of the stage. Ms. O’Connor has aged since her Pope picture tearing days but her voice is still just as amazing.
She performed an acoustic set and combined with a very impressive light show and the historic setting it was quite impressive.
It’s debatable whether this should be classified as a highlight or lowlight, but just as she began her encore, the earlier mentioned Intern fans, a few hundred strong, arrived in the square to celebrate. Between the chanting, singing, horns, cheering and the flares, it raised quite a ruckus and she ceded the moment to them gracefully. And just as gracefully we headed back to the car for our drive back to Ancona.
If you’re even a casual fan of bike racing you probably know about the three Grand Tours (Italy, France, Spain) and what a spectacle they are. For three weeks, the race, with its cyclists, support staff, officials, media, and multiple other entities roll around the country in a huge caravan that is unequal parts race, event and circus. Fans who, like myself, have never seen a race of this magnitude should be forgiven for thinking it’s all about the riders and the race. It’s not. It’s about the entertainment, whatever can be associated with the race, no matter how loosely, with the riders playing but one part in the production. In tandem are concerts, publicity events, a traveling expo, art exhibitions, city-wide parties, and any number of ways to part the public from their Euros. And each day it’s repeated in a new town. Grandissimo!
I digress here for a moment. The Giro d’Italia is often credited as being one of three major factors that helped unite the newly reformed republic from a collection of disparate regions into a (sort-of) single entity. The other two are gelato and scooters. Just kidding. The other two are actually the military and television. Basta! Enough of the history lessons.
We left work at 15.15 on Thursday to drive the 30 kilometers south along the coast to Porto Recanati hoping to navigate the traffic, road closures and crowds in time to catch some of Stage 12. In fact, efficiency was the word of the day and we arrived with time enough to spare to enjoy a gelato and watch the final 40 kilometers of the race on the big screen TV set-up on the podium.
While we watched and waited, the energy from the pink clad fans, live and loud narration of the race, a blaring DJ, and the on-site broadcast of the Rai 3 studio show featuring il grillo himself, former world champion Paulo Bettini made for a skin-tingling experience.
Italian legend, Olympic Champion, World Champion: Paulo Bettini. And that's former professional"il falcone" Paulo Salvodelli to his right.
We took up places in the front row along the barriers about 50 meters past the finish line and had a perfect view of the break-away and grupetto the first time they came through to begin a 20 kilometer loop around the town prior to the final sprint for the stage. The crowd grew anxious when the big break containing several strong Italians got away in the last 12 kilometers and they went bananas when Filippo Pozzato, Italian national champion, won the stage giving Italy its first victory in this year’s edition of the race. Go here for a detailed stage report and race photos.
Real riders, in a real Grand Tour! The break-away with 20 km to go.
Tyler Farrar in the red points jersey.
"Yeah for me, I win!" Filippo Pozatto takes the victory.
The riders disappear almost immediately after finishing, except for those involved in the podium presentations or who have media obligations.
"I win. Now give me a stuffed animal and kiss me!"
You know what they say about a woman with a big Visa card? Big purse.
We wandered around for a couple hours taking in all the associated distractions and amusements and within three hours of the stage finish it was difficult to tell the race had ever been there save for the pink decorations in all the shops and the last bits of trash being swept from the streets. It really was a fantastic experience, both as a passionate fan of professional racing and the riders as well as an enthralled participant in the spectacle.
On Friday I was looking through the race report photos on Cyclingnews.com. Turns out, I'm in one of them. But you have to squint. Really squint. In the lower-right, jutting out from above the rider's white helmet is a disemboweled hand holding a camera aloft. That's my hand and my camera!
On Saturday, Inter plays Bayern in the Champion’s League final. And that’s no joke. I’ll be watching it in Fabriano before going to a free Sinead O’Connor concert. Eh, it’s free. Why not?
Today I take a break from my normal routine - in-depth, serious analysis of life in Italy - in order to tackle an equally serious subject: What IS this? Quite simply, I'm stunned. Michael Wendler, German superstar. His video melts my brain. So many questions.
A little later we're headed south to Porto Recanti (information is in Italian for added authenticity!) to take in one of those “must do “ experiences (like eating gelato or applying for an extension to your visa) one must do if they move to Italy: watching the Giro! We’ll see if we can locate the finish line for Stage 12 in time to see Tyler Farrar sprint for another victory. Story and photos to come providing we get there in time. Stage 13 goes right through the middle of Ancona on Friday. Depending on who you listen to, the roads will be closed starting from 9.00, 10.00, 10.00-ish, or around 10.30. It should be a grand, fantastic mess and I hope to be in the middle of it.
Wednesday night Raimondo came home from his tango lesson around 11.30 and asked if I felt like getting a quick beer. Even on a school night, 11.30 is when people start thinking about going out and although my skin had already started turning its customary pumpkin orange for that time of night I decided to go. Yeah me!
We went to our new favorite pub, the name of which is unknown to me, but whose atmosphere evokes memories of The Cork although sadly without the bacon blue or Luke's cars flying off the table. We ordered beers and the now customary glasses of vodka in honor of his future Russian wife. There was a table of three women sitting near us and Raimondo decided it would be a good idea to buy them vodka as well. He asked the waiter not to make a big deal of it when he delivered the drinks. Like a true professional he brought the order and went on to tell them that the bartender had sent them over! Incredibly subtle – not making a big deal of it indeed! Raimondo turned red with impotent rage, I couldn’t stop laughing, and the women were very appreciative. Truly the sultry art of romance thrives late at night in Ancona bars. The topper was when the bartender charged Raimondo for the drinks at the end of the night. A real spacca stronsi.
On Saturday, Vayla and I went to Rimini Wellness 2010 in Rimini. Since it was once again raining biblically (I'm confident we aren't very far from a storm featuring locusts and frogs falling from the sky) it was a good day to be indoors although it was a terrible day to be driving on the autostrada or walking the one kilometer from the parking lot to the expo center. Lothar had told me on Friday that this fair was the biggest of its kind in Italy so I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't prepared.
During the drive we decided to stop for a coffee and the first place we tried to go to, the parking lot was completely full and there was a line of people out the door waiting to get in, along with several large touring buses in the parking lot. A strange site for 9.00 on a Saturday and no way the coffee at a rest stop restaurant was good enough to draw a crowd. Most people were wearing tennis shoes and sweats or workout gear of some sort. Also a strange site. The same thing happened at the second rest stop we stopped tried. We finally found room at the third. By then it was sinking in just how big this show was going to be. People had booked tour buses to bring their groups to the show! It takes about an hour to drive from Ancona to Rimini. It took another hour in traffic to cover the 7 kilometers from the autostrada to the expo center.
Rimini Wellness 2010 is a huge expo for all kinds of indoor gym and fitness equipment - and by all kinds I literally mean every kind you can possibly think of and many you couldn't think of but someone else had thought of it did and they were at the expo trying to sell it. In fact it appears that hammocks are now some sort of exercise craze. Like any expo of this kind, the vendors are there to demo and sell equipment. But it soon became apparent why everyone was wearing workout wear. It wasn't to fit in. It was to workout! All the equipment was available to try and test in organized sessions. There were classes and organized workouts being offered all day long in any discipline: yoga, Pilate's, running, walking, aerobics, weight-lifting, step, spinning, pole dancing aerobics, hip hop, tai chi, boxing, something with a bag full of sand, and something with a stick. Imagine five LARGE expo halls full of equipment, tournaments for footy, kickboxing, boxing, and karate, aerobics and step classes with at least 500 people participating, two spinning classes with a few hundred bikes each, indoor pools with water aerobics classes going on, even LiveStrong was there with something called a Krank. Completely overwhelming. Insane. It was like visiting the world's largest gym.
There must have been over 1000 people in this step class.
Everything you could think of, and maybe somethings you didn't...
Vayla's first golf swing. Notice the follow through. And the little white ball still on the tee.
A Lazy Sunday Afternoon
Sunday afternoon in the US this time of year probably means basketball, baseball and maybe some golf on the TV. Fairly typical. In Italy it meant the F1 Grand Prix from Monte Carlo, Giro d'Italia, and Superbike from South Africa. Lots of choices but all of them overshadowed by football.
It's all soccer almost all the time right now. World Cup is coming and the publicity and even propaganda to get people excited for the national team are in full swing. On Sunday, Serie A finished. Roma trailed Inter by 2 points going into the final weekend. If Inter lost or tied and Roma won, Roma won the title. If Inter won their match, they won the league. Against Siena, a team headed to the lower division next year, they triumphed 1-0 on a late goal by Milito and so won the league. Inter have already won the Italian club tournament, now they have the Serie A trophy. Next weekend is the Champion's League final. If Inter win that they win the treble and they become even more obnoxious than they are already. They are playing Bayern Munich who have also won their league and club titles.
Inter are like the Yankees only more popular. Lots more popular. At least in Italy. They buy the best talent (the starting 11 didn't include an Italian which is a bit of a scandal), the best coach (the self-proclaimed "The Special One", Jose Morinho) and beat up on all the nerds in the playground. Literally minutes after the game ended a few thousand fans here in Ancona gathered in Piazza del Popolo to celebrate. There was the usual singing and waving of flags along with cars full of fans sounding their horns all around the town center with banners streaming from the windows. Scooters and motorcycles too. In Milan, where Inter are from, there were tens of thousands of fans in the Piazza del Duomo going nuts. And while quite rowdy it was never violent. Strangely, no cars were torched or stores vandalized like when the Lakers win. Go figure.
BOO!
The Giro d'Italia There is a little bike race going on in Italy right now. It's the Tour of Italy and the Italians are having a rough go of it so far. No stage wins, struggles from their favorite sons, and scant few podium appearances. So while the tifosi (fans) are restless it's still a celebration of the country.
Later this week (Thursday and Friday) the race comes racing through these parts. On Thursday the stage finishes in Porto Recanati just a few kilometers to the south of Ancona. On Friday it actually comes through the middle of town before finishing farther north. The plan for now is to catch parts of both stages and I'm hoping that works out.
Save Greece! Take A Holiday
There is nothing like the feeling of helping others, especially when it helps you too. Like donating your 15 year old used jeans from high school to Goodwill and claiming a $75.00 value for them on your tax return - everyone wins! If you've been paying attention to international news lately, and I don't mean the weekly results for this show then you know Greece isn't doing to well. They need all the help they can get. And tourists help. And you can be a tourist. I recently found out that I can use a house for free on the island of Santorini. This one not this one. So if you're interested in a holiday, and you weren't sure where to go, may I be so modest as to recommend Greece. Help me help you help them. Did I mention the Free House? You're welcome.
On recent occasion, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ll tell you why. I’ve been waking up in the middle night, and not to pee, which is not my normal pattern. Usually I can sleep through the night. Or rather, I am being woken up in the middle of the night. By pop songs. In my head. The song is so loud that it wakes me up. One night it was Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus. Another night it was Tik Tok by Ke$ha. I can usually go right back to sleep but it’s a little disturbing to wake-up at four am with “Tick tock on the clock/But the party don’t stop, no.” echoing in my head. And then when I wake-up the song usually sticks around for the first couple hours before evaporating. Much like the Italian I studied the night before usually does. I haven’t been able to find a reason for what’s happening (admittedly my research amounts to me writing this sentence) so let me know your theories.
About 16 minutes ago it was sunny with blue skies and playful, fluffy clouds. Spring innocence personified. In the past three minutes, gallons of gray paint were splashed across the heavens, heavy thunder grumbled forth and it’s now raining biblically. The locals say we’ve had an unusually cool and wet spring. This is my first spring in Ancona so I’m not going to argue. For me it’s been a lot like Portland is this time of year so I haven’t really noticed. Because of the sea, it’s a lot more salty and humid here, the kind of weather we call swampy or muggy and the Italians call afoso. I blame the volcano.
Speaking of blaming the volcano, Raimondo received a 28-hour train ride as a present from said volcano. He was in Berlin for work last week and his return flight was cancelled due to the “plume of ash”. Rather than wait to see if he could make it onto a flight the next morning (which in hindsight he should have) he boarded the train which took him through Munich, Austria, Venice, and Bologna before finally arriving in Ancona.
Speaking of Raimondo, I did something stupid Tuesday night. I went running. With Raimondo. (The running part was stupid; running with Raimondo was actually quite smart.) He has been training for a race in June and has been running a couple times a week for the last few months. Last night I decided to join him. He has also been doing curls using his bed as a weight to build arm strength. I decided not to join him for that. I’ve been inspired to run by his workouts, the fact that I don’t have a bike yet and by my sister’s amazing exploits. But let’s be clear, eight months in Italy where I’ve run once, done a fair bit of walking, and spent 13 days snowboarding leaves me ill suited to any sort of running.
A really long time ago I used to be a runner. A pretty good one too. But that was 15 pouds and years ago and I am not a runner anymore even if the zit popping adolescent in my head keeps insisting I am and peer pressures me into overdoing it whenever I start-up again. However, running with Raimondo helped me avoid my typical routine which includes telling myself such motivational bon mots as “ok, on this next hill we’re really going to push it”, and “c’mon wuss, is that all you got”, and “your breathing sounds like a walrus in heat”. He set the perfect, steady pace and by following him I was able to go for about 45 minutes, feel good the whole time and avoid the usual litany of pains that normally accompany my runs after a prolonged hiatus. Wednesday morning I was able to walk upright and contemplate the idea of another run next month. Along the trail where we were running were some bushes with little white flowers. Raimondo said they were edible and ate a few of them as we were running. Later that night he suffered a pretty severe case of what we’ll politely call “severe white flower stomach distress” so guess who I’m not going to trust for survival advice if we’re ever lost in the woods?
I went running again Thursday night, by myself, and again avoided maiming myself. I did however notice a weird phenomenon. My back fat started itching. After about 10 minutes I had a distinct itching sensation in the back fat region. Is this common?
Make a note: His race is in June and is on trampoli (stilts)! Apparently, millions of years ago or something there was a flood in his town and the men used stilts to ward off evil eels or carry bread cross the river or fight a battle. I’m a bit hazy on the details, but ever since, the town has had a festival each year and the festival features this race on stilts to commemorate (mock?) their brave ancestors. Like I said, I’m hazy on the details. The race is a 200 meter sprint and I think beer is included but maybe just for the spectators. Last year Raimondo finished dead last in a field that included a few eight year olds and a grandma with one leg who hopped the whole way. So this year he is on strict training plan including the above mentioned bed lifts, and is adamant about beating at least the eight year olds. I’ll report back as the hilarity ensues.
A few weeks ago I went back to Ponte di Legno with the boys from the original "White Days" trip in February. Which must have made this more recent weekend "White Days II, Even Whiter"? When I was leaving Valentina told me to take lots of pictures but would I please not take the typical ones of people standing around in the snow with mountains in the background. Maybe try to take something a little different. She had a point. So while I did take lots of the usual pictures of people standing around in snow with mountains in the background (because let’s face it, that’s where most of the action on a ski trip happens), I also tried to get a few other photos. So in deference to my friend, and what I'm sure you will agree is a really delightful change of pace, no pictures of snow and mountains. Enjoy…
But first you will indulge me in a brief detour. Part of the reason we went was it was the last weekend of the season. In February, we were skiing off-piste on this slope looking for sweet jumps. In April, we were counting the number of broken ski poles below the lift and making appreciative noises as Stefano described the different wildflowers.
Now we can rejoin the autostrada that is the central theme of this post. This is the pizza I had on Friday night. A margarita base with rucola and tomatoes covered with fresh grated Grana. Wood fired and a crust that didn't start leaking in the middle from the sauce like so many of the pizzas here do.
This is Stefano's pizza. Also a margarita base with Bresaola, a type of cured beef, with wild mushrooms.
For lunch on Saturday we ate on the mountain. We were drawn here by the smell of charred meats, the sun and a big deck. A grill, a tap, and the option of steak, sausage or wurstel. Mmm, you had me at grill. We ate at about 2500 meters. For some reason mountain food always seems to taste better. Don't get me started on mountain chocolate. I had this simple panino with a piece of grilled steak and it was fantastic. The beer (and the view which I’m not allowed to show you) certainly helped.
With the sun shining, spring skiing quickly turned into spring hydroplaning, so we packed it in and headed into town for aprés ski here. (You can't see us because we're not in the picture but imagine us sitting on the deck just above where the two rivers are coming together. Go ahead, imagine, it's good for you.)
A couple of cocktails, the one on the left is the house specialty and the other is a spritz. (No sarcastic comments about the frou frou drinks please, these are quite common to the region. Just point your pinky skyward and enjoy.)
A platter (plank?) of local cheeses and cured meats and a basket (bushel?) of local bread...
And another panino featuring some more of that bresaola and what you have is an acceptable way to end the day.
We didn't feel like going out for dinner Saturday night so four boys decided to see what we could cook. Turns out what we could cook was pretty tasty (even if you can't tell from the photo) but I couldn't figure out if this cooking skill is known or kept secret from the wives. I was also too distracted to take pictures of everything so what you see is the main dish: orecchiette (translation: "little ears" so named because of their shape, it's a pasta typical of Puglia) in a gorgonzola (made locally) cream sauce with speck and radicchio (picked fresh that day or at least it better have been for what the lady charged us). What you don't see is the bruschetta toasted in the wood stove and topped with spicey anchovies and drizzled with olive oil. Or the dessert of fresh strawberries and yogurt with whipped cream.
The forecast for Sunday predicted fog, low clouds and rain in Ponte di Legno where we were staying and fog, low clouds and snow in Tonale where the last open lifts were. The forecast was correct. We couldn't see a thing when we woke-up. We were all blind, stumbling around and bumping into the furniture! The priest said that would happen if we weren't careful. The conditions worsened as we drove to Tonale so no skiing for us, but at least it was snowing which boded well for Monday. The french fries, roast beef and beer I had for lunch helped quash, quell, disperse the disappointment of the weather and knowing what was in store for dinner that night almost totally assuaged the boo-boo of disappointment.
For dinner on Sunday we were going to Ristorante Kro (please watch the video, it's a little surreal but kind of cool) in Temù which is just down the road from Ponte di Legno. Stefano goes here just about every time he is in town and they know him well there. Fortunately, they didn't hold that against the rest of us. They treated us fabulously and the food was outstanding. The experience was a lot like a Portland dining experience but in a good way. I started with the canederli con capuccio fresco e pancetta croccante o in brodo. Canederli, very loosely, are a dumpling made with bread, egg, milk, speck and onion and can be served in broth (brodo) or not. Mine were not and came with pancetta and sourkraut (sour Germans) instead.
Stefano's hand-made tagliatelle con funghi e tartufo della valle (local mushrooms and truffles).
To follow my canederli I had Tagliata di angus Scozzese al bitto con patate which is just a delicious way to say sliced steak from Scotland with roasted potatoes.
Also on the menu were dishes featuring pork, horse or deer. The deer (cervo) was served with polenta, wild mushrooms (delinquents, they really knew how to party) and pomegranate (melagrana).
It's white asparagus season and while the Austrians really go crazy for it (seriously, they go nuts) they are also quite popular in Lombardia (the asparagus, not the Austrians). This is white asparagus with fried egg and shaved black truffle.
After all that was foisted upon us by the fine folks of Kro came the desserts. And I can't be bothered to try and describe them. Well, yes I can, sort of. First mine, a sort of cloud-like, soft meringue (not merengue) in a sort of creamy, anglaisey type thing.
And this is a sort-of chocolate cake with a sort-of mint ice cream if I'm not mistaken.
Oh I give up.
This is Barbara. She owns the restaurant with her husband Gabriele (that's Stefano; Gabriele is in the kitchen cooking my dinner). She is fantastic. They both are. They are renovating the building so they can offer rooms for rent. They snowboard (told you they are fantastic) which is slowing down the renovation process. And they are really passionate about what they do which in this case is serving some of the best food I've ever had.
The miserable storm Sunday left in time for a Monday with bluebird skies, a heaping pile of new snow and perfect conditions. We started early, stayed late and I later calculated that I got close to 25,000 vertical feet that day. An absolutely stunning way to end the season.
Ok, I lied. I couldn't resist including at least one picture of a person (Stefano) in the snow with a bunch of mountains in the background. This is from Monday and we had hiked up a small slope above the final lift, were at about 3100 meters surrounded by beautiful sun, mountains and snow everywhere.
Food items not pictured include the capuccino and pastry we ate each morning for breakfast, a reasonably tasty couple of hotdogs that I had for lunch on Monday that due to an unfortunate misunderstanding came smothered in mustard and mayonaise, and a slice of margarita pizza at a rest stop Monday evening that I had when we stopped on the drive back to Ancona.
In September 2009 I moved from Portland, Oregon to Ancona, Italy for two years to begin My So Called Italian Life. In October 2022 I moved from Salt Lake City, Utah to Sitges, Spain for some years to begin again. Same blog. Different story.
