tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79114485378611417282024-03-18T12:43:03.000-07:00Living (with) abroad in TuscanyPaul and Lucy Spadoni periodically live in Tuscany to explore Paul’s Italian roots, practice their Italian and enjoy “la dolce vita.” Paul is the author of "An American Family in Italy: Living La Dolce Vita without Permission," an Amazon bestseller.
All work is copyrighted and may not be reprinted without written permission from the author, who can be contacted at www.paulspadoni.comPaul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.comBlogger589125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-68930659271726224692024-03-11T11:42:00.000-07:002024-03-11T11:42:13.521-07:00A tribute to my late friend Melody, who played a vital role in my life<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Disclaimer: This entry has nothing to do with Italy. I posted this message on a memorial website to honor an old friend who recently passed away. Now I want to post it here for posterity, since it describes one of the most important events in my life, a decision I made as a teenager. Skip it if you are reading this blog to learn about our experiences in Tuscany. But read it if you want to know more about what makes me tick.</i></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I still remember sitting in the pews of our local Catholic church with my dad in 1969. Mom rarely went to church, so growing up, it was Dad, me and my brother and sister who sat together pretty much every Sunday. By then, my older brother and sister no longer lived at home, and they no longer attended church. I was 16 years old, and I gave God an ultimatum: “God, I have two more years of high school, and then I’ll be on my own. If this is all there is to you, then I’m quitting church too when I go to college. If there is something that I’m missing, you’ve got two years to show me.”</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One year later, God sent a radiant girl named Melody Givens to answer my prayer. In August of 1970, a friend and I took a road trip to the Oregon coast in my 1959 Chevy, blasting 8-track tapes of Steppenwolf, The Doors, Led Zeppelin and Three Dog Night all the way. At age 17, Kelly and I really thought the song “Born to be Wild” was written just for us, though in comparison to other teen guys during those tumultuous years, we were pretty All American.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The trip was mostly uneventful, until one fateful day when my Chevy’s fuel pump gave out in Cannon Beach, shortly after we had parked at a campground. We took a walk through the town and immediately noticed that there seemed to be a lot of other teenagers hanging out. Two girls in particular caught our attention. I was painfully shy around girls then, but fortunately Kelly was much bolder. He struck up a conversation and asked them if they wanted to go for a walk on the beach that evening.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">To my surprise, they said yes.
However, there was a condition. We’d first have to attend the chapel service with them at the Cannon Beach Conference Center, where they were attending a Christian camp retreat. We accepted and showed up at the agreed upon time. The sermon at chapel struck a chord with me, as the message basically said: You can’t meet God on your own terms. You need to surrender to His. I realized that for most of my life, I’d been making half-hearted promises to God—I’ll try to be kinder, I’ll try not to cheat on my homework, I won’t shoplift, I’ll go to church. Besides the fact that I wasn’t very good about keeping my promises, I didn’t feel that this was bringing me any closer to God.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsxED7YgiHMhkSeQVUA3u-67da3DaLOUbJW-E5XifPOtfSMJpKTdbrxiwKs7XW64x4MkQYTD9y6ByhJQ_qlHOZzQcmXa9AaoJ-5ynld4dIJbAV6YNm-ha7T228qSwHbneNT2ykBbwcDaR4KV0ec4JO1VYErI25iuk5_xa2AhGamMdwIEgNCF_WBMDTCVA/s249/Melody.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="171" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsxED7YgiHMhkSeQVUA3u-67da3DaLOUbJW-E5XifPOtfSMJpKTdbrxiwKs7XW64x4MkQYTD9y6ByhJQ_qlHOZzQcmXa9AaoJ-5ynld4dIJbAV6YNm-ha7T228qSwHbneNT2ykBbwcDaR4KV0ec4JO1VYErI25iuk5_xa2AhGamMdwIEgNCF_WBMDTCVA/s1600/Melody.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>After the chapel service, Melody and I walked and talked for another couple of hours. She had just committed her life to God a few days before, and she said that decision made all the difference. Now she had a personal relationship with God. Her prayers had purpose and meaning, and she had the definite feeling that God was present with her at all times. As she spoke, her face looked radiant, almost glowing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Some time during our conversation, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks: This was God’s answer to my prayer. He was explaining what I needed to do for Him to become real in my life, and frankly, this scared me profoundly for three reasons. First, I worried what my friends would think if I became some kind of religious fanatic. It seemed that all Melody wanted to talk about was her new relationship with God, and I’d probably lose all my friends if I became like her. Second, what if I submitted my life to God and he sent me somewhere crazy, like Africa. I had other plans for my life. The third frightening thought is that if I said no to God now, this would be a turning point in my life. I had asked Him to show Himself to me, and now He was answering. Previously, I could claim I was seeking but didn’t have enough information to make up my mind. But if I walked away now, I’d unquestionably be rejecting God, right after He had specifically answered my prayer.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">As our conversation came to a close, Melody asked me if I wanted to pray, and I remember feeling such inner turmoil that I was in danger of vomiting. That feeling went away after I said yes. I remember almost nothing about what I said, but I had no doubt that I was giving my life to God, whatever He had in store for me, and suddenly I felt radiant too, as if I was floating a foot above the ground.
As I walked back to my car, my mind raced with thoughts about my future. I didn’t fully understand what had happened to me, so I didn’t try to explain it to Kelly at the time, though I did at a later date.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">During my senior year of high school, Melody and I exchanged quite a few letters, and I visited her in South Bend, Washington, a few times. I purchased a New Testament and read through it, slowly starting to understand what my commitment meant, with additional help from some Christian books and tracts and Melody’s gentle guidance.
On the campus of the University of Washington the next year, I became involved in Bible studies in my dorm and became active in Campus Crusade for Christ, and that’s when I began to fully understand the ramifications of my faith.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7jC2u7PnZy6JD7ggyGhmFyegWEtCjfaEnJi4_DYHhwbDXlU1G8fbWNj2Ei0qlqI5k6cgiqQiSSg5KL2MqsZNDPdysu8K7oVamvuDMLAWjmQlJAJQLgY7ERLhVuMU1OrTvBQiGOqAznFqHjC0aktHDXWM3EfGnDoeisR1ConMHDPU7qhyphenhyphen5uz2GP-PmzCR/s314/Canyonville%20choir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="314" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7jC2u7PnZy6JD7ggyGhmFyegWEtCjfaEnJi4_DYHhwbDXlU1G8fbWNj2Ei0qlqI5k6cgiqQiSSg5KL2MqsZNDPdysu8K7oVamvuDMLAWjmQlJAJQLgY7ERLhVuMU1OrTvBQiGOqAznFqHjC0aktHDXWM3EfGnDoeisR1ConMHDPU7qhyphenhyphen5uz2GP-PmzCR/s1600/Canyonville%20choir.jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melody in the Canyonville choir</td></tr></tbody></table>I did drive to Canyonville Bible Academy twice during the spring of 1972 to see Melody, once for a social event and once for her graduation. I remember she received some kind of award at graduation, though I don’t recall what it was specifically. The following year, Melody came to see me at the UW. We were planning to go skiing together, but it was raining in the mountains, so we canceled that idea.
Not too long after that, she stopped writing, and I learned that she had married in June of 1973.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">We only saw each other maybe two other times after that, but in the early 1990s, she sent me a manuscript and asked me to read it and edit it. It told of health struggles she and her young daughters faced. I think it covered maybe about four or five years of their lives together. I’m ashamed to say I never finished reading and editing it, and she never inquired about it. I’m not sure what she had in mind to do with had I returned it. I did make it about halfway through, and I realized that the only way it could possibly be worth publishing anywhere was if the two of us worked on it together. It had gaps that could only be filled by Melody. There were passages I didn’t fully understand, where I just wrote things like, “elaborate,’ “explain what you mean,” or just put a question mark. It wasn’t poorly written. It was well above average, but it was not professional quality, and I didn’t know what else to do, as both Melody and I were leading busy lives at the time, and we were separated by geographical distance.
I believe I still have the manuscript, but I’m not sure where it is. Probably it’s in my storage warehouse with some of my old school files. When I find it, I will let one of her daughters know.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I have written this to let people know what a profound and positive experience Melody had in my life. I became a leader in Campus Crusade during college, and I’ve been an active member of my churches ever since. I’ve taught adult Sunday School and led the junior high school youth group for a couple of years. I’ve spoken in our church and in Young Life groups, and gone on mission trips to Mexico, Bolivia, Liberia and Ethiopia. Lucy and I have four wonderful grown children and nine grandchildren. Our children all have strong families and fulfilling careers, and Lucy and I have supported children around the world with organizations such as Compassion, World Vision and Food for the Hungry.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">About 20 years ago, during a church home group meeting, the leader encouraged each of us to write a thank you letter to a person who had strongly influenced us. I wrote to Melody then, but I am writing this now with tears in my eyes to let others who loved Melody know what she meant to me, and how grateful I am that she led me to the Lord. From the depths of my heart, thank you, Melody, and thank you God for sending her to me.</span></div>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-52779089684077238612024-02-26T10:06:00.000-08:002024-02-26T11:33:09.481-08:00Why do Americans often call their Italian grandmothers Nonni?<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Is your Italian grandmother supposed to be called Nonna,
Nona, Nonni, Noni or even something else? This is a frequent point of debate in
many of the Italian and Italian American discussion groups to which I belong.
Well, I’m here to give you the definitive and final answer!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">That’s a joke, because there
is no such thing in such a hotly debated discussion, especially when Italians are involved! There can only be a reasoned and
educated opinion, which is what I hope to provide, a voice from experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 16pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjys8llKFqKf2zQL6toeIe1HzfIQLGCIbWhEaYJEM6A1CcqFHYD3RKjRqXfcXTEiHAMRWQDswn1i_H9v-6VK-yWvwMtimSH4hfZnSvl6NgyFW_Y39lydY3tI8JwkVWg99xqGYeQfOskRehme79mjpUlk7lUKi6KN4eB_DGoWImXtyKKgvZgF5YOJ8x3hrpZ/s1990/Nonna%20Anita.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1990" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjys8llKFqKf2zQL6toeIe1HzfIQLGCIbWhEaYJEM6A1CcqFHYD3RKjRqXfcXTEiHAMRWQDswn1i_H9v-6VK-yWvwMtimSH4hfZnSvl6NgyFW_Y39lydY3tI8JwkVWg99xqGYeQfOskRehme79mjpUlk7lUKi6KN4eB_DGoWImXtyKKgvZgF5YOJ8x3hrpZ/s320/Nonna%20Anita.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My own Nonna, Anita Seghieri</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m a citizen of both Italy and the United States, with
homes in both places, and I have a strong respect for the culture of both
countries, and also for the Italian immigrants who made new lives for
themselves in American 100 years ago and earlier. I’m aware that the correct
answer, strictly speaking, is Nonna, but there is also a very good reason that
many Italian Americans called their grandmothers Nonni or Noni instead—and it
doesn’t necessarily mean they are ignorant or poorly educated.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">One possibility is that immigrants sometimes called their
grandmothers Nonnina, which is an affectionate and diminutive form of Nonna. My
dad had an aunt named Rosa, but everyone in the family knew her as Rosina. It
could be that some people started shortening Nonnina to Nonni.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 16pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJ5eew9Ya5Mrc7F_s_yBAq2bfG5R31Pf3jKiERO-GKhUVP9ucmoKPJePO3EfCvx7KnO_ZPeEdrz_QtQ5nF3wTucWDDqGY2cngRRCwl3m8JRCUdaBahvbVm93aWTjk49HrEUgeaTzQhA2lKJPJblczdJXHsb5VaPWnAOxJLbtOZjIxxUr4rQPB_Nw3sQ5X/s690/Nonni%20is%20my%20name.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="679" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJ5eew9Ya5Mrc7F_s_yBAq2bfG5R31Pf3jKiERO-GKhUVP9ucmoKPJePO3EfCvx7KnO_ZPeEdrz_QtQ5nF3wTucWDDqGY2cngRRCwl3m8JRCUdaBahvbVm93aWTjk49HrEUgeaTzQhA2lKJPJblczdJXHsb5VaPWnAOxJLbtOZjIxxUr4rQPB_Nw3sQ5X/s320/Nonni%20is%20my%20name.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">However, a much more likely answer is that these early
grandmothers had come to America, and they and their families started adopting
the American custom of using the “i” “y” or “ie” ending as a term of endearment
or affection. In American, children often change dad to daddy, mom to mommy,
aunt to aunty, and grandmother to granny or grammy. The same is true of dozens
of Italian given names: Antonio became Tony, Vincenzo to Vinny, Francesco to
Frankie, Salvatore to Sally or Solly, Roberto to Bobby, Giovanni to Johnny or
Gianni, Paolo to Paulie.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Another possible reason could be that some children found
Nonni easier to pronounce than Nonna. Stephanie Beddia, now of South Carolina,
notes, “I was supposed to be Nonna, but when my first grandson started to talk,
he just kept saying, ‘Nonni, Nonni, Nonni.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 16pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5kF3ZHapVfF6BJcfRtaRFOERDaWZUSs0IL-MwuFvhPfg4GHBouiFdOvClnque3724WCU_cnv7oSmF8S6_eDBIDTgib4pPwpdBV80T-8efezZI4ir7u5VkuSJYY612d044kF0-x8YI0ZGODzB-XslbJpnsTOZwFnY7I3PGGesFIBD8_A9psbI_ao4MIdk/s900/Biscotti.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="700" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5kF3ZHapVfF6BJcfRtaRFOERDaWZUSs0IL-MwuFvhPfg4GHBouiFdOvClnque3724WCU_cnv7oSmF8S6_eDBIDTgib4pPwpdBV80T-8efezZI4ir7u5VkuSJYY612d044kF0-x8YI0ZGODzB-XslbJpnsTOZwFnY7I3PGGesFIBD8_A9psbI_ao4MIdk/w156-h200/Biscotti.png" width="156" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Obviously, the Italian grandmothers knew the correct term,
but most did not object to being called Nonni instead of Nonna, understanding
that it was a term of endearment in America. My given name is Paul, but I don’t
mind if Italian Americans call me Paulie or Italians call me Paolo. In a way,
it is flattering, because it signifies that they accept me as belonging in
their communities.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 16pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvpcew7JMCg3CVi7LBWc7-t-Cr6x8uTnDRjsRqP4kgZDuHriTMU03wcotnu4VC2HS5J0XohnAHQHOJAfXcNg1pHEsPyORVvJeGzf4KqDUgC0G8nh-yhCSniA5rOm84FVjPOE0h-c4Zu83OPhCf4wpq9xs6Kvy4RqJcLXtPEtHa_SRIX5c-vln_YO4uxUP/s342/Nonni%20loves%20me.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="342" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvpcew7JMCg3CVi7LBWc7-t-Cr6x8uTnDRjsRqP4kgZDuHriTMU03wcotnu4VC2HS5J0XohnAHQHOJAfXcNg1pHEsPyORVvJeGzf4KqDUgC0G8nh-yhCSniA5rOm84FVjPOE0h-c4Zu83OPhCf4wpq9xs6Kvy4RqJcLXtPEtHa_SRIX5c-vln_YO4uxUP/s320/Nonni%20loves%20me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Grandmothers accepted or even embraced this American
version because, well, they were now in America. If that’s the way people spoke
in America, then Italian grandmothers accepted the slight change. Kids were
already taught to say Daddy and Mommy instead of Babbo and Mamma, because it
was important to be considered American. President Theodore Roosevelt said, in
1915: “There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism. A
hyphenated American is not an American at all.” He was speaking to persons who
referred to themselves as Italian-Americans, Irish-Americans, etc. Thus, it’s
not hard to see why Italian immigrants were willing to adopt American customs.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">One final comment on this: Whenever this topic is
discussed, it will provoke comments such as, “Using Nonni to refer to an
Italian grandmother is a bastardization of the language and just shows the
ignorance of Americans. This would never be accepted in Italy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">This kind of arrogance troubles me. Yes, I know that Nonna
is the word of choice in Italy, but Italy is a land full of dialectical
differences. The Italian spoken in America by our immigrant forebears is also a
dialect, and it should be respected as such and not denigrated and regarded as inferior to other dialects.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">In the words of New Yorker Amber Preston: “It’s a
grandparent’s prerogative to be called by any name they want by their
grandchildren, period. It’s not a choice for anyone else to judge.”</span></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-46864285958029695652024-01-25T17:40:00.000-08:002024-01-25T22:15:30.262-08:00It's wins all around for people and their happy, smiling doggies!<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">A win-win situation is generally acknowledged as the best
possible outcome, but when you throw some dogs into the mix, there is something
even better: a win-win-win situation. How does this situation come about?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vZF9i6izt_ICYK7qp_nbJ4iuYkLWx0XJjRx4HqppwI58t5BpbxQxFiJEw4ysXKB4ezlYnovlt4d7YtScr4yeYswPlaT6jjwh728ncqWPmUUer4VpkxQaU26WJ6jRrIIKyMH8blfZgvI9wAKq0DPRimq0uOb_q7TrD-qIyoDKFU8D2gmAWhd_aoP2Ec6g/s877/Dog%2013.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="740" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vZF9i6izt_ICYK7qp_nbJ4iuYkLWx0XJjRx4HqppwI58t5BpbxQxFiJEw4ysXKB4ezlYnovlt4d7YtScr4yeYswPlaT6jjwh728ncqWPmUUer4VpkxQaU26WJ6jRrIIKyMH8blfZgvI9wAKq0DPRimq0uOb_q7TrD-qIyoDKFU8D2gmAWhd_aoP2Ec6g/s320/Dog%2013.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Lucy and I have 12 acres of beautiful, wooded property in
Rosedale that I walked on maybe five times a year. We’ve kept it mostly
untouched because we love nature and the peace and quiet of walking in the
woods, combined with the knowledge that these woods have been in my family
since 1945. However, keeping this land intact has been a drain on our budget.
In 2023, we paid $5,468 in property taxes, up from an average of $5,000 over
the previous five years—meaning that each walk we took essentially was costing
us $1,000 in taxes alone, not exactly what a person would consider a “win.”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_D8sRSfkH8Mw-8GEU1Ehi6CN6VvNEEO8hrCvb3aNqDNWmks6B5VMfL-cqpF7iov-PwUCHnUiGThZ8mTmZdb_5RFtdph3FeAfsKiOjFHE-PIIrV1MxnIu_bJrCMyxT6KFuV5COdXKCC3yjZ2qwFJX9o45KfnoC8jCoNhjSLLo52u-cxOxHI2EBX9AcS3Xd/s939/Dog%206.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="687" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_D8sRSfkH8Mw-8GEU1Ehi6CN6VvNEEO8hrCvb3aNqDNWmks6B5VMfL-cqpF7iov-PwUCHnUiGThZ8mTmZdb_5RFtdph3FeAfsKiOjFHE-PIIrV1MxnIu_bJrCMyxT6KFuV5COdXKCC3yjZ2qwFJX9o45KfnoC8jCoNhjSLLo52u-cxOxHI2EBX9AcS3Xd/s320/Dog%206.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">The only people really getting a good deal were my
neighbors. We saw no reason to restrict them from taking quiet strolls or
riding their bikes, motorcycles or horses, or even building an occasional tree
house. We didn’t begrudge them these pleasures, so we kept the land unfenced
and unposted. And, of course, it was always in the back of our minds that we
could one day sell the land to fund our retirement—though this would be a
painful last resort, as it would ultimately lead to the end of the forest as I
had known it since infancy.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2bXnV1RhmDJvMO-Jk-QeDTTxFdiWMeWxvLICKNzhgnnuhMqnuB-o_eDaK5JeZxyyRml4eqfjq21HD5Pqt7eHb8Et24isCbA7XVciZw9fW81yh51-fZcVcS1EdR5tdwZj3rSK6FDHQ0jJJISefLmlNzQ3Vehb1FU3NkFfpUV0qB6BT4D38cMsB0kYMtKO/s733/Dog%2012.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="687" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2bXnV1RhmDJvMO-Jk-QeDTTxFdiWMeWxvLICKNzhgnnuhMqnuB-o_eDaK5JeZxyyRml4eqfjq21HD5Pqt7eHb8Et24isCbA7XVciZw9fW81yh51-fZcVcS1EdR5tdwZj3rSK6FDHQ0jJJISefLmlNzQ3Vehb1FU3NkFfpUV0qB6BT4D38cMsB0kYMtKO/s320/Dog%2012.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Then along came a man named David Adams, who changed
everything five years ago when he invented something he named Sniffspot. He and
his fiancé were having a hard time finding places to let their dogs roam free
without interacting with other dogs and humans, so David created what he calls
an Airbnb for dogs. It is basically a website that lets dog owners search for
land owned by other people who are willing to rent their yards, field or woods
for private visits. The website handles the reservations, payments and
advertising, provides liability insurance and allows for both customer and
client reviews.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheC0-p_EeEisyMon3APnNoUESpSQUZYzeR0JxqAjxlL44-K3SCUsWB8r4KOYBL0YHmN43V0mOqbPJaGB6683ULyYGrKO0jbbRVeDvg4IJZ1nNmZYKnWbPlejAnEMwVEboi2QLBfIkunZ1TxssxjuXKCiwm8HKURTEYuU4PTEhuZMAkk8bulimEJu8oXr4D/s504/Dog%2011.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="422" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheC0-p_EeEisyMon3APnNoUESpSQUZYzeR0JxqAjxlL44-K3SCUsWB8r4KOYBL0YHmN43V0mOqbPJaGB6683ULyYGrKO0jbbRVeDvg4IJZ1nNmZYKnWbPlejAnEMwVEboi2QLBfIkunZ1TxssxjuXKCiwm8HKURTEYuU4PTEhuZMAkk8bulimEJu8oXr4D/s320/Dog%2011.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">I signed up to be a Sniffspot host in the summer of 2020,
calling my spot The Woods at Spadoni Hill, but I averaged only about three
customers a month. And then I had to shut down about six months later because
too many neighbors were accustomed to using the property for free. I had about
a dozen great reviews, but a few terrible ones where customers had reserved the
site and then encountered other people walking dogs or picking berries. One of
the main attractions of Sniffspot is that “reactive” dogs will have free reign
without the possibility of encountering other people or dogs, and I realized
that despite my best efforts to explain this situation to neighbors, I couldn’t
guarantee this exclusivity. The main problem was that I had way more neighbors
than I had imagined, and I had never met many of them; some didn’t even live in
my neighborhood.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujYidMe_poCJtGlE099vPZIcikLMOt4Gxa7zWnu8xGMDlmPl9SOP9364LYidUKd4HmhYP00sxupAyyRMkpd4rhyphenhyphen6bZ9lZ8BeYqeKH5ynwLvpTMJN4DsRXeSlBRqFtm6kRWZelXZglhzN5TFY7d7SvrQ1j0jylNymCCBw7aKr6OEpCxicoXh8OrW1UrUqF/s894/Dog%2010.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="697" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujYidMe_poCJtGlE099vPZIcikLMOt4Gxa7zWnu8xGMDlmPl9SOP9364LYidUKd4HmhYP00sxupAyyRMkpd4rhyphenhyphen6bZ9lZ8BeYqeKH5ynwLvpTMJN4DsRXeSlBRqFtm6kRWZelXZglhzN5TFY7d7SvrQ1j0jylNymCCBw7aKr6OEpCxicoXh8OrW1UrUqF/s320/Dog%2010.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">In the fall of 2022, I spent about $5,000 on fencing and
signage and reopened in December. Ever since, I’ve been amazed at the results.
Perhaps it’s because more people have heard about Sniffspot, or maybe it was
the increased fencing, but visits increased exponentially. Now I’m making
enough to pay the property taxes, with some extra beyond that has helped us add
new trails, picnic tables, a covered shelter, trail signs, and a portable
toilet. In addition, my daughter Suzye and I have planted more than 1,000 cedar
and fir seedlings and started a process to reduce or maybe even eliminate
invasive non-native plants. She and I both love the exercise, tranquility and
satisfaction we gain while working to improve the site.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMq-jB49c4xE2vg3lU97H8IvRlvnzb30b9hHCzsuuO-ipjLDp4L2KvFQln4Bqkzs6jShv5x08FtuuUAXD-H-WQ6uwlCItd9lCmjZx9JevNAu7QRUTpUWKT0pFRXWWtHZPLxURuyaisZnWC5wKvr7VXQwCZLTwIhixo3k35WnLn-3pgYA_HkToZm8egvV7p/s723/Dog%209.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="666" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMq-jB49c4xE2vg3lU97H8IvRlvnzb30b9hHCzsuuO-ipjLDp4L2KvFQln4Bqkzs6jShv5x08FtuuUAXD-H-WQ6uwlCItd9lCmjZx9JevNAu7QRUTpUWKT0pFRXWWtHZPLxURuyaisZnWC5wKvr7VXQwCZLTwIhixo3k35WnLn-3pgYA_HkToZm8egvV7p/w184-h200/Dog%209.jpg" width="184" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">This is definitely a win for our family, and whereas before
maybe 30 neighbors were using the trails, we had more than 100 visitors in
2023, so it’s a win for the community. We’ve now decided we will never need to
sell the property, so it will remain a wooded paradise for as long as I live
and probably much, much longer, another plus for the community.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkNTj2kyF0Lhdn9U9Ogm9Vto0YokIaDgty7o0ycC7Fl2mZHOfN8HOdKx4NXJb_wszFKmFpsgohYZJLIU4rrENNnrlzt-aW-vCxEd3VGPUPxxtj7qdvTb4X2B0qQZ9Lk7hiboNtSScf-cSMRFCBGAOjPZGvpkcQHxuup8gMbsOReP80S6amRacfgHDw-dv/s519/Dog%208.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkNTj2kyF0Lhdn9U9Ogm9Vto0YokIaDgty7o0ycC7Fl2mZHOfN8HOdKx4NXJb_wszFKmFpsgohYZJLIU4rrENNnrlzt-aW-vCxEd3VGPUPxxtj7qdvTb4X2B0qQZ9Lk7hiboNtSScf-cSMRFCBGAOjPZGvpkcQHxuup8gMbsOReP80S6amRacfgHDw-dv/s320/Dog%208.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">And as for the third win, just look at the smiling faces of
the doggies who have the rare opportunity to run free and use all of their
senses to explore. The accompanying photos were just a few taken by the dog
owners and posted along with reviews telling how much their pets enjoyed our
property. These dogs can’t verbalize, but I think they say a lot with their
flopping tongues, wagging tails and toothy grins. Just looking at some of these
photos is enough to make my day brighter, and if that’s not enough, then I can
read some of the reviews. Like this sampling:</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW8w0odx1_l2bdneU6Q1DbaGsXBNpq9xHQSEJ8L2OSsh_M_8RzJveHTohKIB01yc4jMGtqZ-NLk4mcMtvRWZS16ELZlVKir4eudT3JPXxrMTEEyRzqo0djibIQs1-HhL-h9tRpte5PhRIezOtszbuHt6E4daO6MWI1a3OyKzgBfJKNW36ML99yj0V1j9h/s741/Dog%207.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="665" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW8w0odx1_l2bdneU6Q1DbaGsXBNpq9xHQSEJ8L2OSsh_M_8RzJveHTohKIB01yc4jMGtqZ-NLk4mcMtvRWZS16ELZlVKir4eudT3JPXxrMTEEyRzqo0djibIQs1-HhL-h9tRpte5PhRIezOtszbuHt6E4daO6MWI1a3OyKzgBfJKNW36ML99yj0V1j9h/s320/Dog%207.jpg" width="287" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Jessica K.: It’s like a hiking trail. Well
marked parking instructions and they even put out printed maps of the trail. I
thought it was really special.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Rowan D: My dog had an absolute blast in the woods.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lynn G.: Wonderful, clean, safe place for pups. Has
everything that you could want: trails, trees, lots of sniffs and water
available for pups.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnw1HlqqUoRsfd1ldj5lBZoW0t8z3fuWz7mHZt-JIg5m7CJOcnT4V3El-18uKsUUl2g46DwwZuMOoSN-3v6S2H0Jfu_RQWIOfFsLbGLCavIwpdjUAOtnmuyxM0DC6O14Sqcy9xJf6IupmsSvCEfDc6tqX0mStXrCNUBH82-fQVakj5lTgPdjRedCtZFtE/s762/Dog%205.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="546" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnw1HlqqUoRsfd1ldj5lBZoW0t8z3fuWz7mHZt-JIg5m7CJOcnT4V3El-18uKsUUl2g46DwwZuMOoSN-3v6S2H0Jfu_RQWIOfFsLbGLCavIwpdjUAOtnmuyxM0DC6O14Sqcy9xJf6IupmsSvCEfDc6tqX0mStXrCNUBH82-fQVakj5lTgPdjRedCtZFtE/s320/Dog%205.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Caelyn C.: My dogs were over the moon—plenty of space to
run and explore and even play fetch.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Christine N.: We took our two pups here for the first time
today and it was incredible! They loved all the trails, and it was a great
place for recall training.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Jannnine C.: This is a great setup for those fur babies who
prefer solitude without other </span><span face=""Segoe UI Emoji", sans-serif" style="color: black;">🐕</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> My Max was so happy to have
great walking trails where he could roam and run.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2rV_sMvbzy0JqKq8hduA6qKtdFARug7z7_iH_4agR7frz4UN03fzX5WkxBKmkLqX0UYVMHZKb8Ju1Ke5LE8ZKFovewqxut5597TF5VyoU15DYe_ibM0yT25kapuYQduudGi7nHv4AypIfCmd7DAScu6AY31cPy1pIdOQ7AEGaODY2pN96X2RCX_8VIQ8/s852/Dog%204.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="678" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2rV_sMvbzy0JqKq8hduA6qKtdFARug7z7_iH_4agR7frz4UN03fzX5WkxBKmkLqX0UYVMHZKb8Ju1Ke5LE8ZKFovewqxut5597TF5VyoU15DYe_ibM0yT25kapuYQduudGi7nHv4AypIfCmd7DAScu6AY31cPy1pIdOQ7AEGaODY2pN96X2RCX_8VIQ8/s320/Dog%204.jpg" width="255" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Rebekah J.: A lovely, peaceful forest walk, as
always. This Sniffspot has become an absolute treasure for us to visit and
explore. The host is always adding new features for the sniffers and the humans
to enjoy.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Casey P.: Big enough to really explore, let your dogs off
leash, and practice recall without being so huge you get lost! Made for a fun
afternoon for us and the fur babies!</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rachel W.: Our dog loved being able to run on the trails
and jump over the rocks and trees and branches.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinww07O2b-eLtV5KajE9tdJw6CfhUJZ3qPvC3U_G3-UOCFYmBwHzgDm6i5QlEl832ypEQP_svWqwWkIpRk4UjYvWQdFGNAWCKw7-PqsTeBU5cfL446_Ez9ZCPz-1_Fh6rEBG4N-7wH8Ab-6QjP3tNfOKWtGmv0UXfacegqaqqPoEdGDHNkZRwxmai2Y0Op/s813/Dog%203.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="702" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinww07O2b-eLtV5KajE9tdJw6CfhUJZ3qPvC3U_G3-UOCFYmBwHzgDm6i5QlEl832ypEQP_svWqwWkIpRk4UjYvWQdFGNAWCKw7-PqsTeBU5cfL446_Ez9ZCPz-1_Fh6rEBG4N-7wH8Ab-6QjP3tNfOKWtGmv0UXfacegqaqqPoEdGDHNkZRwxmai2Y0Op/s320/Dog%203.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Teri K.: This Sniffspot is my dogs’ favorite. Trails,
exploring, lots of smells. Running, jumping, forging through ferns. It’s our
go-to!</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Kara S.: We had a blast exploring the trails and loved how
there was a printed map at the entrance. There were different spots along the
trails that had seating and water for the pups.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keri H.: Super private which was great since our dogs can
be picky about strangers. Tons of trails and things for the dogs to sniff, run
around, and burn the energy. Extremely clean, water at various different
locations, just an overall great place.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCugef4dV6YprJBMiz0F8Hm2Ag4M7dGWaAC3VcXPWyulT2TpjeVU3CPK3STCLT7BhIpS52Dy9EFCrvUDUgIRRaKNDf5PROU90KhQNsVelJX_IyWRJDrNrdBqrPOb0EyT1zVAsnHbbGjUJOGOATUsBxfrVKgGghjO5wJbBjF3qp9ZUPrriT_n-wipi8g7De/s975/Dog%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="975" data-original-width="724" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCugef4dV6YprJBMiz0F8Hm2Ag4M7dGWaAC3VcXPWyulT2TpjeVU3CPK3STCLT7BhIpS52Dy9EFCrvUDUgIRRaKNDf5PROU90KhQNsVelJX_IyWRJDrNrdBqrPOb0EyT1zVAsnHbbGjUJOGOATUsBxfrVKgGghjO5wJbBjF3qp9ZUPrriT_n-wipi8g7De/s320/Dog%202.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Susan C.: Doggy people nirvana!!!! As always it was above
and beyond. I brought a friend visiting from California and she didn’t want to
leave!</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brittany G.: Amazing spot! Our two dogs had the best time
sprinting on the trails. Can’t recommend this spot more. The many water bowls
with containers of water next to it was such a nice touch.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2qtnlhqqQXlHTpWfq6XRi1BIv9yzlVAJBCcjedoqVt63jcyiv_AYu2zTN1BM-TZDrIKYFrqKIoU7xczPRiaS99soNUkQ_XZ1cmcP8Anrg_9T2jzr7CY0nW8lTzA2fVKhOr-WYy7EkBMvPBaI3FNm0RNVtPm_LE5SUJzNfXkkIAMnaqTDtFDd6NAv-5bKj/s732/Dog%201.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="651" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2qtnlhqqQXlHTpWfq6XRi1BIv9yzlVAJBCcjedoqVt63jcyiv_AYu2zTN1BM-TZDrIKYFrqKIoU7xczPRiaS99soNUkQ_XZ1cmcP8Anrg_9T2jzr7CY0nW8lTzA2fVKhOr-WYy7EkBMvPBaI3FNm0RNVtPm_LE5SUJzNfXkkIAMnaqTDtFDd6NAv-5bKj/w570-h640/Dog%201.jpg" width="570" /></a></div><br />Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-33841546427030433112023-12-28T08:41:00.000-08:002023-12-28T18:27:02.393-08:00Want to move to Italy? Start by reading this entertaining book<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“An American Family in Italy,” published in 2015,
gives an account of a year our family spent in Padova, Italy, in 2001-02. Also
in 2015, we bought a home in the hilltop village of Montecarlo, in Northern
Tuscany. One would think that with eight years of experience living off and on
in Italy that by now I would have written a second book detailing the joys and
tribulations of living La Dolce Vita as an Italian citizen and resident. I’ve
blogged about it extensively, so how much effort would it take to transform
those blog entries into a book?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Apparently, too much, because the second book is still
far from reality, and I don’t much care. It turns out that it’s way more fun living
the sweet life than it is to go through the pain of editing, formatting, designing
a cover and marketing. Especially marketing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 14pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmuamPAWINHyGwVBvV7Rm9dLszF_NogmggAZ6ZLuU9vGutSvb58HfViypcNVbEfNMzPGdL9BovQvVyjMrKZSOBfjPMKR-DQfa3sZK1ADQgjFZg1dynS9VHnGA1_Ci74IhTXmho92MDgYYyXYfM3QAeQARM1E0MDHmJd-6LexAMZ2EjGgzWEzJx22yOvTM/s1000/Matt%20and%20Zeneba.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmuamPAWINHyGwVBvV7Rm9dLszF_NogmggAZ6ZLuU9vGutSvb58HfViypcNVbEfNMzPGdL9BovQvVyjMrKZSOBfjPMKR-DQfa3sZK1ADQgjFZg1dynS9VHnGA1_Ci74IhTXmho92MDgYYyXYfM3QAeQARM1E0MDHmJd-6LexAMZ2EjGgzWEzJx22yOvTM/w640-h480/Matt%20and%20Zeneba.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt and Zeneba in their new town of Soriano Nel Cimino, about an hour north of Rome.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicF3hBA6SuJWROS9c-HwocNeJKsOs6KM5GJ-vR292JvduRHVy0_r_sddh1Jjnfqj-eHAiSBDIDEbmr9394KZe-fvVVsBBNcRAgQbfcHZ2VIrMXrSf8yOnAhBiKVixhBYj4LmlHScKgOy8B4b-VvxIXSKSKQ2HMqbr9DVOGZc7YfL_v1XSHwqPv0YWqa7GF/s750/book%20cover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="484" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicF3hBA6SuJWROS9c-HwocNeJKsOs6KM5GJ-vR292JvduRHVy0_r_sddh1Jjnfqj-eHAiSBDIDEbmr9394KZe-fvVVsBBNcRAgQbfcHZ2VIrMXrSf8yOnAhBiKVixhBYj4LmlHScKgOy8B4b-VvxIXSKSKQ2HMqbr9DVOGZc7YfL_v1XSHwqPv0YWqa7GF/w129-h200/book%20cover.jpg" width="129" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">So if you really want to read about our experiences in
Tuscan living, start in the early years of my blog and read on. You can skip
past the boring entries about my genealogical discoveries. But if you want to
instead read a paperback or e-book about the process of buying a house and
moving to Italy, I can recommend several very good ones already in print. One
recently published account is by Matt Walker and Zeneba Bowers, who sold almost
all their possessions in the United States and moved to Soriano in Lazio at
just about the same time that Covid-19 struck hard in all of Italy, adding to
the already difficult process of starting a new life.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The book is titled “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cant-Believe-Live-Here-Everything/dp/1088021255" target="_blank">I Can’t Believe We Live Here: TheWild But True Story of How We Dropped Everything in the States and Moved toItaly, Right Before the End of the World</a>.” Despite the long title, the book is
a pleasant and easy read at 159 well-written pages. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNuRk42pxeAhtVyxyK_hOtVJMwSwwIWbpfk6VTqEi7PqjCFJdu0dUHERtK18Kx4IT99QrVCC-Qy42Xs8OOBLXH1RvJAPOrWc0nGtZ4tdiomvry1kTADo154AbV-y0G3RxLExwyH4iodbVKZ9njBkrgP3l9jrPZv55r9JiMBz0PXZ86rdrTJKe-FG4-t3t/s900/Matt%20on%20balcony.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNuRk42pxeAhtVyxyK_hOtVJMwSwwIWbpfk6VTqEi7PqjCFJdu0dUHERtK18Kx4IT99QrVCC-Qy42Xs8OOBLXH1RvJAPOrWc0nGtZ4tdiomvry1kTADo154AbV-y0G3RxLExwyH4iodbVKZ9njBkrgP3l9jrPZv55r9JiMBz0PXZ86rdrTJKe-FG4-t3t/s320/Matt%20on%20balcony.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almost every evening during the lockdown, Matt<br />& Zeneba serenaded neighbors from their balcony.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve encountered innumerable people who say they want
to move to Italy, but so very few actually do it. That’s probably because it’s
dreamily easy to wish it and stinkin’ hard to do it. This courageous and
determined couple have actually accomplished it, and they share the steps and
stumbles they took, along with their honest and varied emotions of trepidation,
uncertainty, excitement and joy. For anyone thinking about moving to Italy,
this would be a good place to start.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Zeneba and Matt are accomplished concert musicians,
and now they organize and perform concerts in Italy. They also run a travel business
called LittleRoadsEurope.com, have published four guidebooks and create
itineraries for clients.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">On their website, they write “Our vast base of
knowledge of affordable but luxurious lodgings, authentic eateries, and
little-known, off-the-beaten-track sights has enabled us to craft hundreds of
itineraries for travelers. Most of our travelers are honeymooners, couples on
their anniversary trips, and families wanting their kids to experience a ‘real’
Europe that the big tourist crowds miss. We work with each client personally
and extensively, to create custom itineraries for all types of small groups
with different travel objectives. Wherever we go, our goal is to fit in with
the locals in the town; to experience life there beyond the surface one might
find as a random tourist; to slow down and take time to actually see and
experience what is around us; and to learn about the food, culture and history
of the area—all without getting bogged down in the big tourist crowds.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5IYPyiHpTAyKpsaOIIeYzQEXnP2JwKMm2NzXYduMe4D1jXMxGprqWso11AiiZ1lHCSHXwovVMRz243FQG4gIY6AMl5qG9ycuhRdcba7dcw0LCKs-UkyRcqX8O4E-d3HjCPOfRyDo1Kto96ytcZ4V0CdmJyJJ8jqU-LnyNf2RPRqhMI0gZ7uoaBBCP9l4/s877/guides%20banner%202019%20clean%20(4%20books).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="877" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5IYPyiHpTAyKpsaOIIeYzQEXnP2JwKMm2NzXYduMe4D1jXMxGprqWso11AiiZ1lHCSHXwovVMRz243FQG4gIY6AMl5qG9ycuhRdcba7dcw0LCKs-UkyRcqX8O4E-d3HjCPOfRyDo1Kto96ytcZ4V0CdmJyJJ8jqU-LnyNf2RPRqhMI0gZ7uoaBBCP9l4/w640-h244/guides%20banner%202019%20clean%20(4%20books).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-18237400949970267892023-10-06T14:58:00.002-07:002023-10-06T15:10:52.515-07:00Wrapping up with random thoughts on our past month in Montecarlo<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">When we first started living in Italy, I wrote many blog
posts—at least every other day. Now I write rarely and sporadically. The
reasons are various. I am enjoying <i>la dolce vita</i>, and writing is
work. Also, I have grown accustomed to the differences between Italian and
American culture now, so what might have struck me as an interesting cultural
observation previously I now consider routine.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKYEHB6uhUSdLqjnlJNoY5KYREzsD0xI1zGW2p-4WQveZd7Irc4B-6svAyK-a7muDX3nwmg6LtEVldRjiDBLPotwne4xW-AIH7c4rZatzY4YFNk9G8FD7Tm1_41qWIWJEoSrX7LKRrmN2TMVNMIvXHE7OElstr_YAlXXLhTQhVMTt9xUOM2XMqdqb0EHY/s2048/Elena%20and%20Davide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1297" data-original-width="2048" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKYEHB6uhUSdLqjnlJNoY5KYREzsD0xI1zGW2p-4WQveZd7Irc4B-6svAyK-a7muDX3nwmg6LtEVldRjiDBLPotwne4xW-AIH7c4rZatzY4YFNk9G8FD7Tm1_41qWIWJEoSrX7LKRrmN2TMVNMIvXHE7OElstr_YAlXXLhTQhVMTt9xUOM2XMqdqb0EHY/s320/Elena%20and%20Davide.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cena at Ca' Sandra with Elena and Davide.</td></tr></tbody></table></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I’ve done almost all the genealogical research that can be
easily done, tracing my Seghieri family line back to the 1200s and Spadoni line
to the 1400s. I’ve also met a ton of relatives named Seghieri and Spadoni, some
as distant as 12th cousin 3 generations removed. I could go out of my way to
meet more, but it’s no longer such a novelty.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">We’re becoming friends with three couples—one Norwegian and
two American—who have purchased unfinished or crumbling old homes near us. All
three have accomplished incredibly gorgeous transformations (one is still in
the final stages). Are we jealous? Not in the slightest, though we are super
impressed with what they’ve done. We already have a beautiful country home in
Gig Harbor. We decided long ago that when we come to Montecarlo, we just want
to focus on living a relaxed Italian lifestyle of <i>pensionati</i> (retired
people). Our home is neither beautiful nor modern, and we have no intention of
changing it.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">We have a lot of older wooden furniture, some that came
with the home and some we bought at second-hand stores. With old wood comes the
risk of our invasion by our worst enemies here, <i>tarli</i>—wood worms.
We had tarli in our roof beams when we moved here in 2015, but we were able to
eliminate them with treatment and paint. However, last spring we noticed some
sawdust under a couple of chairs. We’ve tossed those chairs away, but when I
did a more thorough inspection, I found at least six chairs, a table and a
cabinet with dozens of tiny holes in each. I’ve spent several days injecting
the holes with insecticide, using a syringe, and then filling the holes with
putty. Now I’m coating them with a transparent protective spray.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Electric bikes are awesome! We only rented a car for our
first six days here, stocking up on some larger grocery items and taking trips
to Lucca and the Valleriana—the valley above Pescia with 10 medieval cities.
Since then, we’ve just done everything on our bikes. It helps that we have
weather in the high 70s to low 80s every day, and it’s only rained for about
two hours in the last month.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">We are leaving Montecarlo tomorrow for Athens, Greece,
where we will meet up with Dan, Sandra and their kids for their fall break.
After nine days there, we’ll head to Napoli and meet up with Linda, Wendy and
Janet for a week in Southern Italy, and then we take a week-long cruise
starting in Bari and ending in Salerno. From there, it will be back to
Montecarlo, but just for a couple of days, and then it will be back to the USA.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">Ø<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">We will miss Montecarlo, but we’re also missing Gig Harbor.
We seem to stay just long enough in one place such that we’re always satisfied</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">—</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">and then looking forward to going to the other place.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-14942284656128431102023-09-24T11:36:00.000-07:002023-09-24T11:36:33.070-07:00A delicious love feast at our Altopascio church helps us make connections<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">We had to good fortune to be in
Montecarlo during the time our church here, La Chiesa Evangelica di Altopascio,
decided to have an </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">agape</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">—which could be translated as a love feast
(mentioned in Jude 1:12), or more simply, a church potluck lunch.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmZmqbCOFEsmKk6QKliz_18uutD27XJk_PH7l20Ie_UFIwnDrzTyVvARCVhphxk3FTUJ8JSAFrqKH8zkR_sjJnu7T3I5L4Ct5DWaLktRU7wW2p9QakLg6hRsvrQTCzkcDixSK1SoeEQtRosM4z2Lr7QvOaKJLcOwJR1VwvlVJoSp_IF-yYAgW76mmStk8/s900/agape%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="791" data-original-width="900" height="562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmZmqbCOFEsmKk6QKliz_18uutD27XJk_PH7l20Ie_UFIwnDrzTyVvARCVhphxk3FTUJ8JSAFrqKH8zkR_sjJnu7T3I5L4Ct5DWaLktRU7wW2p9QakLg6hRsvrQTCzkcDixSK1SoeEQtRosM4z2Lr7QvOaKJLcOwJR1VwvlVJoSp_IF-yYAgW76mmStk8/w640-h562/agape%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I found it mildly amusing when l’agape
was announced from the pulpit two weeks ago by Pastor Giuseppe. He explained
that everyone should bring food enough for their families and share it with others.
His description could have been summed up with one word, potluck, but
apparently there is not an equivalent term in Italian. In fact, I used Google
translate, and potluck in English translates to potluck in Italian, with a suggestion
that “pasto alla buona” might also work.</span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, we were happy to join in,
because a major reason we come to Italy is to make connections with the locals,
to learn Italian, to experience the culture. We love our Italian church for many
reasons, but it’s difficult for us to make deep connections because we’re not fluent
in Italian, and we’re only here for about three months a year. A potluck would
help us become closer to the church community and allow us to practice out
Italian.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Because we’re dependent for
transportation on our e-bikes, Lucy decided to make two kinds of cookies
(chocolate chip and magic cookie bars), because they’d be easier to carry than
a pasta dish or casserole. We had a little more than an hour to kill between
the end of the church service and the start of the agape, so we walked into the
<i>centro</i> to get an <i>espresso</i> and <i>dolce</i>, while others drove
home to heat up their meals. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPybxj5dJf5z4nFWgkv0Ys6MRp-e-XJcxHjotXnYUPpLn2DV9fncdweZ5eBYShfbwKvx2niOTbyW_fz1A2FDtM65oYbC-I_H0v_33z-Yba88C9TKZgCj5X9qMixGlyqzZ6lNTbaUGwxnVrKN0Y-qJuLhQhZ_vXrZJQudBldCg_TIHVoY0ctL1aCDfmCo2/s900/Agape%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="900" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPybxj5dJf5z4nFWgkv0Ys6MRp-e-XJcxHjotXnYUPpLn2DV9fncdweZ5eBYShfbwKvx2niOTbyW_fz1A2FDtM65oYbC-I_H0v_33z-Yba88C9TKZgCj5X9qMixGlyqzZ6lNTbaUGwxnVrKN0Y-qJuLhQhZ_vXrZJQudBldCg_TIHVoY0ctL1aCDfmCo2/s320/Agape%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">We sat near Michele and his wife
Giuseppina, and Aurelio—very kind people about our age who in past years have
made an effort to talk to us. We spoke of our children and grandchildren, our occupations,
our church experiences and our travel experiences and plans. Nothing
particularly deep, but much better than the usual exchange of short greetings
that usually take place at the end of the church service.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The food, as could be expected, was <i>eccezionale,
squisito, delizioso</i>. The gastronomy organization TasteAtlas ranks Italian
cuisine the best in the world, and I’m not about to pick an argument with these
experts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">If only we could do this more often,
we’d make some big steps in our integration into Italian society. However, it’s
a choice we’ve made, dividing our lives between two paradises on earth,
Montecarlo, Toscana, and Gig Harbor, Washington. There are some drawbacks to
this split lifestyle, but the rewards outweigh these small first world
problems. <i>Piano, piano</i>, we are making progress.</span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVQ3sfoINo_pNSfr-PL-6ym-Mz4NNo0ugV-wpe5xrrBjv55r-f4AZuEpJVPjgsusrBSSSSjNGneluve37PfrjxKbZxBPPloLuoAiewAWT3SqbiPWCDMC0q4KiwOuL89OAocwWsQdj6im3q_0J5riyv34cdubZr2jaTRNOhe3Hb9Vb69l8KWGzBGUnMVii/s900/agape%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVQ3sfoINo_pNSfr-PL-6ym-Mz4NNo0ugV-wpe5xrrBjv55r-f4AZuEpJVPjgsusrBSSSSjNGneluve37PfrjxKbZxBPPloLuoAiewAWT3SqbiPWCDMC0q4KiwOuL89OAocwWsQdj6im3q_0J5riyv34cdubZr2jaTRNOhe3Hb9Vb69l8KWGzBGUnMVii/s16000/agape%202.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-4308954003831060672023-09-21T14:12:00.004-07:002023-10-04T10:39:32.113-07:00A pranzo di lavoro is one of Italy’s most enjoyable midday bargains<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10LoLDKWD2O0r59k-OjYWmUS63ZCLgYI1PsKHfZZVIbfZUepL54NF9UDH5NTIuvtso98gb5lcO4x6v2ErJNOY1TLmWKkHTayds7cm2reCcqmB9nwEjTW_AvadBkWl2gLAlPLpc_-LBs02ttq-0Nhp9WwYoLgQgeCl5GCgO-Yp0IzoTKxYy6pJTCHhwIX0/s1091/Luca%20a%20La%20Pieve.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1091" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10LoLDKWD2O0r59k-OjYWmUS63ZCLgYI1PsKHfZZVIbfZUepL54NF9UDH5NTIuvtso98gb5lcO4x6v2ErJNOY1TLmWKkHTayds7cm2reCcqmB9nwEjTW_AvadBkWl2gLAlPLpc_-LBs02ttq-0Nhp9WwYoLgQgeCl5GCgO-Yp0IzoTKxYy6pJTCHhwIX0/s320/Luca%20a%20La%20Pieve.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy enjoying her penne al ragu' at La Pieve.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why did it take us so many years to learn about one of the
most delicious, pleasant and economical deals in all of Italy? I’m talking
about a <i>pranzo di lavoro</i>, which one can sometimes see advertised on signs outside restaurants. We’ve been coming to Italy regularly for 25 years
and have seen the signs, but it wasn’t until the last five years or so that we’ve
learned to appreciate these special lunches.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">What, exactly, is a pranzo di lavoro, and why it is
special? The most literal translation would be a worker’s lunch, though some
translate it as a business lunch. The amazing aspect is a combination of
factors: terrific food, completeness, speed of service and great price.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAJmYnvojY-vrQivaCWdX2h-SNg1Hlgtq-3FzFB4uJI3WnTtzyajg4JcRV-IGDEVevdv22f3sE-h18NbYH93vj5krkrxV93HbCtUPrM6_h6n55FJsGPgFj7JM0j53l5KMllh7fiQm2wsbNqjmRdYSo5UwhN0FaVrqmWFn4AXe06BuaT2RcSyrL0_VtxNJq/s1091/Primo%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1091" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAJmYnvojY-vrQivaCWdX2h-SNg1Hlgtq-3FzFB4uJI3WnTtzyajg4JcRV-IGDEVevdv22f3sE-h18NbYH93vj5krkrxV93HbCtUPrM6_h6n55FJsGPgFj7JM0j53l5KMllh7fiQm2wsbNqjmRdYSo5UwhN0FaVrqmWFn4AXe06BuaT2RcSyrL0_VtxNJq/s320/Primo%20(2).jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pasta dishes at our favorite restaurants<br />are generously sized, to say the least.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Permit me to elaborate on each of these aspects. First, a
restaurant in Italy simply must serve terrific food to survive. Italians are
the ultimate foodies, with men loving to cook and talk about food as much as
women do. Ingredients here are always fresh and flavorful. Meat, fruit and
vegetables are often locally sourced and organic, so unless one is dining in a
heavily touristed city where the restaurants are not worried about repeat
customers, the food is pretty much guaranteed to be good.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2AvXEgckML5zfHEodGLwwx_UBfxGTR25jZP9W5VDhNdaotV9NqlrhBYunKt5l404MNpLFj43YS9NEqHzW9xyKaREGX3glX2NhCJM12mocZLXe9R9WXPQ-HUG158JZFYu1LVg4jY7lo8Gx-HrzxwKKA7HduqIlV--zU_SCAqu3sPP6SWti17KFrff6PGv/s1015/Secondo.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1015" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2AvXEgckML5zfHEodGLwwx_UBfxGTR25jZP9W5VDhNdaotV9NqlrhBYunKt5l404MNpLFj43YS9NEqHzW9xyKaREGX3glX2NhCJM12mocZLXe9R9WXPQ-HUG158JZFYu1LVg4jY7lo8Gx-HrzxwKKA7HduqIlV--zU_SCAqu3sPP6SWti17KFrff6PGv/w315-h400/Secondo.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious chicken filets grilled to perfection,<br />with contorni of ceci (chickpeas) and spinach.<br />Squeeze on some lemon and drizzle some<br />extra virgin olive oil for added flavor.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">A pranzo di lavoro is a complete lunch. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>It will normally
include bread, water and a carafe or small pitcher of <i>vino</i>, either
red or white. Then there will be a <i>primo piatto</i> of pasta, soup
or gnocchi, followed by a <i>secondo</i>, a plate with meat, which could
be chicken, pork, beef or turkey. Included with the meat plate will be
the <i>contorno</i>, often fried potatoes or a vegetable such as spinach,
beans or carrots. A quality olive oil and some grated parmigiano reggiano are
normally available to complement the flavor. At the end of the meal, a small
cup of espresso is usually offered as a <i>digestivo</i>. New Ground
Magazine says, “Coffee aids digestion by stimulating more frequent muscular
contraction within the gut.” Whether that’s true of not, most Italians swear by
it.</span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 18pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTirLRhoE6hCgfShlG8CE6ppbO7tKUO0Bupxl_Vk8QmahU-tMotzkgAem8jvCZ8Zfo99oj1DhyIxY4v8bjxwJsP6xrUhA8S_GISKh9URKZ9pT-IitXW72O3Ljg9fi0aqjL39VxaBOkx78MwTgzzO5al5x29NUgnrZi0PrLpMqMWTPjc7ZsEhPYx_eSciX/s900/Operaii.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="900" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTirLRhoE6hCgfShlG8CE6ppbO7tKUO0Bupxl_Vk8QmahU-tMotzkgAem8jvCZ8Zfo99oj1DhyIxY4v8bjxwJsP6xrUhA8S_GISKh9URKZ9pT-IitXW72O3Ljg9fi0aqjL39VxaBOkx78MwTgzzO5al5x29NUgnrZi0PrLpMqMWTPjc7ZsEhPYx_eSciX/s320/Operaii.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A group of hard-working men gather for a pranzo di lavoro.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As for speed, most restaurants offering a pranzo di lavoro
give their customers three choices of primo, secondo and contorno, which
indicates that they have stocked up on those choices, have already prepared the
pasta sauces and probably have already cooked the vegetables. Thus the lunch
can be brought relatively quickly so the customers have time to recuperate
before going back to work—or even go home for a short siesta.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">How much should one expect to pay for such a complete and
satisfying meal? At a normal restaurant, a primo might cost from 10-12 euro, a
secondo from 12-20, a contorno about 3. A glass of wine about 4 euro, water
perhaps 1, and an espresso probably 2. Then there is the <i>coperto</i>,
the cover charge, which would be 2-3 euro. Add all that up, and the cheapest
lunch would cost you 34 euro.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">So what is the price of a pranzo di lavoro at our two
favorite restaurants? Drum roll, please! We get scrumptious full meals not for
34 euro, not for 24, not even for 16. We pay only 12 euro! We've also found another nearby restaurant that charges only 8 euro, but wine is not included, and we have to chose either a primo and secondo, not both.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">One might think the restaurants sacrifice quantity to save
some money, but that’s not the case. If fact, the pasta dish itself would be a
full meal. If we ate the entire primo piatto, we’d be so stuffed that we
couldn’t continue, so Lucy and I have learned to bring little plastic boxes to
take home about half of the primo and maybe a quarter of the secondo, which
means we’re essentially getting another half a meal for free. Knowing it’s not
customary to bring food home from a restaurant in Italy, we do it as discretely
as possible to avoid making <i>la brutta figura</i>.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Our two go-to restaurants are I Tre Angeli in Pescia, right
next to the Esselunga, and La Pieve in Castelvecchio, one of the castle cities
in the Valleriana. I Tre Angeli is always packed at lunch, and we’ve learned
that it’s a good idea to make reservations, though we’ve never been turned away
without them. La Pieve, being more remote, is usually not full. However, the
last time we were there, the owner said we should call ahead if we wanted the
pranzo di lavoro. This meal is designed for the regular customers, not
tourists, so she would like to know if we are coming ahead of time so she can
plan accordingly.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS54EJaH_xanx3P1llKdyNow6KhXK7-JBXkh96CGUMqjxPf9-DKSZmgBNz744WWfauYtIUMpbQzHnICbLrec0sVCg97CRCVsKIHabBvMn26BNSrexCGxcFmwvWRx_abPQ4nr1z6Ij306C15wWXaPQ68p1iSYH1m9f7nKPhMGLfSaEV6ppPDnhBus5TO0Hc/s565/Sibolla%20pdl.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS54EJaH_xanx3P1llKdyNow6KhXK7-JBXkh96CGUMqjxPf9-DKSZmgBNz744WWfauYtIUMpbQzHnICbLrec0sVCg97CRCVsKIHabBvMn26BNSrexCGxcFmwvWRx_abPQ4nr1z6Ij306C15wWXaPQ68p1iSYH1m9f7nKPhMGLfSaEV6ppPDnhBus5TO0Hc/s320/Sibolla%20pdl.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We rode our bikes to this restaurant,<br />but we were disappointed to find<br />that they only open at lunch if<br />enough people make reservations.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">This brings up another point. I believe that not every
restaurant will serve a pranzo di lavoro to tourists. I suspect that some
restaurants offer this meal to their local residents and workers but publicize
it only by word of mouth. We’ve seen tourists coming to both of our favorite
restaurants, and they were simply given the regular menu. While I Tre Angeli
does not have a pranzo di lavoro sign posted, it seems that this is what 90
percent of the customers, who are quite obviously locals, were having. Apparently,
word of mouth is quite an effective advertising method.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I believe that if a restaurant puts up a pranzo di lavoro
sign, they will probably provide it to anyone who asks. However, most tourists
are not aware of this bargain meal, so they usually end up ordering off the
menu and paying much more, while those in the know around them are dining at
the special rate. While we don’t dine out often, we now know to keep our eyes
open for those special signs. We wouldn’t mind having three or four favorite
restaurants</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">.</span></span></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-36993870777358461562023-09-18T12:08:00.001-07:002023-09-18T12:08:42.625-07:00We find a new and much better entrance to the Lago di Sibolla<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXMDprahN9LKqSdesQyDCDFeyOCSQbQf0bkbOuU-9Sw3g1ijAqgYTbHyuhIF-XKEhQmmpe8iPNKlOALAVh0wLA1xSjaaM5xDXyEZsm7hCKKLoSj_eRxziaZxK8aNNYv6Jtnmt5eHFIaXmsu-SangrQoUiuXgJE5go_QSjcsC_gCpgOhBDFl3gLqNYT6Aq/s750/Sibolla%20sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXMDprahN9LKqSdesQyDCDFeyOCSQbQf0bkbOuU-9Sw3g1ijAqgYTbHyuhIF-XKEhQmmpe8iPNKlOALAVh0wLA1xSjaaM5xDXyEZsm7hCKKLoSj_eRxziaZxK8aNNYv6Jtnmt5eHFIaXmsu-SangrQoUiuXgJE5go_QSjcsC_gCpgOhBDFl3gLqNYT6Aq/w133-h200/Sibolla%20sign.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main entrance,<br />closed as usual.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;">In the last two days, we’ve gone on three bike rides, once
to church, once to the cinema in Altopascio (to watch <i>A Haunting in
Venice</i>) and once to the Lago (Lake) di Sibolla Riserva Naturale. The
weather in Tuscany is just about perfect in September. The days are in the low
to mid 80s, and the nights in the mid 60s (around 18-28 degrees Celsius).</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAN93JMiNnvoUACVKo6QJ23uLs-lVaUsBflO0AWfBRXdHKxUdXgIxExkigh8FthUg9y70w5a8uAypkAnOSIkzvUz-z5sJhpMf01u_a3BYQYrJM4pSpoPSS3cyHf7YMJZnHfQjnsTT-zZNzfVPtZuqD3tFEjVe8raMPGZiTmJyJQTgsUeQc8F_YnNxr2PWK/s900/uS%20ON%20BIKES.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAN93JMiNnvoUACVKo6QJ23uLs-lVaUsBflO0AWfBRXdHKxUdXgIxExkigh8FthUg9y70w5a8uAypkAnOSIkzvUz-z5sJhpMf01u_a3BYQYrJM4pSpoPSS3cyHf7YMJZnHfQjnsTT-zZNzfVPtZuqD3tFEjVe8raMPGZiTmJyJQTgsUeQc8F_YnNxr2PWK/w640-h480/uS%20ON%20BIKES.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEY273lXtMGxL4oOCRylkeYJR9L96inxNgrbNed2WSKjETcQd35SnFGrEWxhLxpSCUyBMFXZseqoNc6W7_2V2MgSdlZAdHGf1LFNzowXAiFFwyiEpKB8472f-ObW_uTw5L-YPda1dKaHt9cwXtvaJ04lm-Dpzle31f20Qqk-GlfyKiJ5CMql22EVHKa1P/s930/Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="930" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEY273lXtMGxL4oOCRylkeYJR9L96inxNgrbNed2WSKjETcQd35SnFGrEWxhLxpSCUyBMFXZseqoNc6W7_2V2MgSdlZAdHGf1LFNzowXAiFFwyiEpKB8472f-ObW_uTw5L-YPda1dKaHt9cwXtvaJ04lm-Dpzle31f20Qqk-GlfyKiJ5CMql22EVHKa1P/s320/Bridge.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>The Lago di Sibolla is more of a park for wild animals than
a park for people to go for picnics or play. It’s not that people are forbidden
to enter, but the main entrance is locked about 99 percent of the time. About
10 years ago, using Google maps, I noticed a sort of secret entrance to the
lake property. Lucy and I would use this little-known side entrance every so
often to walk on poorly maintained trails over some scrubby land east of the
lake, and last year we took our friends Wendy and Dave for a walk to this <a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2021/09/our-secret-wilderness-preserve-is-hit.html">special
wilderness preserve</a>. However, we could barely see the lake because of the
heavy undergrowth and marshes that surround it. The water in the shallow
marshes wasn’t deep enough to sustain much visible wildlife, so there wasn’t
much to see other than the occasional rabbit. We did see a lot of herons and egrets
fly by to land on or near the lake, but it was always from a distance.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjgo7qtaUiyM1uEQj_CIqUNeUW4dPQPkJIO_lFOyr2s2x0_XwOz_84AA6oWfIRV62a11nuBxM-QhrladDBrTEm7GoQd1UUxh83lU9jjbMSmaOGWxFOaap9sxrM5ok3S13kdyjZ0UknVkkOjyi51UBG5jUR2nvkbyNWvQGcFm_HmLxhtGat0PNSYspkBuV/s900/Shack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjgo7qtaUiyM1uEQj_CIqUNeUW4dPQPkJIO_lFOyr2s2x0_XwOz_84AA6oWfIRV62a11nuBxM-QhrladDBrTEm7GoQd1UUxh83lU9jjbMSmaOGWxFOaap9sxrM5ok3S13kdyjZ0UknVkkOjyi51UBG5jUR2nvkbyNWvQGcFm_HmLxhtGat0PNSYspkBuV/w320-h320/Shack.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Well, that changed on Saturday, as I discovered another
unmarked entrance, one that is 10 times better than the first one, on a road branching off from Via Ponti ai Pini. This one led
to a wooded trail that winds about one kilometer from the east side of the lake
along the southern end and comes out on the west side—leading to a footbridge
through the marshlands that ends on a small platform right on the edge of the
lake. Even better, the platform has a viewing shack with peepholes in it, so
one can observe the birds on the lake without them being aware of or frightened
by our presence.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGepkKJGuZKCxr_xMDRWambqk2bkWbz1LU0KSw1HCI7FYRP3P5RMiV55iYXp46U2hD9QOjiQez9HNFH0Q9NBzQTZZ_rJG7fkVMnHYRnqCOTNNhDMmrjJRo_mor-D_OpDw95aecPMGbhaYwcht44po0vWJIKT_wNp3665AOCdu_gijqDtKrUuv75uLo-lY/s1000/Lago%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1000" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGepkKJGuZKCxr_xMDRWambqk2bkWbz1LU0KSw1HCI7FYRP3P5RMiV55iYXp46U2hD9QOjiQez9HNFH0Q9NBzQTZZ_rJG7fkVMnHYRnqCOTNNhDMmrjJRo_mor-D_OpDw95aecPMGbhaYwcht44po0vWJIKT_wNp3665AOCdu_gijqDtKrUuv75uLo-lY/w640-h482/Lago%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHZoCeUfJ3zZYbdE_st-kRXy3714I9E7zOcae9fznm0pMwAfLIxLXuE2_JCzaa87FnizYAHNoTLU29QtrIyeLQVyCUlri4ugfyWBU9rkR8lK9WPxRV8YM-vxE0kHU-hO4NysQPwVuaj_5UyVjW4Uq9Jg4x0p4DOLHa8Om7C5sL6J1bwUfY4agpin4rOlp/s507/turtle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="507" data-original-width="375" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHZoCeUfJ3zZYbdE_st-kRXy3714I9E7zOcae9fznm0pMwAfLIxLXuE2_JCzaa87FnizYAHNoTLU29QtrIyeLQVyCUlri4ugfyWBU9rkR8lK9WPxRV8YM-vxE0kHU-hO4NysQPwVuaj_5UyVjW4Uq9Jg4x0p4DOLHa8Om7C5sL6J1bwUfY4agpin4rOlp/s320/turtle.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many turtles we saw.</td></tr></tbody></table>Lucy and I enjoyed the viewing area for about 20 minutes,
watching herons fly by and a dozen or so turtles swimming around with just
their heads peeking out of the water. We saw many fish jumping and also found a
large white spider who had made his home in the shack. This will be a great
place to come next spring, when the herons and egrets return to their nests for
the mating season. We had heard the great racket they make during the spring
previously, but we couldn’t really get close enough to see them clearly.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxhqfJtGnInPENDwb2fyAg5Dn-3hu1t0FLxeovOSeCn9oKtvdEXZZMbuuU8zLUe1h8u_CYuTWPblxx-0q8Djpwa6hO2jqcuPf2h4Tisj_-QaLMW_YAppBSSd6W8bUFqT7Zseg52Cr_s7poTwKdMaSKQkXddJMU_kGsuikHWbcjQNyCc6zQPLf6k7mENnd/s1038/Lucy%20and%20bikes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1038" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxhqfJtGnInPENDwb2fyAg5Dn-3hu1t0FLxeovOSeCn9oKtvdEXZZMbuuU8zLUe1h8u_CYuTWPblxx-0q8Djpwa6hO2jqcuPf2h4Tisj_-QaLMW_YAppBSSd6W8bUFqT7Zseg52Cr_s7poTwKdMaSKQkXddJMU_kGsuikHWbcjQNyCc6zQPLf6k7mENnd/w309-h400/Lucy%20and%20bikes.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">The trail also led to the main entrance on the far west
side of the preserve, which, as usual, was locked. Near the entrance is a
good-sized building which is probably used for nature talks on the rare
occasions when the preserve is open. Unfortunately, there are no picnic tables,
but there is a large flat area among the trees, covered with pine needles. We
sat down, opened our backpacks and enjoyed the snacks we had brought. We had
the place all to ourselves, though at one point a car pulled up to the locked
gate and watched us briefly through the chain link fence—probably wondering how
we were able to get inside.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFenAgykfHdrAs1CdfQJGineHEwqy5DaWpaP9ZJn9MxlU7y712iFwO1OKXnKa2MGOM2EuteRAne65I4zO4-wRcu30BR6KGjQh3lTKjbKRyeO8n6m5mAvNgvewc_yNvJ9DbD7Dd6E8zC2Mfi_eqDkMeLCfmGaAQXKjgWbOQvF2YRND2hvHII7NGxu7Afxif/s934/heron%20in%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFenAgykfHdrAs1CdfQJGineHEwqy5DaWpaP9ZJn9MxlU7y712iFwO1OKXnKa2MGOM2EuteRAne65I4zO4-wRcu30BR6KGjQh3lTKjbKRyeO8n6m5mAvNgvewc_yNvJ9DbD7Dd6E8zC2Mfi_eqDkMeLCfmGaAQXKjgWbOQvF2YRND2hvHII7NGxu7Afxif/s320/heron%20in%20tree.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See the heron?</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">Even though it was a Saturday, we saw only two other
families during our time on the trails, so we know that few of the locals are
aware of the unmarked entrance we had discovered. We look forward to returning
here for further communion with nature. Our only regret is that we didn’t bring
insect repellent, because there are a few tiny buzzing species of lake wildlife
that we don’t appreciate.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-4tutE4hU6qcPO3qLPzyapnzqXqG5DAk0FpTYcs6eS82I8mCJ8xkx5f6_39zitxwmIT4Im0CNGhhSIInbYJ4MSAD7WKpbw1Ttczvd0-9ijsELmWq70P4SRCAY4jVGCOwJpcRzpMAKqTbojYVWFx6YcFmb4Tb3trjt-w6Hl_URiQyUwIo23TxIAMoaTAu/s411/spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="411" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-4tutE4hU6qcPO3qLPzyapnzqXqG5DAk0FpTYcs6eS82I8mCJ8xkx5f6_39zitxwmIT4Im0CNGhhSIInbYJ4MSAD7WKpbw1Ttczvd0-9ijsELmWq70P4SRCAY4jVGCOwJpcRzpMAKqTbojYVWFx6YcFmb4Tb3trjt-w6Hl_URiQyUwIo23TxIAMoaTAu/w400-h316/spider.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-53665968149021484122023-09-13T14:23:00.004-07:002023-09-14T07:01:02.836-07:00It’s time to slow down and experience "la dolce vita" again in Montecarlo<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipP8cezm5mgjlojzYgYz37lh9e2VdVgPvsOoz21htaYuH8kOCfym6_KWfwCIwmU7u5xC2o8uY9At-9eQsqTPtj1RJ1MCHbsRRo0X_PfnravBgnUeOGhPJWoo76RrE9tLJtBZkDHMR1QpEsgKKuBi02us-8fQZcm8j_DMxkqYaUzbbn0A-Qm5Kg0T9OxKde/s753/Lucy%20at%20La%20Pieve.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="690" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipP8cezm5mgjlojzYgYz37lh9e2VdVgPvsOoz21htaYuH8kOCfym6_KWfwCIwmU7u5xC2o8uY9At-9eQsqTPtj1RJ1MCHbsRRo0X_PfnravBgnUeOGhPJWoo76RrE9tLJtBZkDHMR1QpEsgKKuBi02us-8fQZcm8j_DMxkqYaUzbbn0A-Qm5Kg0T9OxKde/w366-h400/Lucy%20at%20La%20Pieve.jpg" width="366" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lunch at Ristorante Pizzeria La Pieve, Castlevecchio.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve
been back in Montecarlo for a week, and I haven’t written much because we’ve
been quite busy. That will change now that I’ve returned our rental car. The
cost of renting a car has more than tripled since the Covid era, so we’re
trying to get by with just our e-bikes as much as possible. However, we rented
a car for the first six days so we could stock up on groceries and other items
needed for the house, get my Italian phone re-activated, drive to Chiesina for
massages and Lucca to get Lucy’s permesso di soggiorno. Having a car also
allowed us to take a pleasure drive into the Valleriana above Pescia to walk
through one of the castle cities and have a <i>pranzo di lavoro</i> in
Castlevecchio at one of our favorite restaurants, La Pieve. And we went to a
movie in Pontedera, Io Capitano.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">Now
it’s time for some lazy and quiet days. We will read some books, take some long
bike rides, and maybe do some hiking. I’ll do a little writing. Lucy will make a
quilt. We’ll practice our Italian. We’ll hopefully see some friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">Our
bathroom really stank of rancid water when we first walked in the door. This
could be because the water in the p-traps evaporates during our absence,
allowing odors from the sewer to rise through the pipes. I immediately ran
water into the sink, bidet and shower, but the odor persisted. Then I put a cleaning
tablet inside our front-loading washer and ran a hot water cycle. Of course, we
also left the window open. Thankfully, the odor is gone now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">On
the other side of the house, we have a much different odor, the mouth-watering smell of bistecca fiorentina. That’s because where the bank used to be is now a
fine restaurant, InCucina—just across from our living room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">Other
than the smells, the house is in great shape, with little maintenance needed,
so we should be able to just relax. It’s <i>dolce vita</i> time!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-21473175600375403762023-09-11T15:08:00.003-07:002023-09-11T15:11:40.250-07:00Walking on the walls of Montecarlo—an experience that should be shared<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkUOKAlk-ETySBFDX1kdtkIDnsbEunvwXoqVXtT6h-pX8PaJ5ZB-onxVAcCYs-l5MG8K_opVkpf8obiOaWsdPV91eSCzAAHKP2pD7Oi_3sn1AjiXc93AvyFL8UFL_MBGL0IEihIAnfxjw-qj0o_FFp_hP_gMkOvjTtEfC0fF-JGr4W1FHGxmm4xg4qV18/s1551/Me%20on%20the%20wall.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="1127" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkUOKAlk-ETySBFDX1kdtkIDnsbEunvwXoqVXtT6h-pX8PaJ5ZB-onxVAcCYs-l5MG8K_opVkpf8obiOaWsdPV91eSCzAAHKP2pD7Oi_3sn1AjiXc93AvyFL8UFL_MBGL0IEihIAnfxjw-qj0o_FFp_hP_gMkOvjTtEfC0fF-JGr4W1FHGxmm4xg4qV18/w291-h400/Me%20on%20the%20wall.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me on the wall. Photo by Lucy.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Montecarlo is surrounded by medieval walls made in the14</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">th century of stone and brick, and Lucy and I have the privilege of looking out from our terrazza
over a private grassy courtyard, and beyond that, part of the western city wall.
We can clearly see that the wall has a footpath and railing, but until today I could only
dream about walking upon it.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_c_nXNISeRKQhYGFEorC3aT6Ee20xvb7m7346UF_1wsFhtKeeyXODf-27XpTN9m1M13IIDC7YHPkjjviPHuTJc5x2UKtld2r1BEG0YlUytXJNdyjtjMV4nUS23tTh2ZU0zDL2tN9tF93OKib6ZZpwgi2gDUQQsjew-LI_9J4PUlyjedaFkj3GRJjTqIbT/s2048/Unoccupied%20house%20with%20courtyard.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_c_nXNISeRKQhYGFEorC3aT6Ee20xvb7m7346UF_1wsFhtKeeyXODf-27XpTN9m1M13IIDC7YHPkjjviPHuTJc5x2UKtld2r1BEG0YlUytXJNdyjtjMV4nUS23tTh2ZU0zDL2tN9tF93OKib6ZZpwgi2gDUQQsjew-LI_9J4PUlyjedaFkj3GRJjTqIbT/w640-h480/Unoccupied%20house%20with%20courtyard.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking north from my view on the wall, one can see the large unoccupied villa.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The courtyard and wall are part of a villa with a <b>huge</b> unoccupied
house that starts about 10 meters away from us to the north. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgSpIn9JosPooDW5ChUSyIEd_GSmYRDgRQOFUVuHQrYylnkCOQl_B_kL0slbK8zzqDQAocd0bVu5b6NfWCJPSan904oLi46RyrBvzFGGdGf1vyxWiUw0xfBIKnJ-CggIOWRwK2sQgF6lkjf0N6LpleDoHDZ2oyS5WvQEX4jMkIX2Kse6RAJ71mJaAgCfY/s2048/SW%20bastion.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="2048" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgSpIn9JosPooDW5ChUSyIEd_GSmYRDgRQOFUVuHQrYylnkCOQl_B_kL0slbK8zzqDQAocd0bVu5b6NfWCJPSan904oLi46RyrBvzFGGdGf1vyxWiUw0xfBIKnJ-CggIOWRwK2sQgF6lkjf0N6LpleDoHDZ2oyS5WvQEX4jMkIX2Kse6RAJ71mJaAgCfY/s320/SW%20bastion.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The southwest bastion</td></tr></tbody></table>About seven years
ago, the owners put a new roof on the home and cleaned up the courtyard, but
since then we’ve seen little to no activity there. Although we overlook the
courtyard, we have no entrance on the west side of our house, so we have no way
to enter the courtyard or access the wall, though we can clearly see that there
is a stairway from the ground to the walkway on the wall.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsqVHFZkTA19yLAJk-V89vinn9iyyxmy-Wvh24DWwtn7yhlUxzUCARCSyJdqUINZViQefpOJ4GFUTWKGzfh3SDKmrV_7FckBN-93nTURo9gExZXSA8XT-F_kb3nE2LNOkc8iLejlMej3uKl8k2aULcNVILXo7qejeK_uMxIYWdFiPIcgKRJVxgCjkjzyT/s2048/Olive%20trees%20from%20wall.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsqVHFZkTA19yLAJk-V89vinn9iyyxmy-Wvh24DWwtn7yhlUxzUCARCSyJdqUINZViQefpOJ4GFUTWKGzfh3SDKmrV_7FckBN-93nTURo9gExZXSA8XT-F_kb3nE2LNOkc8iLejlMej3uKl8k2aULcNVILXo7qejeK_uMxIYWdFiPIcgKRJVxgCjkjzyT/s320/Olive%20trees%20from%20wall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olive trees just outside the wall.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This morning, though, I saw some workers down below and
thought this could be my chance. I went down on the street level and walked
over to one of the courtyard entrances, which was blocked by a flatbed truck.
Not to be denied, I climbed over the truck bed and asked the workers, who were
on a break, if I could go in and take some photos of the west side of my house.
Permission granted.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eaV3epck32MG1U88LvdSv3Tsx8IN2MfvZm2AYoeUlhfh8Vqbwe5YCvHAqU7AHNLTz8l12X5XfwQCbt9liNrmOoLSCpgwvsVLQOZzp-iCCr7D2PY51db0tOjFWG92JljbRu120Bg2hjvxcr1ApAU-FCBBfBMVzU9VqizLuqAcdVaksAnEvrt5IdKziu7O/s1080/Plain%20of%20Lucca.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eaV3epck32MG1U88LvdSv3Tsx8IN2MfvZm2AYoeUlhfh8Vqbwe5YCvHAqU7AHNLTz8l12X5XfwQCbt9liNrmOoLSCpgwvsVLQOZzp-iCCr7D2PY51db0tOjFWG92JljbRu120Bg2hjvxcr1ApAU-FCBBfBMVzU9VqizLuqAcdVaksAnEvrt5IdKziu7O/w640-h480/Plain%20of%20Lucca.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A southwestern view, toward the plain of Lucca.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Emboldened by my success, I then asked if I could go on the
wall for just a few minutes. <i>Stai attento</i> was all they said,
and I quickly mounted the stairs, just in case they might change their minds.
What a cool view! I could see the private olive grove just below the wall (also
part of the same estate). Unlike the view from our terrazza, which is partially
blocked by trees and the neighboring homes, from the wall I could see almost
the entire plain of Lucca. I walked down to the southwest corner of the city,
where there is a small bastion, and from there I enjoyed a southern view.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Montecarlo
has various </span><i>feste</i>, <i>sagre </i>and fairs throughout the year to bring in tourists
and stimulate the local economy. While the walkways atop the city walls are all
privately owned, I’ve often thought that a great idea for an attraction
would be to have a “weekend on the walls,” where one time a year, tourists
could enjoy seeing the plains below from the same perspective that must have
been available to the soldiers guarding the city throughout the centuries.
Perhaps the various families who own portions of the wall could be persuaded,
for the benefit of everyone, to allow visitors for one or two days per year. I’d
certainly pay for the chance.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOjf_6qhLR3Ppy1IGoevaP4QTC_ndUK_V2iDJGQscoueVyvJJeJmx-HvfoAsrCyK7x9nFIHYu0snmlHEZwf0ibYdCZc47F2Rjdgk_BiFxlr616iIPh7CV2UY1VRlQXuoh3VRLEmevvW5_Ikejy_QH0OsI2OAttPJp6Or5g2mwYZIFF-yGn4FxRVbW0EJE/s2048/Stunning%20blonde%20on%20terrazza.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOjf_6qhLR3Ppy1IGoevaP4QTC_ndUK_V2iDJGQscoueVyvJJeJmx-HvfoAsrCyK7x9nFIHYu0snmlHEZwf0ibYdCZc47F2Rjdgk_BiFxlr616iIPh7CV2UY1VRlQXuoh3VRLEmevvW5_Ikejy_QH0OsI2OAttPJp6Or5g2mwYZIFF-yGn4FxRVbW0EJE/w640-h426/Stunning%20blonde%20on%20terrazza.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A rare view of the western side of our house, taken from my walk on the wall.<br />We only own the top floor of the pale yellow house.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">After
drinking in the beauty of the Tuscan countryside, I looked east towards our
house, a view rarely seen, and also towards the unoccupied house, which is
almost never seen from the west side. Making the experience even more pleasant,
there was a stunning blonde bombshell with a camera in hand, waving to me from
our terrazza. Not wanting to overstay my welcome on the wall, I thanked the
workers and went back home, where I was warmly welcomed by that blonde beauty!</span></span><p></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-41109054198150133252023-09-10T15:15:00.001-07:002023-09-10T15:20:36.996-07:00Score one for Lucy; she has a new (and improved) permesso di soggiorno!<p></p><p><span style="color: black; font-size: 18.0pt;">The game of people versus the
Italian bureaucracy is an interesting matchup, and we entered a new round of
the competition last April, when we applied to renew Lucy’s permesso di
soggiorno (PDS) at the Questura in Lucca. We scored a partial victory when they
accepted our documents and said they would process her application and renew
her PDS for five years. Click <a href="http://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2023/05/the-always-interesting-challenge-of.html">here
if you want to read part 1 of this adventure</a>.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1OreBbrusqx7Il6Og-2oWF2u0_HzXyD8OEyJeGY9kS6OOu-P1Eaegit6YStuqIGoILpb31bBBH9wa2TumiZMWM6r-nCCsc47E1s149C4yfyoPd6KwQ-c8vc12EIf0uoSLyHPKmR6J8nSqeH1PHMiADA-nTs4kj39GJWc8UFciPYfnI40Sah6ZF4MVqB5/s1120/Celebration%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="843" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1OreBbrusqx7Il6Og-2oWF2u0_HzXyD8OEyJeGY9kS6OOu-P1Eaegit6YStuqIGoILpb31bBBH9wa2TumiZMWM6r-nCCsc47E1s149C4yfyoPd6KwQ-c8vc12EIf0uoSLyHPKmR6J8nSqeH1PHMiADA-nTs4kj39GJWc8UFciPYfnI40Sah6ZF4MVqB5/w301-h400/Celebration%202.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">We had hoped for a 10-year renewal, but we
weren’t able to provide the proper documentation for our <i>reddito</i>,
or income. We were told that without adequate proof of income, they would still
give her a permesso good for five years. We learned that there was a website we
could check by using our case number. However, we had to leave Italy in
mid-May, and the PDS was still not ready.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">We returned to Montecarlo a few days ago and went
to the Questura right away, on a Friday. The website showed that the PDS was
ready, but we couldn’t get inside the Questura. We joined a small crowd outside
around 10:30 a.m., but the doors were locked. Occasionally, an officer would
come out and call some names of people who must have somehow made appointments.
By working my way close to the door, I was able to tell him we had just come to
pick up a permesso di soggiorno. Come tomorrow, on Saturday, he said. I asked
if I would need an appointment, and he said no, just come between 9:00 and
13:00.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">The next day, we decided to come around 11, when
the lines would hopefully be shorter, and we only had to wait about 15 minutes.
During that time, we had a nice conversation with two men who lived in the
Garafagnana valley and were waiting just behind us. They were also there to
pick up a PDS for one of them. Lucy mentioned that years ago, we had made six
trips to the Questura in Padova while trying unsuccessfully to get a PDS.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">“Oh, that’s nothing,” one of them said. “Usually
it takes a lot more trips.” We weren’t sure if he was joking, but it seemed he
wasn’t. Out of curiosity, I asked if they had made an appointment when they
started the process. Yes, he said, you have to go to the post office to get a
packet of instructions and make an appointment. We had somehow bypassed this
step back in April and obtained an appointment directly at the Questura.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">Later we recalled that this actually was our
sixth trip to the Questura in Lucca. Furthermore, to get the documents needed,
we had to go to the municipal buildings of Pescia and then Montecarlo, and then
to the post office and <i>tabaccaio</i> to pay the fees, followed by
a visit to a <i>copisteria</i> for copies of our documents—11
separate outings.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">When our turn at the <i>sportello</i> came,
it took only about five minutes. We had to turn in Lucy’s old permesso, and she
had to put her index fingers on the little pad for positive identification. The
clerk looked in the filing box and pulled out a card, made a few entries in her
computer, and then handed over the card.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">We made our way out the door and paused to snap a
celebratory photo. At that moment, the two guys who were behind us came out as
well. Sadly, the man did not receive his PDS. They had neglected to
bring his expired document, and they would have to drive home almost an hour to
get it. By that time, the Questura would be closed, so they would have to come
again in another week.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">On our way back to Montecarlo, we found we had
actually hit the ball out of the park! They had renewed Lucy’s PDS for 10 years
instead of five. We can only guess why this happened, but it called for further
celebration. We stopped at the <i>pasticceria</i> in Marginone, and
we each ordered a cappuccino and our favorite pastry, a chocolate beignet—and
occasionally one of us would look at the other and say, “10 YEARS!”</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><br /><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-73177881433257392902023-06-25T21:42:00.003-07:002023-06-25T21:44:19.351-07:00Reflections on Father’s Day<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I don’t need my kids to call on Father’s Day. I don’t need
a Father’s Day present. I’m not saying I don’t want them to call, because it’s
always pleasant to hear their voices, to find out what they are doing, to be
able to tell them what I am doing, to just chat. It’s even better when they
visit, because it’s more relaxing to converse in person. But we talk and visit
throughout the year, whenever it’s convenient—and I’d be very disappointed if
we didn’t maintain this regular contact.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWz2OoDti0we9wrLxfVfWwLSQ2aJ7lSxVnLIxsu9ftv9KKhLauC-I6pYxNfbK70xNqEy7Uj4TkvLqGNiZumw54fDE0e2_odhsfeLV-4serh4JHzQy-o4IdCi8DqddqXDQov2ZLOhSyELsaa_Au3d_3a3mmQSQNXx-FalWLhE1kqvD1y6t4UMraswNDhTk/s1000/family%20in%20Padova.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWz2OoDti0we9wrLxfVfWwLSQ2aJ7lSxVnLIxsu9ftv9KKhLauC-I6pYxNfbK70xNqEy7Uj4TkvLqGNiZumw54fDE0e2_odhsfeLV-4serh4JHzQy-o4IdCi8DqddqXDQov2ZLOhSyELsaa_Au3d_3a3mmQSQNXx-FalWLhE1kqvD1y6t4UMraswNDhTk/w640-h400/family%20in%20Padova.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our family in Padova, Christmas 2001</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">But I don’t feel the need to have one special day of
recognition. When I need a new wheelbarrow, hammer, box of chocolates or
whatever, I go out and buy them myself. I don’t want my kids to waste time or
money buying me something I don’t really want or need just to fulfill the
requirements of an invented holiday.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimo6jT61ExBHYVjdn5P76MJHp8_OBSp-7t9gL06cmOyiHemCjFqHXLxxldG8y2mQ8x5mZzna84GFElHfFNemBIeZSU__cDmYMjicV9jPVY-5_RIB0qvoyNltZvQS3VFH_7g8h38R4KHpl7TrGG-30wolZ9jsKMbYtjYJ-uwbJrPbc_ybgOcui3KkbnyH2K/s600/Wine%20tasting.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="600" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimo6jT61ExBHYVjdn5P76MJHp8_OBSp-7t9gL06cmOyiHemCjFqHXLxxldG8y2mQ8x5mZzna84GFElHfFNemBIeZSU__cDmYMjicV9jPVY-5_RIB0qvoyNltZvQS3VFH_7g8h38R4KHpl7TrGG-30wolZ9jsKMbYtjYJ-uwbJrPbc_ybgOcui3KkbnyH2K/s320/Wine%20tasting.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Wine tasting with Lindsey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But that’s not to say that I don’t want something else from
them, something that requires them to give me something every day. 365 days. No
day off, even in a leap year. I want them to be good people. I want them to be
content, and to live their lives in a way that makes me proud. Of course,
they’ll have struggles; this is a normal part of living, but they will find
ways to live with or overcome their difficulties.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 18pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf704vIKPr2JVV-SBBpwdm-TGDqyKKn7akK3LruujSKH_r4ZZwEvVG576X3N7eVxDzX0DFB2JrGLxljpldmcGrKnOMRbXfpPhHSrKZjAg2-5aDybQO698Dq7Ms-6flEmjAFaZULnnPIeFIBOH8q9MyqG1cIi8SgqkVSUkEExdv9cDQHVROr_okke3EkaR9/s573/tea%20tasting.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="520" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf704vIKPr2JVV-SBBpwdm-TGDqyKKn7akK3LruujSKH_r4ZZwEvVG576X3N7eVxDzX0DFB2JrGLxljpldmcGrKnOMRbXfpPhHSrKZjAg2-5aDybQO698Dq7Ms-6flEmjAFaZULnnPIeFIBOH8q9MyqG1cIi8SgqkVSUkEExdv9cDQHVROr_okke3EkaR9/s320/tea%20tasting.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tea tasting with Randall</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My own mom and dad passed away far too early—Mom when I was
25, Dad when I was 31. Mom was a teacher par excellence, and Dad was the leader
of a thriving construction company. In my 30s and 40s, I achieved considerable
success as a teacher, and it would have been extra rewarding if Mom could have
witnessed this. I also developed a love for reading and writing from Mom. I
credit her more than any other teacher for my writing abilities, as she would
often sit with me and type up my handwritten English papers, showing me
corrections that needed to be made, making suggestions on word choice and proposing
suggestions on how I could add content that would clear up confusing aspects of
my story lines. I sorely regret that she didn’t live long enough to see that
I’ve published two books. In my 40s, I started my own asphalt maintenance
company, much smaller than Dad’s but one which provided regular summer
employment for all four of my children through their high school and college
years. I essentially did the same things as Dad had done for most of his life:
Bid for jobs, schedule them, procure equipment and supplies, do the work while
supervising the crew. I think Dad would have been proud of me, but
he was no longer around to tell me that he was. Another regret.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzPNcoz3hMSCoAzZhxovXI4JNtdv3zvNrtMYndvVadpxpPcWJo9PL-8nGBboRiZ-oWeq7R5lmtB7xbZ6iTci0ZWdXv4T_3VuC-EXNaGUmPFWfyNb0O9YDy5yqUAFlROlc3h4nN1wXGGy51VCEoxL3FZ7VmAJFFLv1lh1dq5zdyRd--jUdpy-WGAXT4RlV/s604/Sandra.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzPNcoz3hMSCoAzZhxovXI4JNtdv3zvNrtMYndvVadpxpPcWJo9PL-8nGBboRiZ-oWeq7R5lmtB7xbZ6iTci0ZWdXv4T_3VuC-EXNaGUmPFWfyNb0O9YDy5yqUAFlROlc3h4nN1wXGGy51VCEoxL3FZ7VmAJFFLv1lh1dq5zdyRd--jUdpy-WGAXT4RlV/s320/Sandra.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sweet Sandra Lyn</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Fortunately, I’ve been around long enough that my kids don’t
need to experience similar regrets—and I get to bask in the successes of my
children and grandchildren, a deeply satisfying experience. Why is that? A
parenthood article by Tim Lott in The Guardian speaks to that sense of
satisfaction. Here are three paragraphs from his essay:</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Apart from anything else, people who don’t have children
are, according to numerous surveys, consistently happier. The moment you have
children, you are burdened with worries and responsibilities for the
rest of your life. You are only ever as happy as your unhappiest
child.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">So, what is the motivation? The answer to this, as far as
I’m concerned, is pretty much: “Well, what else are you going to do?” For me,
life isn’t the pursuit of happiness. Life is the pursuit of meaning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is partly in the difficulties that children bring with
them that meaning resides – overcoming obstacles, achieving challenging goals,
coping with crises. The energy of life comes from the negative side of it, as
anyone who tells stories or writes dramas knows. An entirely happy story
is not a story at all.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: x-large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53V0222W7RHs8mqZ4dnl4wjqoIBQyJSoMNjc9LFHENSx3tvvFyy_PPaqtm9qWriCD5ToxeOot_NwtyD_g9fmPRr7xJJpd3-EcAryviHfKfQwiKYZmRtOE2uTHlvFOMSOAsaiYM734xSkSd80wWJOUYhDU81ZR7sc-KTm9ieEoHs8udEUuRsz98uqDsRFU/s315/Suzye%20valedictorian.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="315" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53V0222W7RHs8mqZ4dnl4wjqoIBQyJSoMNjc9LFHENSx3tvvFyy_PPaqtm9qWriCD5ToxeOot_NwtyD_g9fmPRr7xJJpd3-EcAryviHfKfQwiKYZmRtOE2uTHlvFOMSOAsaiYM734xSkSd80wWJOUYhDU81ZR7sc-KTm9ieEoHs8udEUuRsz98uqDsRFU/w640-h640/Suzye%20valedictorian.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Suzye graduates from beauty school as both Valedictorian and Most Inspirational Student. Additional point of interest: Can you find Clara Jane Krebs somewhere in this photo?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Indeed, my life has not been all happiness, but for the most
part, I have experienced substantial blessings in my childhood, career, my
marriage and yes, my children. We went through occasional interpersonal and
financial struggles, but by the grace of God, all our children are in solid,
secure and stable careers. Each has a fantastic partner. Even all nine of my
grandchildren are doing remarkably well. I am incredibly proud of each son,
daughter, grandchild, son-in-law and daughter-in-law. This has been and is the
most remarkable Father’s Day present I could ever wish for.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-32774392067735741232023-05-24T22:18:00.001-07:002023-05-25T11:15:27.055-07:00Cousin Agostino Spadoni another victim of Nazi wartime cruelty<p></p><p><span style="color: black;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 18pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AS957Mgechv5gBbC5UO21IGkH874PP5TYwTxzHPxrQV-uTcISWPkcdCQ6qnmPufAHZJJezegK6wPOTkvIJA6eJiHcfvh56rrbNXnZRbO-ybyUYY0v-k4F5EABs0WUAUi1iRRAuidTbgZzbxS0nT1-8FGwNJqJjsKp295chsVXMY4BkeGBBiWL9n8JA/s379/Agostino%20Spadoni.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="288" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AS957Mgechv5gBbC5UO21IGkH874PP5TYwTxzHPxrQV-uTcISWPkcdCQ6qnmPufAHZJJezegK6wPOTkvIJA6eJiHcfvh56rrbNXnZRbO-ybyUYY0v-k4F5EABs0WUAUi1iRRAuidTbgZzbxS0nT1-8FGwNJqJjsKp295chsVXMY4BkeGBBiWL9n8JA/w152-h200/Agostino%20Spadoni.jpg" width="152" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Agostino Spadoni</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Being an unwilling martyr is not
a great way to become famous, but two Spadoni relatives in Ponte Buggianese had
the misfortune to enter the local history books in this way. I already wrote an
extensive account of <a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2013/10/what-is-story-behind-marble-monument.html">Italo
Spadoni</a>, killed by Fascist loyalists in 1924. Now it is time to pay homage
to Agostino Spadoni, killed in the summer of 1944 by German soldiers who could
best be described as Nazi terrorists.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9wOuIBXz5y4PvTR3Lc7lfqY7QM_kQ5OlBCK6QezlByvFp3JtUEjoMwXILIlHcClG9jxxQ3mWzD6I4jplaX8sp8kBJ-ZkglwaxSLrAgD6p048w21Re-6FqsEIKxsp1uSfOwFt9PrdeTRZLj-l9Vcd6p0TkzyVgO1sy6ijqPDDAhqSy0eJ-Lhvn3seCw/s1160/Paul%20and%20Agostino%20Spadoni.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9wOuIBXz5y4PvTR3Lc7lfqY7QM_kQ5OlBCK6QezlByvFp3JtUEjoMwXILIlHcClG9jxxQ3mWzD6I4jplaX8sp8kBJ-ZkglwaxSLrAgD6p048w21Re-6FqsEIKxsp1uSfOwFt9PrdeTRZLj-l9Vcd6p0TkzyVgO1sy6ijqPDDAhqSy0eJ-Lhvn3seCw/w241-h400/Paul%20and%20Agostino%20Spadoni.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul & Agostino Spadoni</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I recently spoke with the grandson of Agostino,
born in 1949, who shares the same name. In truth, I had first met Agostino
nearly 20 years ago. He and his son Alberto run the real estate company Agenzia
Spadoni Compravendita, which has offices in Ponte Buggianese, Montecatini and
Monsummano. However, until our most recent meeting in April of this year, we
didn’t know how we were related, nor did I know that Agostino was the grandson
of the Agostino who had been slain by the Germans.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigqKc_684ZPxfr8VEtKNpyTbAi-v9LVL3sdBNkO4NJa_cJls44H7cw95wFNLZCJQwk1w1d4v9ITChXTs5ECBM_GDY00t8V0fqnOwiLDVUGcTPtmY6JvrpOZnT_2v7GqWkQ7l1km86sWxwpxCx4p143qKTAovwgB5qVPAdqj5AVgu_bF2e5kTZ2moX1w/s933/fanucci%20posta.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigqKc_684ZPxfr8VEtKNpyTbAi-v9LVL3sdBNkO4NJa_cJls44H7cw95wFNLZCJQwk1w1d4v9ITChXTs5ECBM_GDY00t8V0fqnOwiLDVUGcTPtmY6JvrpOZnT_2v7GqWkQ7l1km86sWxwpxCx4p143qKTAovwgB5qVPAdqj5AVgu_bF2e5kTZ2moX1w/s320/fanucci%20posta.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Members of the Fanucci family<br />still live next to the bridge.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of 11 children of Emilio Sileno Spadoni and
Maria Carolina Meucci, the elder Agostino was born Oct. 3, 1871. His father
was <i>sindaco</i>, or mayor, of Ponte Buggianese from 1896 to 1903.
Agostino was a farmer, living on the west side of the river Pescia, while his
fields were on the east side. However, he only had to cross the Ponte della
Guardia, a bridge located just 30 meters from his home, to reach his fields.
Agostino’s first marriage, to Amabile Rosellini on Feb. 9, 1899, resulted in
four children before Amabile passed away in 1909. Two years later, he married
next-door neighbor Isola Fanucci, and they had eight more children.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">Agostino is the ultimate example of someone
minding his own business but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Italy
had joined World War 2 on the side of Germany in 1940, and from that time on,
the Germans gradually took over nearly complete control of Italian law
enforcement agencies. German soldiers commandeered the homes and factories of
wealthy Italians and demanded that farmers turn over their animals and farm
produce to supply the army with food.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">While the majority of Italians, Agostino
included, simply tried to ignore and avoid the occupying forces, a few
cooperated with the Germans to increase their fortunes and chances of survival.
Still others joined the <i>Resistenza</i>, which is an umbrella term for
those who opposed and fought the occupying Germans and the Italian
collaborators. Members of the resistance were known as <i>partigiani</i>,
partisans. In Ponte Buggianese, the partisans did what they could to disrupt
the army by attacking munitions storehouses and occasionally taking pot shots
at soldiers.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">This resulted in a type of paranoia among the
Germans, who likely feared that every Italian civilian might secretly be a
partisan or at least a sympathizer. They reacted to attacks by partisans by
rounding up random Italian citizens and executing them in public to install
fear and deter further attacks. The philosophy was often espoused that for
every German soldier killed, 10 Italian civilians should be sacrificed.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">Agostino Spadoni’s death came shortly after four
partisans had opened fire on two soldiers who were passing by in a motorcycle
and sidecar. The soldiers fled and reported the incident to German headquarters
in Ponte Buggianese. German officers ordered what the Italians called a <i>rappresaglia</i>,
a reprisal. In this case, the German soldiers did not round up civilians but
just went house to house, killing at random and stealing food and wine.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">Soldiers entered the home of Marino Quiriconi,
35, and his wife Bruna, arresting Marino, sacking the house and lighting it on
fire. Seventy-three-year-old Agostino lived nearby, and hearing the commotion,
he went to render aid. He never returned. His wife found him in his field,
about 50 meters away, dead from a gunshot wound to the head. About six weeks
later, the German soldiers were given permission to clear the way for their
retreating soldiers by engaging in a wholesale slaughter known as the Eccidio
del Padule di Fucecchio. Some 174 civilians were killed on the day of the
massacre. Agostino and others killed in the area during the weeks leading up to
the slaughter are sometimes numbered among the victims.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubRyzKXH0j0ucGjDxCqOQltS4tveWfyLoE9FW5z-aqzEtqQohPwqUw6XYOdtyxkpC1EZ1tP_ZgHKfjYrZ7y1DBlsiU5bUPLId9CwB87bpGJhKk1eQPOr15awfBi_UjM_LgBVJEcz5Ot03N8gcC82siKBhGFIfvmodZ0RMR8HTZnzqqkJ4Dk3K8Tu1Sg/s1000/Ponte%20alla%20Guardia.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="1000" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubRyzKXH0j0ucGjDxCqOQltS4tveWfyLoE9FW5z-aqzEtqQohPwqUw6XYOdtyxkpC1EZ1tP_ZgHKfjYrZ7y1DBlsiU5bUPLId9CwB87bpGJhKk1eQPOr15awfBi_UjM_LgBVJEcz5Ot03N8gcC82siKBhGFIfvmodZ0RMR8HTZnzqqkJ4Dk3K8Tu1Sg/w640-h464/Ponte%20alla%20Guardia.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ponte della Guardia, taken from the yard of the former home of Agostino Spadoni.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">In an effort to discover more details about the
Agostino’s death, I went to the two homes closest to the bridge this April and
made inquiries. I found a building that still housed relatives of Isola
Fanucci, Agostino’s wife. The elderly people living in the house confirmed that
Agostino had lived in the home closest to the bridge and that Isola had grown
up in the second closest home. Agostino’s former home is no longer owned by the
Spadoni family, they said. They also confirmed that Agostino’s farmland had
been just over the bridge on the other side of the river.</span></span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYHIIuuRW01DaPfB-cU89wkIfEQ4uUqP1nTbik_z1ruo73m2eMMfaDEUj9c5ugS6RImj1Vvr5MbxZABBAXQ4klynsAGjkWfPZ8NfaMKlZaDaV1LtUGSw9-HiOE8hS_H7Q31aTl7tdpuACJ9RDmnLJG8V4-u6mWMyMfpSGiRMa3-MpvRo00f1u0pFgIg/s900/agenzia%20spadoni.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="900" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYHIIuuRW01DaPfB-cU89wkIfEQ4uUqP1nTbik_z1ruo73m2eMMfaDEUj9c5ugS6RImj1Vvr5MbxZABBAXQ4klynsAGjkWfPZ8NfaMKlZaDaV1LtUGSw9-HiOE8hS_H7Q31aTl7tdpuACJ9RDmnLJG8V4-u6mWMyMfpSGiRMa3-MpvRo00f1u0pFgIg/s320/agenzia%20spadoni.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">I suspected that Agostino Spadoni from the real
estate agency might be the grandson of the martyr Agostino, as the ages seem to
fit, and it is common in Italy to name a grandchild after the grandfather. I
paid a visit to the agency to check on my theory, and Agostino confirmed that
he is indeed the grandson. Since my research at the church archives had already
placed the elder Agostino in our family tree, all that remained was to add in
the data from the 1900s that Agostino provided me.<span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">As is the case with Italo Spadoni, Agostino is
not a close relative. He is my 12th cousin once removed. His late father
Giovanni would be in my generation. But still we feel a bond, for besides
sharing a surname, our ancestors grew up in the same village, and undoubtedly
some were acquainted with each other. Agostino the grandson was 5 years old
when his nonno was killed, and though we are separated genealogically and
geographically, my research and interest in both Italian and family history has
drawn us close. I share a portion of his sorrow for the tragic moment of his
grandfather’s senseless death.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-42912868541058096952023-05-16T16:26:00.003-07:002023-05-16T16:36:00.100-07:00Looking back on a very special year of living la dolce vita in Padova<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;">We recently had
the chance to revisit some places dear to our hearts in Padova and reminisce
about the year we spent there that served as a launching pad for our ongoing
adventures in Italy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 16pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQeBWtjuCZIHUjt8Csq1FEdElNj8-pyJJxft-seoD17QZJ_Bpiqmk6V1x5ARlaj3YWhb6B7e82KWrYNyqxhvG4x-lVAL3v2_PxnCYArFd4M-cR3Q1cBc513ZlLJJGN_z6Y2Hd445Se3oZ2vxjixH3KC0XKr1HeyeEFH742yk_iGhxVATP_S-I0Sjeaw/s928/Paul%20Lucy%20at%20EISP.MP.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQeBWtjuCZIHUjt8Csq1FEdElNj8-pyJJxft-seoD17QZJ_Bpiqmk6V1x5ARlaj3YWhb6B7e82KWrYNyqxhvG4x-lVAL3v2_PxnCYArFd4M-cR3Q1cBc513ZlLJJGN_z6Y2Hd445Se3oZ2vxjixH3KC0XKr1HeyeEFH742yk_iGhxVATP_S-I0Sjeaw/s320/Paul%20Lucy%20at%20EISP.MP.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">In 2001-02,
I took a leave of absence from teaching high school in Gig Harbor to teach
fifth grade at the English International of Padua. Experiencing life in Italy
had been an ambition since my teen years, but I had to wait until I was in my
late 40s to realize this dream. With Lucy and our two youngest (and reluctant) daughters,
we packed up more than a dozen suitcases and moved to Padova in the fall of
2001, about a week before the tragedy of 9/11. Our story is told in my book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/American-Family-Italy-without-Permission/dp/1521588171">An
American Family in Italy: Living la Dolce Vita without Permission</a>. Since
that time, we’ve had more than enough adventures in Italy for me to have
written one or two more books, but the truth is, we’re having too much fun. I
don’t want to sit still long enough to write more books!</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZEgjdcMi7ZzHVMo4C4u3XHXWnGLmrQTwh7z_UlM0LR0Ho5mxElBYSu0zDO6jR3R9Kht3IM5vt_y_fJMjjQAHVNPJM83WMovyuzWUUr-6TsPTS6jPO9widar1iVR81kB5RVq9c_ImBLCoM2tuWfHkBeJwQy79GiafmJsFzm6GV3nhh04u1Xm6ZZB4gQ/s1440/Padova%20apartment.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZEgjdcMi7ZzHVMo4C4u3XHXWnGLmrQTwh7z_UlM0LR0Ho5mxElBYSu0zDO6jR3R9Kht3IM5vt_y_fJMjjQAHVNPJM83WMovyuzWUUr-6TsPTS6jPO9widar1iVR81kB5RVq9c_ImBLCoM2tuWfHkBeJwQy79GiafmJsFzm6GV3nhh04u1Xm6ZZB4gQ/w300-h400/Padova%20apartment.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We lived up there! Photo by Rosemary</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile,
my brother and his wife arrived in Vicenza just a couple of days before we were
scheduled to leave Montecarlo for our other life in Washington state, so we
decided to meet up in Padova. We went back to look up at our top floor apartment
on the edge of the Arcella district. It still has a terrific glassed-in balcony
that we enjoyed on days both cold and warm, but the mailbox labels indicate it
is no longer owned by Massimo Maggiore, whom we rented from, nor is his mom
Gianna living in the adjacent apartment anymore. Then we walked around the
Prato della Valle, a 90,000-square-meter elliptical square that is the largest
in Italy. It is surrounded by a canal and two rings of statues. Roger and Rosemary danced to the music of a street musician, and we lunched
at one of the piazza restaurants, probably not the most economical of choices,
but the pasta alla carbonara that three of us ordered proved to be possibly the
best any of us had ever tasted.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 16pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlU3KLE4LxGOmAxaalk39BYQWD72L9FQtDiYJRydGL74oT5oiEswUDz1vhD5ULfNRdZ1i7WaaVawpHFXzR5gO9vzdourh2MZB9yGBHzJdiXFMbYL4lozt3rUNaVi_sv4XaxEzR2jTzgSSgO_K8esO9BraLe1Rzt9mUVlLG4CyHj27sx5tSr0UoBqmwA/s800/Lunch%20in%20Padova.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlU3KLE4LxGOmAxaalk39BYQWD72L9FQtDiYJRydGL74oT5oiEswUDz1vhD5ULfNRdZ1i7WaaVawpHFXzR5gO9vzdourh2MZB9yGBHzJdiXFMbYL4lozt3rUNaVi_sv4XaxEzR2jTzgSSgO_K8esO9BraLe1Rzt9mUVlLG4CyHj27sx5tSr0UoBqmwA/w640-h482/Lunch%20in%20Padova.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fratelli! Roger and Paul at lunch in Padova.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf5kgiOtHVyURmgSkU0uBSoNQAb9_tWazPV5yumbjWf39e7WaTzHNw4LJsvJlmcTEbOyn1LPc0_GwB6lyf3571afkOmGFRlxE2Vm90x5e7qYMswWFJGJ3BII1pHqeT_JlB1GyZt5rF2WfWBJM9RqAFFSwjzUOlJ7ytJMbKMa2BtXlqKGEmC7wxuaG5A/s924/Angela_2.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf5kgiOtHVyURmgSkU0uBSoNQAb9_tWazPV5yumbjWf39e7WaTzHNw4LJsvJlmcTEbOyn1LPc0_GwB6lyf3571afkOmGFRlxE2Vm90x5e7qYMswWFJGJ3BII1pHqeT_JlB1GyZt5rF2WfWBJM9RqAFFSwjzUOlJ7ytJMbKMa2BtXlqKGEmC7wxuaG5A/s320/Angela_2.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angela, the rudder who keeps<br />the EISP on the right course.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Later, Lucy
and I went alone to peek in the windows of our old church, International
Christian Fellowship, pastored at the time by two dear friends, Steve and Patti
Gray. Sadly, they are no longer with us.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">My favorite
reminiscence came on a visit to the school where I had taught. Suzye and
Lindsey also frequented the school to do their online high school classes in the
computer lab. To my surprise, my friend Angela still works at the school,
though both the school and her responsibilities have multiplied in the ensuing
20-plus years. Shortly after I left Padova, the school added a high school, and
she oversees programs there as well.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Angela told
me a story that I should have included in my book, because it actually happened
during the year I taught there. I had been hired by the late Lucio Rossi, a
shrewd businessman who founded the school and did not always follow protocol
100 percent. The very fact that he hired me, an American without a work permit
to teach in a certified British-Italian school, is an example of how he
sometimes skirted regulations to his advantage.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 16pt; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wdsyRfc-MUhSaX2fxW4iod27uVOiZSFZTXN4It_mOuET6CXs4NyW1R-H_jk9VjOls-sWoJ-u_q18KWpjYhrIuzEA2P-4btqq-KpImnm_OQ34jBieDtuqMcfha-beUSzOKlNg-nEnb_GjoPOwuf2CORA-IXy8WTaWsfgKFuSpG7dYuYA7EnlPGFXtsQ/s800/Padova%20classroom.MP~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="800" height="582" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wdsyRfc-MUhSaX2fxW4iod27uVOiZSFZTXN4It_mOuET6CXs4NyW1R-H_jk9VjOls-sWoJ-u_q18KWpjYhrIuzEA2P-4btqq-KpImnm_OQ34jBieDtuqMcfha-beUSzOKlNg-nEnb_GjoPOwuf2CORA-IXy8WTaWsfgKFuSpG7dYuYA7EnlPGFXtsQ/w640-h582/Padova%20classroom.MP~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my old 5th grade classroom.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have fond
memories of Lucio, a lively and excitable character who found us an apartment
and bought us a washing machine and oven when he learned that they were not
included. He paid me with cash, warning me not to tell the other teachers how
much I was being paid, because he was paying me extra so I could support my family.
How nice! Yes, so I thought, until the end of the year when I learned from
Angela that he was actually paying me less! Well, that was a part of “Lucio
being Lucio,” Angela said, and I have absolutely no resentment, because without
him we never would have able to live in Italy during that special year.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdfFlYtEcAxzd46mhGdJDWTKLnQs9t_JbxP2JnZSDGjgRE-pqi-oiec2vawwfZn1VaYFiklRkC41C6ynOI83PtEL7qwk9JYcAfRH4u2eeOohfR6xaLyOZBMj-BkP6abNFMss6D8IVpdR8BENp5fB5WCr4_rDHAOiVYC5dSZ91pAhuhRqx2xCtkKckXw/s948/Padova%20class.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="948" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdfFlYtEcAxzd46mhGdJDWTKLnQs9t_JbxP2JnZSDGjgRE-pqi-oiec2vawwfZn1VaYFiklRkC41C6ynOI83PtEL7qwk9JYcAfRH4u2eeOohfR6xaLyOZBMj-BkP6abNFMss6D8IVpdR8BENp5fB5WCr4_rDHAOiVYC5dSZ91pAhuhRqx2xCtkKckXw/w640-h432/Padova%20class.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fond memories! A photo from 2002 in my classroom.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">While I
primarily taught 5</span></span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">th grade, I also taught journalism and information
technology in the middle school, which was under construction during my year
there. Some of the classrooms were completed part way through the school year,
and Lucio was anxious to move students into the new building, even though the construction
had not been approved by the building inspectors.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk56qKGyF1j1ICr_9J00JVhRtuE9oZcvWBZkLnn13mF_hZZfbzi979meigrsXWMPGMH80AIFJoYOIMCFpkFN_rvhTRF5iEJ3R33QjtrkcmuD5ww4HZRlsmO_vqKzuERNeiOljHdno6oRLSAK65vZGBFvQ-5YdmMviWrY36G2_G0wzkU_ItpGh7h0Y3AQ/s800/gelateria.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="800" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk56qKGyF1j1ICr_9J00JVhRtuE9oZcvWBZkLnn13mF_hZZfbzi979meigrsXWMPGMH80AIFJoYOIMCFpkFN_rvhTRF5iEJ3R33QjtrkcmuD5ww4HZRlsmO_vqKzuERNeiOljHdno6oRLSAK65vZGBFvQ-5YdmMviWrY36G2_G0wzkU_ItpGh7h0Y3AQ/s320/gelateria.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roger, Rosemary and me at the gelateria<br />where I took my 5th grade class to celebrate<br />the last day of school in 2002.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">You can’t move
classes in without approval, Angela reminded him. But true to character, as
Angela related to me, Lucio said it would be okay. Which it was—until the
inspector showed up unexpectedly. Angela received an urgent phone call from
Lucio: “You have to evacuate the middle school.”</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I said, ‘Okay,’
when?” Angela explained.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Right now!”
he answered. And so she did, telling teachers and students to grab their things
and get out, to move to the elementary school, presumably. But she couldn’t
tell them what was going on, as she and Lucio didn’t want to advertise the fact
that they had been illegally occupying the building.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Unfortunately,
we still got in trouble, because teachers left all their materials on their
desks, and there were other obvious signs that classes were being held there,”
Angela said. “But this was the way Lucio sometimes ran things in the earlier
years of the school. Now that we’ve expanded, we have to follow all the regulations
scrupulously.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Which means
that even if I wanted to, I could never go back to teach there again. No, I’m
happily retired and yet still plenty busy, so I’m quite satisfied simply to
enjoy the nostalgia.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dztZG42kYFTw8eBjW_bJGMS3ft5lxO4G7B33x7j1g4sUyMUf0tvt60oclhD20gAkHmFCR_IBa5V0XjvdMn9Yg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><br /><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-34869198614987811892023-05-05T15:12:00.004-07:002023-05-05T15:19:40.492-07:00A special day: A trip in the swamps of Fucecchio in a guided barchino<p></p><p><span style="color: black; font-size: 18.0pt;">I’ve visited the <a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2023/03/more-praise-for-padule.html">Padule
di Fucecchio</a> on bike and on foot a number of times in the past six
years, but today Lucy and I took our first boat ride through the canals. Thanks
to the friendly members of the Association Volpoca, we were escorted in a small
boat with a super quiet electric motor from the Casotto di Lillo on the west
side to the Porto delle Morette on the east side and then back again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 18pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFdO4HPDFGg99Lo3XSSIAfvIvixjkZVR_gZFhSOEGFTrQLDwL3Kyu12BxFdoLY0w7iSs7ffPjgZY9gqOGcwVacErUPoWXcf3ILhbcrE2CszvvNJMiM-s9KTC5FVjBzdKRixldInfVf2aDKQL5sZp-m_znTmoMMxknlAjYfYF2GpHa1dtRZlsmWg5-eUw/s1000/Us%20in%20barchino.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="1000" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFdO4HPDFGg99Lo3XSSIAfvIvixjkZVR_gZFhSOEGFTrQLDwL3Kyu12BxFdoLY0w7iSs7ffPjgZY9gqOGcwVacErUPoWXcf3ILhbcrE2CszvvNJMiM-s9KTC5FVjBzdKRixldInfVf2aDKQL5sZp-m_znTmoMMxknlAjYfYF2GpHa1dtRZlsmWg5-eUw/w640-h422/Us%20in%20barchino.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeh0EKre4M2gDDcOSCtVSgTu8u5wI8Jn8NsDBUhofGyh9NwPDspuj0CLjzSpbi7UZLE7nPQjxppxkP0NxOdjrLbHlVVaLUDynOt-zlUq_MMZYUOV3LsxY0Jar67uxHR6M86BeoFdTo6U5GMhLcuWiG2HsZFqrIf7dSeMAoIgJPpMk8ZD6WNL30UpoqNA/s2048/our%20guides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1375" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeh0EKre4M2gDDcOSCtVSgTu8u5wI8Jn8NsDBUhofGyh9NwPDspuj0CLjzSpbi7UZLE7nPQjxppxkP0NxOdjrLbHlVVaLUDynOt-zlUq_MMZYUOV3LsxY0Jar67uxHR6M86BeoFdTo6U5GMhLcuWiG2HsZFqrIf7dSeMAoIgJPpMk8ZD6WNL30UpoqNA/w269-h400/our%20guides.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guido and Franco, our guides.</td></tr></tbody></table>When we arrived for our <i>gita in barchino</i>, we were greeted by Patrizio, who welcomed us with caffè, fruit juice, biscotti
and a friendly demeanor. He helped us into our small boat, which was piloted by
Franco, a life-long resident of Ponte Buggianese. Another local resident,
Guido, guided another boat with two Italian women. Along the way we heard and
saw fish, rabbits and uncountable varieties and numbers of birds. The swamp,
which comprises about 4,400 acres, is the largest inland wetland in Italy. It
hosts as many as 200 species of birds, though many are only passing through on
their migratory routes from Africa to Northern Europe, so not all species can
be seen year-around.</span><p></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCcUIRrJ_PLMmN1PZVWGrgAKif5-_JDiuppYd-dZMeYvehK3no_PatDW_ghlpWl7i8WQSjE4spQVD115Vf2PoUL_Z-jlzAn9uP2znzZ9RAWeJfdMIFLXsj0GYSzW6LAaINTmkBVSRXx12vYDUHgELcLZxPJk4dnk4eiy6dtmJ59c6_9nws3TfmgSpnQ/s2048/Le%20Morette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCcUIRrJ_PLMmN1PZVWGrgAKif5-_JDiuppYd-dZMeYvehK3no_PatDW_ghlpWl7i8WQSjE4spQVD115Vf2PoUL_Z-jlzAn9uP2znzZ9RAWeJfdMIFLXsj0GYSzW6LAaINTmkBVSRXx12vYDUHgELcLZxPJk4dnk4eiy6dtmJ59c6_9nws3TfmgSpnQ/w640-h480/Le%20Morette.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy looking out at Le Morette, the protected area.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">We took two breaks to walk around and watch the
birds from viewing platforms with a set of binoculars provided by the boatmen.
Probably the most impressive site was the Garzaia, a cluster of trees that is
home to up to 15 different species of birds, with hundreds of nests packed
together in close proximity. Our guides said the birds make their nests in the
same area for protection against predators. If the parents leave their nests to
feed the young, there will always be someone nearby to chase away intruders.
It’s the avian version of neighborhood watch.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyauU3OhuhCXFxkBeKMg-lGRiQSV4JuA8r2MbHp7Y9HrJXZ42hHTKZqeI_E3hRJ86nTv-zWnfh4SkIIxQFG6P35uk9fEfveu0PCN3LbR_Gq5AQ7mQn4ZJUTGUPFXTvJJIJHKj_NG8EAsV56Agp_0dPu6IaDUSnoLr1_xVg44zpHseEcpxWlpTWuCxKUw/s400/Garzaia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyauU3OhuhCXFxkBeKMg-lGRiQSV4JuA8r2MbHp7Y9HrJXZ42hHTKZqeI_E3hRJ86nTv-zWnfh4SkIIxQFG6P35uk9fEfveu0PCN3LbR_Gq5AQ7mQn4ZJUTGUPFXTvJJIJHKj_NG8EAsV56Agp_0dPu6IaDUSnoLr1_xVg44zpHseEcpxWlpTWuCxKUw/w640-h480/Garzaia.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Garzaia in the Padule di Fucecchio.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The Garzaia is home to herons, night herons,
little egrets, the rare squacco heron, the marsh harrier, numerous species of
ducks, a family of storks and interesting migratory birds such as the
black-winged stilt and the osprey. Our guides told us that when the birds all
come back in the evening to roost, the site resembles a group of heavily
decorated Christmas trees.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDRZ-u8ukyNt3tVQ3erSpjcUqUM8rxCUK9fgLW5c6LYTb13Or_tYQtcLlYgFUOFb-TilRlIhL0x7DcLu56m_gHR-xADh7D7w8I73KVhJe3dim6O4iZc8xRFMQ_07ehnB7hCnDQyV-DLNIyMMb5EHsA2tSlFMDMP03Rdn9XWJL3AIsDNn5DnElqjreYw/s441/bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="441" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDRZ-u8ukyNt3tVQ3erSpjcUqUM8rxCUK9fgLW5c6LYTb13Or_tYQtcLlYgFUOFb-TilRlIhL0x7DcLu56m_gHR-xADh7D7w8I73KVhJe3dim6O4iZc8xRFMQ_07ehnB7hCnDQyV-DLNIyMMb5EHsA2tSlFMDMP03Rdn9XWJL3AIsDNn5DnElqjreYw/s320/bird.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">We learned that a large portion of the Padule is
privately owned, by perhaps as many as 200 different people, but it also
includes a publicly owned and protected area, Le Morette, that is closed to the
public but can be seen from a raised viewing area. Homeowners and associations
such as Valpoca have contributed money to dig canals though central areas of
the Padule to make it easier to access by boat. While hunting is allowed in the
privately owned areas, it should be noted that the hunters are the primary
contributors to the care and maintenance of the swamp.<span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhynaHkvfaM58vGGE2NiNIO46kxfHuManFEJ2lOirP65XIayLPrLcYvtIygydDcjw3f1q8UBGt_zJfATZCVsKZttVS_62G5CP0XASRED55qJjZzsSSnaBpWH1J3W4xQBXSGDiIyaOQAz9ddhY1zwV1PdyX41iklzGAxQXJUucr_lpqVxRrjbC18579GeQ/s2048/Snacks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1648" data-original-width="2048" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhynaHkvfaM58vGGE2NiNIO46kxfHuManFEJ2lOirP65XIayLPrLcYvtIygydDcjw3f1q8UBGt_zJfATZCVsKZttVS_62G5CP0XASRED55qJjZzsSSnaBpWH1J3W4xQBXSGDiIyaOQAz9ddhY1zwV1PdyX41iklzGAxQXJUucr_lpqVxRrjbC18579GeQ/s320/Snacks.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">The entire trip took more than two hours, and at
a cost of only 30 euros per person, it is a real bargain. The weather was
absolutely perfect, sunny, around 74 degrees Fahrenheit and with a mild breeze.
Afterwards we were provided with pizza, more biscotti and a variety of drinks,
all included in the price. And they gave me a green cap to shade my eyes. And speaking
of one’s optical organs, this kind of outing—in my eyes—tops any tour of
museums, churches or even architecture that Italy can offer.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-12766166555409870592023-05-02T02:30:00.002-07:002023-09-10T15:20:11.242-07:00The always interesting challenge of renewing a permesso di soggiorno<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%;">Obtaining or renewing one’s <i>permesso
di soggiorno</i> is always an adventure, as the procedure seems to differ from place
to place and year to year. Since Lucy is not an Italian citizen, when we purchased
our home in Montecarlo in 2015, we went to the Questura in Lucca in the spring
of 2016, and within about two months and four visits, <a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2017/03/permesso-di-soggiorno-in-hand-but-weve.html">we
obtained her permesso</a>, good for five years. After that, we registered her
residency in Montecarlo, and she received her carta </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%;">d’identità.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65Y9FOu81cRZgnu7lQMjNyKMy_sngqrNJDUoNjMoJ_2QYqHyXAex_cbuT0hPzFegTQfrycIHiFha0y0uGdyfDL3vD-IYIKuGhu66nYYAOCTlhMFbDQxVBktNOczHyb92xiuai9ciyumJO_p5aMSsneZd17ocMxd48cbDI70nAmfeImSSPTId1u9WUMQ/s1095/Lucy%20permesso.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1095" data-original-width="936" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65Y9FOu81cRZgnu7lQMjNyKMy_sngqrNJDUoNjMoJ_2QYqHyXAex_cbuT0hPzFegTQfrycIHiFha0y0uGdyfDL3vD-IYIKuGhu66nYYAOCTlhMFbDQxVBktNOczHyb92xiuai9ciyumJO_p5aMSsneZd17ocMxd48cbDI70nAmfeImSSPTId1u9WUMQ/w342-h400/Lucy%20permesso.jpg" width="342" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy in 2016 with her permesso di soggiorno.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her permesso expired in 2021. We didn’t
really notice at first, because it was filed away in a safe place. If Lucy
needed to show proof of identity, we just used her American passport or her
Italian carta d’iden</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">tità</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">, which
does not expire until 2027. Because of Covid, we had not gone to Italy in 2020
or the spring of 2021, and that probably contributed to our lack of awareness
that her permesso had expired. However, we were here twice in 2022, and we
could have tried to renew it then.</span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Well, in any case, we had to go back
to the Questura to see what we needed to do. I knew there might be some
procedure to make an appointment through the post office or online, but we
decided to take our chances by going directly to the Questura, which had worked
fine for us in 2016. We arrived around 11 a.m., which we learned in later trips
was a good idea, because by then the crowds from the early morning had mostly been
served, and we were almost the only ones in sportello 1, which is the permesso
line for nonimmigrants. I showed the clerk the expired permesso, and she gave
us a list of what we needed and an official appointment, which was for April
14, about three weeks later.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">We gathered all the documents, which
included copies of our passports, Italian identity cards, a certified <i>estratto</i>
of our marriage registered in Pescia, and proof of our residency and <i>stato
di famiglia</i> from Montecarlo. We also obtained a <i>marca di bollo</i> at a <i>tobaccaio</i>
and paid a fee at the Montecarlo post office. The last item on the list was
proof of <i>reddito</i>, or income. For this I printed out Social Security
benefit verification letters for both of us, which I translated myself with
some help from Google and DeepL Translate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">On our return trip, the Questura was
packed, and the line for sportello 1 was long. We had arrived about 40 minutes
before our appointment because I had heard from others that even with an
appointment, they had to wait in line with everyone else. I figured that if we
got in line early, maybe we could get in before our appointment, but that didn’t
look promising. In fact, there were still many people ahead of us even as our
appointment time was nearing, and when the clerk finished with one person, she
just took the next person in line, without checking to see if anybody had an
appointment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">An official looking man came into the
crowd to talk to someone, and I thrust my appointment paper in front of him as
he began to pass inside. He took it with him and brought it back a minute
later, saying that we would be called soon. But about 15 minutes after our
appointment time, we still hadn’t been called. When the clerk from line 1
finished with the next person, I jumped in from the side and showed her my
appointment document. She moved us to the head of the line, explaining to the
next person that our appointment took precedence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">She checked each item off the list,
and things were looking great until she came to the last item, the proof of income.
The documentation was insufficient, she said. I don’t know exactly why, but it
seemed that the translation was not acceptable because it was not done by an
official translator. Why this should be important for a financial document I
don’t know, as numbers are the same in Italian as they are in English.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">She told me to go to my bank and get
an <i>estratto</i> of my account. “How much money do I need in the account?”
That’s not important, she answered. But then she said that Lucy could still get
a permesso good for five years. If we had the proper documentation of income,
it would be good for 10 years. This was on a Friday, so we had to wait until
Monday morning to go to our bank in Pescia. I told the clerk there that we
needed proof that we had a checking account, and then we rushed back to the
Questura with the document.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Not good enough, the clerk said. The
document just shows we have an account, but not any income. Go online and print
out some of your monthly statements. So on Tuesday we went back, but there was
a different clerk this time. I was not optimistic, and my doubts were well
founded. First, she did not like the fact that the statements I’d printed were
from my American bank account, but I had no choice in that, because that’s
where our pensions are deposited. I transfer money to our Italian account when
needed, but only once or twice a year, to avoid excessive transfer fees.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then she told me it was too late
anyway, because the permesso was already in the process. I think it’s quite
likely she could have found our application and changed it to 10 years if she
had tried, but it was obvious she didn’t want to. I could have raised a fuss,
but we were still on track to get a permesso for five years, so I decided not
to rock the boat. My Italian is adequate but not great, and we had given it our
best shot. Supposedly we will get a phone call when it is ready, though when we
got Lucy’s permesso in 2016, the phone call never came. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">One bit of advice I can pass on to
anyone else in our situation: It is probably best to try getting an appointment
online or at the post office. On the days we came at 8:30 a.m., the doors to
the Questura were closed and people were forced to wait outside. Every so
often, a clerk would open the door and call someone’s name. When a customer
would open a door to exit, the Questura employees would make sure no one
entered without an appointment. However, around 10:30 to 11 a.m., they stopped
guarding the doors, and pretty soon everyone pushed inside and formed lines. This
is how we got in, and we learned that it made no sense to show up too early.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a sign on the Questura door explaining
how to make an appointment. We did hear several people complaining that they
had called to make an appointment, but nobody ever answered the phone. The sign
also includes a very long email address. Whether the people who were called inside
had made an appointment by phone, email, post office or other government website,
I don’t know. The purpose of this account is to share what we experienced, not
to give authoritative directions on the best way to get a permesso. It’s pretty
obvious I’m not qualified to do that.</span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2X1e5u_xrVwcsawbAjRbWIHnsL8bLvCKvmfUVENkH71t-joW8NH6hrpADQ83nX5a9bm6xiTzDcb5IGRXU6yog6iNQ-KBjxQHql0b9VRmX0WjOu7Wy5hsTk8IDzovRXA8AgI-ubLui6NuYPaqhhJuPHPTHhRnV9YT-fT7oS5ym_zY_1GJ7ET2lX-D8gg/s1000/sign%20at%20Questura.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1000" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2X1e5u_xrVwcsawbAjRbWIHnsL8bLvCKvmfUVENkH71t-joW8NH6hrpADQ83nX5a9bm6xiTzDcb5IGRXU6yog6iNQ-KBjxQHql0b9VRmX0WjOu7Wy5hsTk8IDzovRXA8AgI-ubLui6NuYPaqhhJuPHPTHhRnV9YT-fT7oS5ym_zY_1GJ7ET2lX-D8gg/w640-h428/sign%20at%20Questura.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sign on the wall outside the Lucca Questura building.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, it appears we’ve once again
stumbled through the process successfully enough. Even though it could never be
classified as a pleasant experience, I have to say that I get a certain degree
of satisfaction being able to negotiate though the bureaucracy. It’s like a
game, and while getting a 10-year permit would have been equivalent to hitting a
home run, I’m still happy to settle for a solid double this time. Maybe next
time I’ll get a little more lift and knock it out of the park.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2023/09/score-one-for-lucy-she-has-new-permesso.html" target="_blank">Update September 11, 2023: Score one for Lucy; she has a new (and improved) permesso di soggiorno</a>.</span></span></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-49406483526059287112023-05-01T03:05:00.004-07:002023-05-01T03:11:43.197-07:00Friendly cousins another benefit of our sweet life in the Valdinievole<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSU8rZPyqyCX6VzqytUdnGVvRTlMXGwJnE0BCiECYimj1jMTVmpbemKYybYJYEmyV-JkmNEfFmPkrNwWubH6As47HsYzYb2w-xDxgZUHGUzpjbYxlumg5NX4touJs_KdDUQKv8bDJWrNGUaHER5SXyI13_89zU1HzKtEy-Yr1seecFe6QeO6-XZcK0g/s2048/Corrieri%20e%20David.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2048" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSU8rZPyqyCX6VzqytUdnGVvRTlMXGwJnE0BCiECYimj1jMTVmpbemKYybYJYEmyV-JkmNEfFmPkrNwWubH6As47HsYzYb2w-xDxgZUHGUzpjbYxlumg5NX4touJs_KdDUQKv8bDJWrNGUaHER5SXyI13_89zU1HzKtEy-Yr1seecFe6QeO6-XZcK0g/s320/Corrieri%20e%20David.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simone Corrieri and David Del Terra.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Among the reasons Lucy and I chose
Montecarlo as our home base in Italy, the opportunity to meet distant cousins
was surely high on the list. Since both of my dad’s parents were from
Montecarlo, I have numerous cousins here on both sides of the family. Many I
have met only once or twice, but two who have gone out of their way to make us
feel more at home are Claudio Del Terra and his son David.</span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDs272igF5uIDeOZkF4i5HJ13QcRm1Wy1vmL-O6aEyA4ljotedoG8SXG7NuaOY5l9AhxorsHEkUQgmTOyqRU95RqZiFD_Ojowi6aTdBchUHPneQ2QRPN0hk2QyTeeMxoGw2XUSEiLRgiXoooM7WraVXqOcOjNu4lgdFrh7mvs_v9hIXEgzDP6OceJf3A/s1736/all%20together%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="1736" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDs272igF5uIDeOZkF4i5HJ13QcRm1Wy1vmL-O6aEyA4ljotedoG8SXG7NuaOY5l9AhxorsHEkUQgmTOyqRU95RqZiFD_Ojowi6aTdBchUHPneQ2QRPN0hk2QyTeeMxoGw2XUSEiLRgiXoooM7WraVXqOcOjNu4lgdFrh7mvs_v9hIXEgzDP6OceJf3A/w640-h424/all%20together%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simone performs songs from his first music album at the Medieval Risto Bar in Pescia April 29.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Claudio has invited us to his home in
the past, and he and David sometimes stop by our home while they are out riding
their bicycles together.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuNRLNgOJiTl8mZEbO6UJO_senVOXGknrHwWOzPUqixCrsPfzlxDVohIC2MYawuVDUM1fDSpj7Iwyq_LyuCMqkHAXic3zI_Mk48ANNY8hW8ksowOtMUTp5eTV5XPXE6S3poXaDkgLQtg_NsiXeQ5dBeMgMp8oiZqU88LBRLoVFr7b40NsfnSFgmzw3Vw/s1406/Claudio%20in%20uniform.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="843" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuNRLNgOJiTl8mZEbO6UJO_senVOXGknrHwWOzPUqixCrsPfzlxDVohIC2MYawuVDUM1fDSpj7Iwyq_LyuCMqkHAXic3zI_Mk48ANNY8hW8ksowOtMUTp5eTV5XPXE6S3poXaDkgLQtg_NsiXeQ5dBeMgMp8oiZqU88LBRLoVFr7b40NsfnSFgmzw3Vw/w120-h200/Claudio%20in%20uniform.jpg" width="120" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claudio</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Neither of them speaks much English, which is fine
with us, as we need plenty of practice making conversation in Italian. Claudio
is the son of the late Gianfranco Del Terra and Marta Michelotti. <br />Claudio’s
grandmother was Rina Spadoni, a first cousin of my dad, though he never had the
chance to meet her. If you are trying to figure out the relationships, Marta is
my second cousin, so Claudio is my second cousin once removed.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQ9AI8_hBDyY18jHnURNB6hRGZVrOEGw0Iah8fZdxNsmZv2x99XqhNEGoQ8ONha758yYzQ8MXlZPwgFQP4lbQF80THSHOjuFRMycZnbQcREu3qPL_HkmqaH-7Dhfrl1uxYs66AoM6OrWogZmP944A1h8ddvBPWPE4m14hK7LaHgZFDoC6e0vl9M1mGg/s800/David%20Book.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="800" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQ9AI8_hBDyY18jHnURNB6hRGZVrOEGw0Iah8fZdxNsmZv2x99XqhNEGoQ8ONha758yYzQ8MXlZPwgFQP4lbQF80THSHOjuFRMycZnbQcREu3qPL_HkmqaH-7Dhfrl1uxYs66AoM6OrWogZmP944A1h8ddvBPWPE4m14hK7LaHgZFDoC6e0vl9M1mGg/w200-h158/David%20Book.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David's mystery novel</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Claudio and his brother Marco are both
urban police officers. Claudio’s son, David, is a multi-talented young man who
has studied music, philosophy, and religion, and he currently teaches philosophy
and religion. We first met him when he was 13; watching him develop and mature
over the years has been enjoyable. A couple of years ago, he dropped by and gave
me a mystery novel he had co-written, “Un Ingombrante Segreto.” I didn’t
realize at first that he was a co-author, because the book was the joint
product of a writing class he had taken with seven other students, and thus his
name did not appear on the cover. However, I have since read and enjoyed it
very much. It is set partly in Montecarlo, and it tells the tale of two
convicts who become friends in prison. When one is released, he investigates
the other’s crime and uncovers “an unwieldy secret,” which is how the title of
the book could be translated.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1r9HcUY1qDa3_NKVWNc3grLgq3-w9utx32iC95E_w4c2Hrc1gTGrkcmGeu8kKSYVWhAhdDM-TDfNNnun9dRQ_pqFfhhdCyDAieBYWXp5j7FfLcG6WpLL59AxDFdv1JNCNXr68oMqNmOsqI5yAWq9OnOXIv-e-ZVJo7xado24GTu3sQDSGJ35B1mWxyg/s2048/Donatini%20e%20Corrieri.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1883" data-original-width="2048" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1r9HcUY1qDa3_NKVWNc3grLgq3-w9utx32iC95E_w4c2Hrc1gTGrkcmGeu8kKSYVWhAhdDM-TDfNNnun9dRQ_pqFfhhdCyDAieBYWXp5j7FfLcG6WpLL59AxDFdv1JNCNXr68oMqNmOsqI5yAWq9OnOXIv-e-ZVJo7xado24GTu3sQDSGJ35B1mWxyg/s320/Donatini%20e%20Corrieri.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moderator Franco Donatini interviews Simone.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now David has added to his curriculum
vitae his collaboration for writing the music for the title song on the recently
released music album of Lucca poet Simone Corrieri, “Squallido Paradiso.” Lucy
and I had the privilege of attending a presentation of the album at a coffee bar in
Pescia last week. Corrieri had previously published a book of his poetry, and
this is his first effort at combining poetry and music. We listened as Corrieri
explained the background of the songs and then performed them, with David accompanying
on electric piano, along with several other musicians who had contributed to
the album. Afterwards, Corrieri signed the inside jacket of the CD we purchased
from him. We now listen to the songs in our home and think back on the pleasant
evening when we watched David play and met Corrieri and the other contributing
musicians.</span></span><p></p><p></p><div><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzqZBhdkged0IlERsumZ5NaAdhMkXL1h3zYhvGWeDVsHpYXfV2xaPGmGnHQTLB2utvucKsZFZ-uLus4ivEa2w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-19017220504027035872023-04-28T08:31:00.002-07:002023-04-28T08:48:44.869-07:00Beautiful Bavaria has much to offer<p><span style="font-size: large;">Leavenworth is a city in Western Washington that successfully rebuilt itself from a dying ex-logging town into a thriving faux Bavarian tourist attraction—one that Lucy and I enjoy visiting at least once a year. But as a change of pace, last week we visited the real thing, a Bavarian village on the edge of the Alps in Southern Germany.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc0FR9rrq4VqqBhMmq16FEkaUjP08JKErN1--t7DMA0ksJe2FBX5lrcqUPMgDHLpEJG7HUN6j5vbylIrckeQeNF5g0MdQsKDAav2UTwuBdXoGRWDBviD2dGeRk2DeMi-kGrbNz-uDKVXuYfvvQVdVfxU0Jp1mOpjdAFS2fLJLG99eKCPYdQYnYM6qzw/s3648/above%20village.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc0FR9rrq4VqqBhMmq16FEkaUjP08JKErN1--t7DMA0ksJe2FBX5lrcqUPMgDHLpEJG7HUN6j5vbylIrckeQeNF5g0MdQsKDAav2UTwuBdXoGRWDBviD2dGeRk2DeMi-kGrbNz-uDKVXuYfvvQVdVfxU0Jp1mOpjdAFS2fLJLG99eKCPYdQYnYM6qzw/w320-h240/above%20village.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken from the resort above Schliersee,<br />which we reached by cable car.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">How can I describe Schliersee, a village about the size of Leavenworth but 100 percent authentic Bavarian? I could say that Schliersee is about equal to Leavenworth x 4. The mountains are taller. More buildings are decorated with paintings of Bavarian themes. Roofs are of red tile instead of composite shingles. And, of course, all the signs are in German and everyone speaks German. I’m not saying that the people of Leavenworth have done a poor job of creating an imitation Bavarian village. Quite the contrary. It’s just that one can only go so far in blending the cultures of two regions, and being in an true Bavarian village is an experience that can’t be equaled.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZy9YeoctHEkpg1E9R8t--bK-Q-yvL4Blmy8MxOCO6CBtdhVWC5wRyZZgGZt7VMRJcViuFcF-bXQhDW3jfwvGqXhBjpTv5V4B6tD2Jw5lVLXzSe1Xvd01YzahxNigU8jnOKOs3eUI7Lwil5vNS-HlYb3I2itCGxti8cL3ue8RZ6Lyy7qTp1C6mkVcqPw/s960/Bavaria.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="960" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZy9YeoctHEkpg1E9R8t--bK-Q-yvL4Blmy8MxOCO6CBtdhVWC5wRyZZgGZt7VMRJcViuFcF-bXQhDW3jfwvGqXhBjpTv5V4B6tD2Jw5lVLXzSe1Xvd01YzahxNigU8jnOKOs3eUI7Lwil5vNS-HlYb3I2itCGxti8cL3ue8RZ6Lyy7qTp1C6mkVcqPw/s320/Bavaria.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Extreme Bavarian theme.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">What did we like best about our week-long getaway? Our favorite experiences were taking a cable car above the city for a great view of the lake and village below, and then riding down on a kind of mini roller coaster with individual four-wheeled sleds in a winding chute. A lever allowed us to control our velocity. We also visited a living museum that shows how people in the Alps lived and worked in centuries past. At the Markus Wasmeier Open-Air Museum, we saw restored wooden buildings, traditional farm animals, costumed workers and craftsmen sealing barrels with hot resin for their still active brewery. We strolled through Schliersee and along the lake shore, visited two ski resorts and hiked to two waterfalls. We took a scenic ride in a small but very modern commuter train that runs up the valley to the farthest village in the valley, Bayrischzell.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz7daqdktQjR1zXrVUNLdOOFemrCDBgFMqW-UYd2YDGEBwUH-dG5cnPV8Xd44upAOTTV40xHj13CdUQKHNL7A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We lodged in the classy Karma Bavaria, a hotel that has a partnership with Wyndham, so room costs were covered through our Worldmark membership. We visited the spa, sauna and weight room regularly, and Lucy and I competed in a friendly game of 9-pin bowling in the game room. Perhaps the best part is that we were able to combine our vacation with a visit from Lucy’s cousins, Eduard and Els Bonnist (brother and sister) who are second cousins once removed. Eduard and Els drove down from their homes in Amsterdam and also lodged in the Karma.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dylsaY42bJIqzxyDXOlTG8-yAkRgedCBvpKFFxJLHYTZzmpz_-CyAn8fn8MQq5xjWoPwDeX9wO4RPjQV_D0cQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Will we come back again? Probably not. Our lives are already split between Gig Harbor and Montecarlo, and we don’t need the complication of adding another country. It’s enough of a challenge trying to develop and maintain friendships while living in two different countries, not to mention that we’re still learning Italian. In addition, the whole time we kept thinking how much Bavaria reminds us of our own beautiful Western Washington, with its snow-capped mountains, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, hiking trails, and yes, even its own Bavarian village—which, by the way, will have an alpine roller coaster and climbing wall opening this summer. And we’ve already booked eight days in Leavenworth at our Worldmark condo with our family this June.</span><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-6682607116044639082023-04-11T13:31:00.003-07:002023-04-11T13:34:06.474-07:00We get a two-for-the-price-of-one experience at the Pontedera Cineplex<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Every once in a while, we get the urge to go out to a
movie, and today was one of those days. We usually prefer American movies that
have been dubbed into Italian, because the voices are clear and free of
dialect. We have nothing against Italian movies, but the film makers want them
to be authentic, so many of the characters have regional dialects. It is
already hard enough for us to follow the dialogue even when the characters
speak clear and plain standard Italian.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOgxl-Nth2qQ3RnZCGLo9ZsQ2qyACHdPA1mV9eCQwCXXRGW88NC4MmQpYcLoqA-7yOuE_XKoM_2O5mU34E3TSESEK2Ynm_Y7GxUEMYe1UeKu2nJl0Ug9RoPyqA-OJPe7qScx9fe-tic9cWryZJDjhZudeMkMmTswIH5QJ8jnu2EAzS7axEsqR2Td6rA/s1000/Lucy%20in%20cinema%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="1000" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOgxl-Nth2qQ3RnZCGLo9ZsQ2qyACHdPA1mV9eCQwCXXRGW88NC4MmQpYcLoqA-7yOuE_XKoM_2O5mU34E3TSESEK2Ynm_Y7GxUEMYe1UeKu2nJl0Ug9RoPyqA-OJPe7qScx9fe-tic9cWryZJDjhZudeMkMmTswIH5QJ8jnu2EAzS7axEsqR2Td6rA/w640-h392/Lucy%20in%20cinema%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">We also prefer movies that have quite a bit of action with
uncomplicated conflicts between the characters, so Creed 3 was a perfect
choice. The website of the Pontedera Cineplex said that today only, at 4:30
p.m., the movie would even be shown in English with Italian subtitles, so we’d
be able to completely relax and enjoy the film. I felt a bit guilty that we
wouldn’t be practicing our Italian listening skills, but the timing was
perfect, as we are currently enjoying a mini-vacation in a condominium in
Colleoli, just 20 minutes from the cineplex.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We’ve noted before that movies are not a very popular form
of entertainment here, and thus we weren’t surprised to find that we were the
only two people in the theater—not the first time this has happened. Once the
movie started, we noted right away that there were no subtitles and the film
was in Italian, not English. I went out and let the cineplex personnel know,
and soon the lights came on and the film stopped. After about five minutes, a
very apologetic employee came in and said the projectionist couldn’t figure out
how to show the English version. No problem, we said, we’ll just watch in
Italian, and we did just fine; the dialogue was not overly complex, and the
movie was well done. Plus, we were given free tickets for another movie as
compensation.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We had a memorable encounter some years ago when we were
once again the only two people at an afternoon showing of Son of Mask, this
time in Arezzo. The movie was pretty bad, and when it was only two thirds done,
the film stopped and all the lights went on. We waited for about ten minutes,
and then someone came in and told us it was over. We argued for a bit, because
even though we couldn’t understand all the dialogue, it was obvious that the
plot hadn’t reached the climax. But then we considered how awful this movie was
(later I found out it received eight nominations for Golden Raspberry Awards,
including worst sequel, worst actor and worst director), and we decided to go.
On the way out, we mentioned that the film wasn’t over, but we didn’t mind
leaving anyway. Again we were told that it really had finished. No, we said, it
didn’t, but it was OK. Just as we got to the door, the manager came hurrying up
to us and said, yes, we were correct, the film wasn’t over. He was sorry,
please, we must go back and watch the rest. We didn’t want him to think we were
upset, so we returned to watch the rest. After all, how could the theater
personnel live with themselves if they thought that they had offended 100% of
their afternoon customers?</span></span></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-80646127673971912282023-04-10T15:29:00.001-07:002023-04-10T15:29:23.201-07:00Our first real Pasquetta in Tuscany<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiH09OSHcDdIoh7_9XXXVkdSdr-xpn2dtGgoXZfD175PqaITld_rRr7U5AJnkN57Aa-IHQute1Y3uaqi7e5JwDOQLdNggTitl9w8k8qIHlYHbri0IFlEypjESk5xaS87orGsDUL4MzpugNJdA-G6wfnqovoMaMJulQ12XTut_YsgXnDYE9GUFJgRQuoA/s1200/boats%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiH09OSHcDdIoh7_9XXXVkdSdr-xpn2dtGgoXZfD175PqaITld_rRr7U5AJnkN57Aa-IHQute1Y3uaqi7e5JwDOQLdNggTitl9w8k8qIHlYHbri0IFlEypjESk5xaS87orGsDUL4MzpugNJdA-G6wfnqovoMaMJulQ12XTut_YsgXnDYE9GUFJgRQuoA/w300-h400/boats%20(1).jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boating on the Padule on Pasquetta.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">For the majority of the past 12 years, Lucy and I have
celebrated Easter Sunday while in Tuscany—but this is the first time we really
participated in <i>Pasquetta</i>, an important Italian tradition
celebrated on the day following Easter. Pasquetta—literally “little Easter”—is
a civil holiday, with little of a religious nature. However, some maintain that
it is celebrated with an almost religious fervor because it is so deeply
ingrained in the culture. Traditionally, it is a day for Italian families to
venture into the countryside for a day of picnics and outdoor fun. Most
factories and stores are closed, though many restaurants remain open.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VbzxUG752NupwFFouZ4Z8so80dcJCGwclJusTnZbxAswjSBHzpBfZxNuKFJYb30GBQm3Od75IDKzGFJvU1ARZUTGg0QpZyQoeNVnSxBM6sAIGeMXofZD25GtWnNoDUfxcbbaESwCVay03NiytJ60QeKoUREhj0-ZTfNnhtX17Z7JO_1RB6E3rCmTWg/s1000/field%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="1000" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VbzxUG752NupwFFouZ4Z8so80dcJCGwclJusTnZbxAswjSBHzpBfZxNuKFJYb30GBQm3Od75IDKzGFJvU1ARZUTGg0QpZyQoeNVnSxBM6sAIGeMXofZD25GtWnNoDUfxcbbaESwCVay03NiytJ60QeKoUREhj0-ZTfNnhtX17Z7JO_1RB6E3rCmTWg/w640-h376/field%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyHSBNsfse1XDQxaTXRjNUdD7RelfdSvQnqxy6XyFM596csbbEl345fl-HEK-8Kg5zTKc0QA3_timmPEdKJpHPRWv1Lcwch7rXQZ9n9BEELpd8aTJIwcU73SGm--is-JTrF4FYq44aBmKHmqe8NkDKJVudIzlBdPZqWa4-wfr5t2VpoXf04zcv4Ap0Q/s900/Lucy%20on%20dock%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="900" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyHSBNsfse1XDQxaTXRjNUdD7RelfdSvQnqxy6XyFM596csbbEl345fl-HEK-8Kg5zTKc0QA3_timmPEdKJpHPRWv1Lcwch7rXQZ9n9BEELpd8aTJIwcU73SGm--is-JTrF4FYq44aBmKHmqe8NkDKJVudIzlBdPZqWa4-wfr5t2VpoXf04zcv4Ap0Q/s320/Lucy%20on%20dock%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The reason we’ve not celebrated Pasquetta is that our
family here consists of just Lucy and me. True, I have a large extended family
in Tuscany, but Pasquetta celebrations usually involve the nuclear family. My
closest relatives are third cousins, and even then, I’ve only known them for a
few years, so we’ve never really been involved in this important tradition
beyond watching families meander down the picturesque streets of Montecarlo.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTyBTUxB8d5VFKeusEzaqoV-1x29JfncVl-sLiw5SGZEZe-caMD3XfZ6m56jzF36GlpHFDWaUzoaEB8bcijgGw1MLUGk5Ptt9ja4Wam2htRcejk_KvgAopLSQ8rz3MpMfo1wsx-_-DrLuQCc5wYsdDHf0Y90eaRZgfjpyBK7iHhdfjnhTUVDRQWfObQ/s865/Pasquetta%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTyBTUxB8d5VFKeusEzaqoV-1x29JfncVl-sLiw5SGZEZe-caMD3XfZ6m56jzF36GlpHFDWaUzoaEB8bcijgGw1MLUGk5Ptt9ja4Wam2htRcejk_KvgAopLSQ8rz3MpMfo1wsx-_-DrLuQCc5wYsdDHf0Y90eaRZgfjpyBK7iHhdfjnhTUVDRQWfObQ/s320/Pasquetta%20(1).jpg" width="222" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">The difference this year is that we went to an advertised
event called Pasquetta in Padule at the Casotto del Sordo near Massarella.
Because of my affection for the Padule di Fucecchio, I had ridden my bike to
the Casotto del Sordo about a week ago, not really knowing what to expect. To
me, it had basically been just a dot on the map on the edge of the Padule. I
have since learned that this little shack was built in 1923 by a man who had
returned badly injured from World War 1. Among his injuries, he had lost his
hearing and had been given the nickname <i>Il Sordo</i>, meaning “the
deaf.” Now the Casotto is managed by an association of hunters, fishermen,
landowners and local residents concerned with maintaining and improving the
ambiance of the Padule. This swamp had once been a vital source of sustenance
for the community, but in the later 1900s, it became somewhat of a dumping
ground. Now there are several associations committed to cleaning it up and helping
the public understand its importance to the ecosystem.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiDqHErof5jPkV29adgp88mQhzzXQT1PHomIxod7usAOBZOpt-SQijfPS7P1dH-xC2cRkf1Qbcx9gDtsK_jdWUu5oC_fvy_jkwVesfMCOXs2nBM1EbLvHRGn2BzzZMEXhhGG6SQYhu-X44k7b-YioH_IaqMS8aHoCu5HoD9gN9gktIlOBCz0vtsid-w/s1264/Ducks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiDqHErof5jPkV29adgp88mQhzzXQT1PHomIxod7usAOBZOpt-SQijfPS7P1dH-xC2cRkf1Qbcx9gDtsK_jdWUu5oC_fvy_jkwVesfMCOXs2nBM1EbLvHRGn2BzzZMEXhhGG6SQYhu-X44k7b-YioH_IaqMS8aHoCu5HoD9gN9gktIlOBCz0vtsid-w/w285-h400/Ducks.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">The Association Il Padule sponsored the Pasquetta event,
which included food, drinks, scenic walks and boat rides. The group has built
several other buildings adjoining the Casotto that were used for the
preparation and sale of the food, and members have also added a covered outdoor
eating area with picnic tables and benches. When we arrived in mid-afternoon,
the parking lot was nearly full, and some 200 people were picnicking, lounging
in the grass, playing football and volleyball, walking on the shores of the
Padule, and lining up for rides in the <i>barchini</i>, which are small
boats piloted by members of the association. Lucy and I took a stroll down to
the canal while we watched ducks swimming and a number of large white and gray
birds flying by. I wish I could say what the birds were, but I’m not great at
recognizing bird species, especially in a country where I was not raised.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0d7tTZrdxrqHNAGH2Sc8Dg1FFh50ZsLEyFX9u0pFdcA0AHvSzvMe1Joh2_4CJOJMBOMY9Y2lNHekokctV78Ofj-iuzgw2Ynob9mv9IEkTM_19DYEOOrjClx1nifSnTLkDRvruuIPbEkhWY00ehlCEcc-Nid63ZXImhOCd68RRfnoP1UtDC6mlW0axQ/s250/Pittima%20reale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="250" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0d7tTZrdxrqHNAGH2Sc8Dg1FFh50ZsLEyFX9u0pFdcA0AHvSzvMe1Joh2_4CJOJMBOMY9Y2lNHekokctV78Ofj-iuzgw2Ynob9mv9IEkTM_19DYEOOrjClx1nifSnTLkDRvruuIPbEkhWY00ehlCEcc-Nid63ZXImhOCd68RRfnoP1UtDC6mlW0axQ/w320-h212/Pittima%20reale.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my photo, but this is a Pittima Raela,<br />taken in the Padule. Photo by Enrico di Gregorio.</td></tr></tbody></table>I
read online that bird watchers and biologists performed a study of the Padule
during Covid times. I used Google to translate a portion of the report: “39
species were recorded (a true biodiversity record) for a total number of 12,783
birds, among which the Alzavole (6,012) stand out, the rare Ibis (234), the
Pavoncella (1455) and the Moriglione (749). There have been sightings of rare
species such as the Bittern, the White Stork, the Spoonbill, the Flamingo and
the Ferruginous Duck, and for the first time a small group of wintering night
herons was also found (25).” Most of these birds are not found where I grew up
in Western Washington, so I don’t feel so bad for not recognizing them.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNH67S2o0S3epNRxvYiTqtCt3P3YvzVl8GWyNDLT675FsRDQS7AqeSospMvpoeWPYSM50KdJjJb-XhYeFnOTxC5iKOoi0E-td1QbDotxO6RFq_0DIK6hFGfPi8dIiM-Y6nOp5SBqyGWbzGL1Ybd-8tMLUN_8GsBth7Ej8DoHs862Ak2AFvHBuWRO5Z6Q/s700/ciaccini%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="700" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNH67S2o0S3epNRxvYiTqtCt3P3YvzVl8GWyNDLT675FsRDQS7AqeSospMvpoeWPYSM50KdJjJb-XhYeFnOTxC5iKOoi0E-td1QbDotxO6RFq_0DIK6hFGfPi8dIiM-Y6nOp5SBqyGWbzGL1Ybd-8tMLUN_8GsBth7Ej8DoHs862Ak2AFvHBuWRO5Z6Q/s320/ciaccini%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ciaccini and espresso</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">We did not pay for a boat ride this time, but it is now on
our list for future adventures. We did sample a very regional snack named <i>ciaccini</i>,
something we’ve never heard of before. I spoke to one of the volunteers, who
confirmed that while it exists in other regions, it would be called something
else. A <i>ciaccino</i> consisted of a very thin and round slice of
fried dough, about the size of a pancake, seasoned with salt, olive oil and
perhaps a few spices. For 3 euro, we each received two <i>ciaccini
affettato</i> (with finely sliced prosciutto between them). Probably the
most enjoyable part of the afternoon was the people-watching we did while
eating and enjoying our tiny cups of espresso—old men standing close together
while swapping tales; men, women, boys and girls playing calcio; little boys
beating stalks of bamboo with wooden sticks; families dining and boating
together; girls running and screaming; couples walking hand-in-hand. I have
little doubt that we were the only non-Italians in the group, and that’s just
fine with us. This is why we come here—to experience the Italian lifestyle that
exists far from the touristy cities. For us, now, Pasquetta is more than just
a word.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><br /><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-28851336332057917462023-04-05T15:03:00.004-07:002023-04-05T15:06:48.893-07:00Day trip to Pesciatina Svizzera: A favorite activity worth repeating<p><span style="font-size: large;">Someday I need to write a complete blog or even a magazine article about the Valleriana and the 10 castle cities located there, but for today, a brief mention will have to do. This valley, also called Pesciatina Svizzera because of its resemblance to the Swiss Alps, draws us back again and again. It is especially appealing to visit on a clear day like today.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifV_bf8eLi2SBOAbiN_dlMFXBn0fY-GytItnteZwxUf_VZyYxKy-YNwyKRsytiKyyqYWFHecqeLmujGLpP2cPd9-eRoI4qnlY66zA96hSoRlvyJFN9_yogIC10FFVtj0kP1gSm6Uy-6UNrwnJcP37vesfvcIDjDQS4I7Vu92URxEbyOimOGMdJwp944A/s963/Castelvecchio%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="963" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifV_bf8eLi2SBOAbiN_dlMFXBn0fY-GytItnteZwxUf_VZyYxKy-YNwyKRsytiKyyqYWFHecqeLmujGLpP2cPd9-eRoI4qnlY66zA96hSoRlvyJFN9_yogIC10FFVtj0kP1gSm6Uy-6UNrwnJcP37vesfvcIDjDQS4I7Vu92URxEbyOimOGMdJwp944A/w640-h376/Castelvecchio%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLQXP3dd-nRKLeI552kkd_TP4nApFVUbr2l_IkPgyRUwSwqImv2DfB4pkqgDRcjh5UrVCETYd26cQg49p_N42rCGCbl8ddqNkre71PN-YWMf2KP0Zr5jInvh5DKKlf-Eabyg-5piQjvecooZT0-jL8BLNaL3YpVzJANOThe6itYLoXP2Ee6m8G2EO0Q/s1020/CV%205.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="752" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLQXP3dd-nRKLeI552kkd_TP4nApFVUbr2l_IkPgyRUwSwqImv2DfB4pkqgDRcjh5UrVCETYd26cQg49p_N42rCGCbl8ddqNkre71PN-YWMf2KP0Zr5jInvh5DKKlf-Eabyg-5piQjvecooZT0-jL8BLNaL3YpVzJANOThe6itYLoXP2Ee6m8G2EO0Q/s320/CV%205.jpg" width="236" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Historically referred to as Valle Ariana but later shortened to Valleriana, the valley rises up from an elevation of about 200 feet above sea level in Pescia to the highest town of Pontito at 2,444 feet. At various places along the way, one can view many of the picturesque cities, also called castles because most cities were walled during medieval times, and the entire city was referred to as a castle. Before today, Lucy and I had only visited three of the cities, but now we’ve added a fourth to the list, Castelvecchio.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-Reb0hkzabl91EpqVDeaKzqiNVGmuTPwujiBuuDLJ4j9VdRMye5wL0hAoUxxYEYtsM9QHTfvesiNw6Q_ElSa_TF1N2DcQkve-cdJQsdHrI1vPmTcsaMl5-wxWdC8URTBl5Q4i-eWzYDX_m1AiRpHugNU3agaalDNwHpMTBY0XKoBw8r3kCe6wjb4jQ/s2048/CV%204.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-Reb0hkzabl91EpqVDeaKzqiNVGmuTPwujiBuuDLJ4j9VdRMye5wL0hAoUxxYEYtsM9QHTfvesiNw6Q_ElSa_TF1N2DcQkve-cdJQsdHrI1vPmTcsaMl5-wxWdC8URTBl5Q4i-eWzYDX_m1AiRpHugNU3agaalDNwHpMTBY0XKoBw8r3kCe6wjb4jQ/w640-h480/CV%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJ1jhKqW6GNsLnQGiyW5s7F05UVcI4jby_SghZoS6QvZbASK7_QwCV3OD1vjnxGcnvmZdmk9M-0p9srm5CrwtyqsIFUsRtyDeG2DZdrd6K11vT8qygNPKcgk_KmFb41r_8Y9Bj7od8ljVdD8TXdBDbv0tAAxhJCcum9OuTXU9MBW1Xg84FzQ11zf4Tg/s876/CV%202%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="876" data-original-width="695" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJ1jhKqW6GNsLnQGiyW5s7F05UVcI4jby_SghZoS6QvZbASK7_QwCV3OD1vjnxGcnvmZdmk9M-0p9srm5CrwtyqsIFUsRtyDeG2DZdrd6K11vT8qygNPKcgk_KmFb41r_8Y9Bj7od8ljVdD8TXdBDbv0tAAxhJCcum9OuTXU9MBW1Xg84FzQ11zf4Tg/w318-h400/CV%202%20(1).jpg" width="318" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">We picked up our friends Kjetil and Laila around 11 a.m. and arrived in Castelvecchio a little before noon. We took a step back in time while taking a half hour stroll through the sloped and slanted stone streets, admiring red tiled roofs, an amazing variety of doors—both ancient and modern—and the patchwork stone and brick walls of homes built mostly between 1300 and 1900. We saw tidy homes with neatly kept yards scattered among homes and yards that were crumbling ruins. The most recent census shows 146 inhabitants, but one can imagine that during better times the city housed up to 1,000 residents, many of whom went out of the city during the daytime to hunt in the woods, gather chestnuts or work in their hillside farms.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6u1hbv733DdX7tsdeRBauVdl5sxYaDrXz23dj3cHZoBRzuCT-LkVSyMj0OCymtNk0TYmQZXNKR6tq1PWaqV9YaYa8A5z-rZSM0YtoLlzo3xe2auu4FTv_xAuODmQV_Gebw_qkmM45WdD_33ztdgpjv7S0aX2-DZoYofmKH_jkm4m9EsRNlsngik1DQ/s1781/CV%201%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1781" data-original-width="1328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6u1hbv733DdX7tsdeRBauVdl5sxYaDrXz23dj3cHZoBRzuCT-LkVSyMj0OCymtNk0TYmQZXNKR6tq1PWaqV9YaYa8A5z-rZSM0YtoLlzo3xe2auu4FTv_xAuODmQV_Gebw_qkmM45WdD_33ztdgpjv7S0aX2-DZoYofmKH_jkm4m9EsRNlsngik1DQ/s320/CV%201%20(2).jpg" width="239" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Some traveled even farther down the valley to work in the numerous paper mills that were powered by the current of the river Pescia. Production of paper in this area began in the late 1400s and reached its peak in the 1800s because of the valley’s strategic location near both the mountains above and thriving centers of commerce such as Lucca, Pistoia, Montecatini and Florence on the plains below.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Of the cities we’ve visited, we can’t really pick a favorite. They’re all fabulous, really. Pontito is the highest and one of the least populated (50 inhabitants), so if you want to see a particularly peaceful and weather-worn village, it’s the place to go. Vellano is the largest, with a population around 270, and it has the most activity, including a mining museum, a popular annual festa to celebrate chestnut snacks, and the highly regarded Trattoria Manero. We’ve also been to San Quirico, population 200, which is no less interesting and beautiful than the others.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFfSnhedZ8_zuVZfqR2KC2NRgoZZKakfuiBnboIYFqhEW5IsDXMKxMjujmBho6i7G03XZ44NAXHb4AaTUNTtzIJNmgeSjCjmwZApGuazyR69Ot6votOY1vzKrezXEHH-W9s-Ycwwzx93aAf6A8zDoBpAUbPo394etJ5XkIoaQZwL59OPfOB_DTNhUmg/s409/pontito%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="409" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFfSnhedZ8_zuVZfqR2KC2NRgoZZKakfuiBnboIYFqhEW5IsDXMKxMjujmBho6i7G03XZ44NAXHb4AaTUNTtzIJNmgeSjCjmwZApGuazyR69Ot6votOY1vzKrezXEHH-W9s-Ycwwzx93aAf6A8zDoBpAUbPo394etJ5XkIoaQZwL59OPfOB_DTNhUmg/w400-h275/pontito%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pontito taken from below.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I forgot my camera in the car, but Kjetil took some great photos, and I have borrowed some to post here. After our stroll, we went to La Pieve, one of my personal favorite restaurants. It has a <i>pranzo di lavoro</i>, in which customers can enjoy a complete lunch for 13 euro (prior to Covid, it was only 11 euro). Though relatively remote, the place was packed, more so today than other times we’ve dined here. Despite the crowd, service was prompt. We enjoyed a leisurely meal in good company. And with six more castle cities to explore in the coming years, we’ll surely be back for more sightseeing and dining pleasure.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdW7nmKc9iKu_Q-Qkp08qk4K4yUjhKhvrsNagpgqk6qo_ewd2DfmZ9ggnmsMLzIkF32h6k3UIvzfqUVf72WHF6JUOcFpqrS_x6ZDzJ4ff6-CvA0PmQk6YjcEY3m-tZawB2eebfzazTc07zDPgJv06hE9PxxChbbMcqzm-qxq5b7hQq79pngyNtTpjQg/s1078/La%20Pieve.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdW7nmKc9iKu_Q-Qkp08qk4K4yUjhKhvrsNagpgqk6qo_ewd2DfmZ9ggnmsMLzIkF32h6k3UIvzfqUVf72WHF6JUOcFpqrS_x6ZDzJ4ff6-CvA0PmQk6YjcEY3m-tZawB2eebfzazTc07zDPgJv06hE9PxxChbbMcqzm-qxq5b7hQq79pngyNtTpjQg/w594-h640/La%20Pieve.jpg" width="594" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pranzo at La Pieve.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-84060430428532121472023-04-02T06:45:00.003-07:002023-04-02T06:50:59.102-07:00Another encounter with the carabinieri<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">My plan to
avoid getting my Italian driver’s license was put to the test today—the second
time this has happened. Coming back from church in Altopascio, we were waved to
the side of the road by two impeccably attired and stone-faced carabinieri. I
knew what they wanted: documents for my identity and the car’s registration
papers.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOjJSK8Q0rJbj_hDzi7ZTpiC8GC2isihXBkj_3u-1isQ2WSqZyruvkPy-5qq_0282L2O4UPE1gqtKK6JPYhPjGF7ATi9HIMb1X1Aq9zKKbZ9s6npfb05PXzzinLit5mjst3p1BS_Q8pciKI3ac5AulzoTVOf15l08FBthxqQGhYSEk0VLOz_NJisekw/s987/Carabiniere%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="987" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOjJSK8Q0rJbj_hDzi7ZTpiC8GC2isihXBkj_3u-1isQ2WSqZyruvkPy-5qq_0282L2O4UPE1gqtKK6JPYhPjGF7ATi9HIMb1X1Aq9zKKbZ9s6npfb05PXzzinLit5mjst3p1BS_Q8pciKI3ac5AulzoTVOf15l08FBthxqQGhYSEk0VLOz_NJisekw/w400-h228/Carabiniere%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Normally
when we have a car here, it’s from a rental agency, but this time we are using
a car loaned by our friend Simone and Luciano, his dad. Luciano spends much of
his time out of the country, so his car would otherwise be sitting in a dank garage.
We can attest to that because that’s where it was when Simone took us to pick
it up, with some white mold starting to bloom on the leather fixtures. Of
course, we’ve cleaned that off and given the car a good airing. We had previously
planned to get by for most of our stay with just our bikes this spring, but the
car has been a real Godsend. After all, just because we’re in Tuscany doesn’t
mean that it’s never cold and rainy. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Rolling down
the window and unfastening my seatbelt, I pulled out my wallet and handed over my
Washington state driver’s license and my international permit while speaking
mostly in English. I had to fumble through the pile of papers in the glove box
to find the car’s registration papers, but I found them with only a short delay.
I should also have been carrying my American passport, but I told the carabiniere
I had left it in my room, which is the truth. While he went back to his car,
presumably to do a computer check on the car and write up a report, I had Lucy
pull up on her phone the document Simone had sent us granting permission to use
the car. As the officer walked back to us, perhaps to ask why I was driving a
car owned by someone else, I held up the phone so he could read it. Then he went
back to his car and added more to his report. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">After another
couple of minutes, he handed me back my license and said all was okay, crossing
his chest to indicate that I should refasten my seat belt. Only as we pulled
away did he give us a slight smile. I was last pulled over in 2017, and the
routine was much the same, only that time I had a rental car and the carabinieri
were a little more chatty, although just as efficient and professional as the ones we dealt with today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">You may
wonder why I spoke of a plan to avoid getting an Italian license. Well, it’s a
big deal for people who have sold their homes in America to live in Italy full
time. Legally, they have only one year to get an Italian license, and that can
be a daunting task. The tests, both written and verbal, are conducted entirely
in Italian. I have the advantage of only living here for a few months at a time,
meaning I can keep my U.S. license current and pass as a tourist. For a more
detailed explanation of the legal situation, you can read the details of my traffic stop
in 2017: <a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2017/04/stopped-by-italian-police-but-i-easily.html">Stopped
by the Italian police.</a></span></span></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-38434774758739261162023-03-31T12:22:00.006-07:002023-04-01T01:27:24.253-07:00A peaceful visit to the hillside Rocca above nearby Villa Basilica<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcTdvQg5wOrU6KWJIHZhqBQOo3T7-yu2q1ROGIy_3HyGesi6SsjKgxble26VJP6v7p3RyH-3j9dIZDCP7sf9RZSIxUZ9yXbMuM5voT5lQvX0h4JSoOLi7fhAb1KDUfRcGza1FRsyvcTIqGQv4Cb7THLCa-xdXsr4FBk0J_WtyK3UnEZxapLPqu9PsJA/s1000/Lucy%20Rocca.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="760" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcTdvQg5wOrU6KWJIHZhqBQOo3T7-yu2q1ROGIy_3HyGesi6SsjKgxble26VJP6v7p3RyH-3j9dIZDCP7sf9RZSIxUZ9yXbMuM5voT5lQvX0h4JSoOLi7fhAb1KDUfRcGza1FRsyvcTIqGQv4Cb7THLCa-xdXsr4FBk0J_WtyK3UnEZxapLPqu9PsJA/w304-h400/Lucy%20Rocca.jpg" width="304" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">We keep finding new favorite places here. Wednesday it was
the Rocca di Villa Basilica, something that I had not heard of despite it being
only 16 kilometers away, and it is basically visible from Montecarlo. This
destination was suggested to us by Renzo Tori, a local bicycling enthusiast and
poet who often posts scenic photos and poems on his Facebook page. As Wednesday
was too cold for me to go for a bike ride, we hopped into our borrowed car and
headed out on a dry but mostly overcast day. Our gps said it would be a 22-minute
drive.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqIh5Gz6PYQMTQAQ3ymZ4nqDbX5CggGJYGx6umluIX0KQrQoguVThTE0DrKmWwbnPF0F5OlVT8mW6_bHENMmOHKibeASfNEq0Cy01ymXJ_xv_VP4Ii0SJnTY7mqvoUTJ_SELiwTvzlBH0hkZwmpLNkuS55wOMGcQ89or2w8W4gMqdiehV384qlKOKeA/s1000/Villa%20Basilica%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="961" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqIh5Gz6PYQMTQAQ3ymZ4nqDbX5CggGJYGx6umluIX0KQrQoguVThTE0DrKmWwbnPF0F5OlVT8mW6_bHENMmOHKibeASfNEq0Cy01ymXJ_xv_VP4Ii0SJnTY7mqvoUTJ_SELiwTvzlBH0hkZwmpLNkuS55wOMGcQ89or2w8W4gMqdiehV384qlKOKeA/w616-h640/Villa%20Basilica%20small.jpg" width="616" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">While Lucy and I had been to <i>centro storico</i> of
Villa Basilica once before, we didn’t realize that just above the town is an
abandoned stone fortress built in the 12</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th century. A rocca
(literally, rock) is a type of Italian fortified stronghold, typically located
on a hilltop, beneath or on which the inhabitants of a village or town might
take refuge in times of trouble. We passed Collodi and headed up the valley,
winding back and forth on sharp switchbacks once we reached Botticino. This would have been a challenge on my bike, even with the electric power boost. While
there is a road all the way to the fortress, the last 200 meters looked a bit
challenging for our car, so we parked and walked in.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58LkQHi3puMc7umWDvV9zSdpxUbBMISsDyFl1G81oBPwwhsIO8YIFW2VoOk1mf58ZinezFIYzsNW4_S50D_zEwwJHeJ0gpAXNqs2vR8FFmK2TyjLL2MUjFGLCv22Q7LlDKjBN7CvnT6EvYVi0L-NsrDoDfA-7SfGgu641xclRljHSTxqnz6QbFautcA/s807/paul%20inside.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58LkQHi3puMc7umWDvV9zSdpxUbBMISsDyFl1G81oBPwwhsIO8YIFW2VoOk1mf58ZinezFIYzsNW4_S50D_zEwwJHeJ0gpAXNqs2vR8FFmK2TyjLL2MUjFGLCv22Q7LlDKjBN7CvnT6EvYVi0L-NsrDoDfA-7SfGgu641xclRljHSTxqnz6QbFautcA/s320/paul%20inside.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I managed breach the defenses.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We enjoyed the vista for about 15 minutes—both the view of
the Rocca and the view from it. We were the only ones there, and the fortress
gate was locked, but we figured that was only a suggestion. If a fence can be
scaled in two seconds by a 70-year-old man, it must have been designed with
that in mind. Inside I found a rectangular cistern partially filled with rain
water, and a wooden platform that looked like it could be used for a band or
theater group in summer months. I climbed a wooden ramp that led to the
circular lookout tower and tried to imagine being here 700 years ago while
preparing my weapons to hold off advancing enemies.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkzYFCB-GlxSx7OGZSlbGVjaXo67m5yLFpZizE7OMwKlO7mVgF4mliR7tldZ71zJFa0on5uwDy3tNci6hOLpGtBfnDnQARksOhb6FhtBhRHc2_ygVu0qkt5H0mRbc80BgOTgDBZOiDZZCtqRupK7fewt7uef0hERxug5VJM-1XNtkuKeunM_ygwfy_w/s900/paul%20on%20top.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="549" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkzYFCB-GlxSx7OGZSlbGVjaXo67m5yLFpZizE7OMwKlO7mVgF4mliR7tldZ71zJFa0on5uwDy3tNci6hOLpGtBfnDnQARksOhb6FhtBhRHc2_ygVu0qkt5H0mRbc80BgOTgDBZOiDZZCtqRupK7fewt7uef0hERxug5VJM-1XNtkuKeunM_ygwfy_w/w244-h400/paul%20on%20top.jpg" width="244" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">We had a birds-eye view of Villa Basilica, and in the
distance to the south, we saw Montecarlo—the fortress, the church tower and the
two trees that are right outside our house. Looking north, we saw the isolated
hillside village of Pariana. What must it have been like to live in one of
these villages during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, when it would have taken
two and a half hours to walk uphill from Pescia to Villa Basilica, and another
two hours to Pariana? It’s fun to imagine. But then again, maybe not so fun to
have been here when the village bounced back and forth between the warring
kingdoms of Lucca, Florence and Pisa. The Rocca and village were sacked several
times in the late 1300s and early 1400s. The city was burned, and the
inhabitants killed, imprisoned or driven away at least three times in a period
of 100 years. I think I prefer the isolation and quiet that Lucy and I
experienced there today.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishzm4lJoKSTUpU5d4qYF3YerfRwizMuSzS5MscW6M_xexQ0YlD0Old0wFbgCxQln9C454kj8o3-7HlFLzhjXf4bDCnApckUZbhR41XHOEaFzr_Poo4_IjWhQGiMF30k3bpb84QaG917QO17tuB8SwSaCOrvtcDuOrZa9Hqaj8peqqNWUJ9sBjtDz57g/s2048/Rocca%20inside.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishzm4lJoKSTUpU5d4qYF3YerfRwizMuSzS5MscW6M_xexQ0YlD0Old0wFbgCxQln9C454kj8o3-7HlFLzhjXf4bDCnApckUZbhR41XHOEaFzr_Poo4_IjWhQGiMF30k3bpb84QaG917QO17tuB8SwSaCOrvtcDuOrZa9Hqaj8peqqNWUJ9sBjtDz57g/w640-h640/Rocca%20inside.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-71858812312039353152023-03-29T14:12:00.005-07:002023-03-29T14:25:44.708-07:00Praise for the picturesque Padule<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%;">Yesterday’s bike ride took me
to the <a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2017/10/padule-di-fucecchio-is-place-of-danger.html">Padule
di Fucecchio</a>, Italy’s largest swamp. What a treasure this place is! I
parked my bike at the Casotto (or Casin) di Lillo and walked down what was labeled
a <i>percorso didattico</i>, a teaching trail. I had hoped there
would be some signs telling me about the flora and fauna, but no luck. Probably
the teaching is normally done by an experienced guide, but I had none.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuIcUKOV79ZmaUDP_WzrrBKsn6MXMtZukI8UFMPGKi33r1_PXrzkw0KjlWPwYodNFMeXrboa78Q8mD4OlYBpfz_xLgHCKOkvvj6Q8eSFm6MGVHw16MxbDTIuYeNnQ4z8Hd06SjKtYRkmwRLGaFNdhhr9wUxsY-IPlIDjp1CyG55t_UxUElsZx8gGv3w/s2048/Padule%201.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1604" data-original-width="2048" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuIcUKOV79ZmaUDP_WzrrBKsn6MXMtZukI8UFMPGKi33r1_PXrzkw0KjlWPwYodNFMeXrboa78Q8mD4OlYBpfz_xLgHCKOkvvj6Q8eSFm6MGVHw16MxbDTIuYeNnQ4z8Hd06SjKtYRkmwRLGaFNdhhr9wUxsY-IPlIDjp1CyG55t_UxUElsZx8gGv3w/w640-h502/Padule%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8f5BEWxMEVqp_GY9f61ulxlzvccuMSMw0bKcVNnG2HljM_K4vv-dD73aR_f9Ip62AaC8rCX2vctjxRLw8H9lcLwJSCkGHK-FOdcWvsldD3k3uYKg1CRdXCTfgZ3Ouqbke8o8IM7dTmDBefqcTLqTdO7VWK2mvh7iUUTZRqoM60syIDIJbk67Z1sDDw/s2048/Padule%205.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1478" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8f5BEWxMEVqp_GY9f61ulxlzvccuMSMw0bKcVNnG2HljM_K4vv-dD73aR_f9Ip62AaC8rCX2vctjxRLw8H9lcLwJSCkGHK-FOdcWvsldD3k3uYKg1CRdXCTfgZ3Ouqbke8o8IM7dTmDBefqcTLqTdO7VWK2mvh7iUUTZRqoM60syIDIJbk67Z1sDDw/w289-h400/Padule%205.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>However, I did see about 200 herons and egrets,
all at the same time gathered in a cluster of trees, raising a huge racket.
Startled turtles plunged into the canals just ahead of me. Fingerling fish by
the hundreds of thousands flitted on the edges of every canal, and the water
glistened and reflected the pristine blue Tuscan sky heavenward.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmqwnAHxQ0hwwrDYF_jfALnDAy32Dta4oIwbz2y77VgIM38XEGka7PBaXdazAC2DqOG9wSVGZT0_SNvB0gM3INbPXS8yZFoHHZhkWOsA2qmVdMb_XAX6WjOV7FwndgKNcne44BVaU6lyiLrVUM6wt3LGDbnKgUCobJYkhwm6WmQ_jhd1Px9CZ-VLPpQ/s2048/Padule%203.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmqwnAHxQ0hwwrDYF_jfALnDAy32Dta4oIwbz2y77VgIM38XEGka7PBaXdazAC2DqOG9wSVGZT0_SNvB0gM3INbPXS8yZFoHHZhkWOsA2qmVdMb_XAX6WjOV7FwndgKNcne44BVaU6lyiLrVUM6wt3LGDbnKgUCobJYkhwm6WmQ_jhd1Px9CZ-VLPpQ/s320/Padule%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">As much as Italy is renowned for its stunning
man-made paintings, sculptures and architecture, I still prefer the God-made
art. I’m admittedly in the minority, as I was the only person in the park at
the Casotto (or Casin) di Lillo from 3-4:30 p.m. Despite people in Italy being
pretty environmentally conscious, I found a stagnant part of one of the canals
choked by both naturally occurring and man-made garbage. Come on, people!
Still, my walk was 99 percent gorgeous.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiQlRk64gd9IEpIg5GcHUyX7a-oAftjKpKw7y_85-G5hwXo-cu8BJ_T4cwWbdXMNjP6mWRNry-iVxnwoSNQS1Qe-4evWfA9pPc3lG26N21Di2FpYDLMAJeoUWeHdis_qxNvMpnGcIpLW37VuIQ_dfxbn5cfusz78b5hFtdkrubCZwAPwbBUGJIDOmMCA/s1080/Padule%206%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiQlRk64gd9IEpIg5GcHUyX7a-oAftjKpKw7y_85-G5hwXo-cu8BJ_T4cwWbdXMNjP6mWRNry-iVxnwoSNQS1Qe-4evWfA9pPc3lG26N21Di2FpYDLMAJeoUWeHdis_qxNvMpnGcIpLW37VuIQ_dfxbn5cfusz78b5hFtdkrubCZwAPwbBUGJIDOmMCA/w640-h480/Padule%206%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4PSsksrfAOxxDdFgttvU91s5lD4GRTIR8_SxVsml3K8ZHOblYMh0MoaTPvrX33rAQ_PYhP2jqpL71PkG0LMbiptPujHZeCpkQYctG6hCukjfpXtFGkO6M4NKdXLM-KXnsFkwidX9KSvafEAKenVI_4NviNjf5_-8RW7s_zC6l655uMFkiMH1nVBjSA/s960/Junk.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="960" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4PSsksrfAOxxDdFgttvU91s5lD4GRTIR8_SxVsml3K8ZHOblYMh0MoaTPvrX33rAQ_PYhP2jqpL71PkG0LMbiptPujHZeCpkQYctG6hCukjfpXtFGkO6M4NKdXLM-KXnsFkwidX9KSvafEAKenVI_4NviNjf5_-8RW7s_zC6l655uMFkiMH1nVBjSA/s320/Junk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, not 100% beautiful.</td></tr></tbody></table>On the ride back, I worried that my bike would
run out of power. As I left the park, it dropped to three bars (out of five),
and I vaguely remembered that the one time I did run out of power last fall; it
had gone to one bar and then died almost immediately. I had used two bars to
get to the Padule, and if it took me two bars to get to San Salvatore (the bottom
of the hill), I’d be on one bar starting up the long hill and could be stuck
pushing a heavy bike up the very steep last two kilometers.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
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<u1:p></u1:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy3MR8hT0BIBcOd8RLveNv3r6iEDGz24NrdqWlczV-6zkg6l8Pk_m3IdTwBB5gdbfymNEV2p4DeVfCvtoN7DEG7mGQuauH-vi5h_5WVOUwunRjw9LdtV4qJxi0da-r_k-Y587yU0jXJYq4DBHjETrgGRGsTQx708iOgYzABZhOrSdrvhdVvVSrE7Clw/s2048/Padule%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy3MR8hT0BIBcOd8RLveNv3r6iEDGz24NrdqWlczV-6zkg6l8Pk_m3IdTwBB5gdbfymNEV2p4DeVfCvtoN7DEG7mGQuauH-vi5h_5WVOUwunRjw9LdtV4qJxi0da-r_k-Y587yU0jXJYq4DBHjETrgGRGsTQx708iOgYzABZhOrSdrvhdVvVSrE7Clw/w400-h300/Padule%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I reached Chiesanuova, it looked like my
meter had dropped to two bars, and I panicked and switched off the power and pedaled on in manual mode. I
wanted to have two bars when I started up the hill, and I was still two
kilometers from San Salvatore. Whoa, I slowed to the pace of a walk, albeit a
brisk one, but it definitely took more effort than walking. That bike is heavy!
But as I came to the outskirts of San Salvatore, I pulled over and switched the
power back on. Three bars! The battery must have recharged slightly, I thought,
but nope, it stayed on three bars all the way home. I think what happened is
that I had misread the gauge because I had my dark glasses on and not my
reading glasses. Had I pulled over and looked more closely at the gauge before
cutting the power, I would have been fine. Lesson learned, with the added
benefit of getting a more thorough workout. I just hope that no one reads this and
sees how stupid I was!</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejmK2q-Zx-CCWQxKHf7d497UmHGgt28StBNMYiweoIyRbithBDprDGDTf9axi37IGtXXrYwQdQxv73ne_3zBJe2FkBirSQPhpnBhnKCI1sWAVSstmEJofQ4oE51GMI3KOZuBj1gJ5FoV2bJe5sDWzGnItkVOxE451eACFUJvSZDU7Hxv8P3CmLcQqOg/s2048/Padule%202.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1726" data-original-width="2048" height="539" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejmK2q-Zx-CCWQxKHf7d497UmHGgt28StBNMYiweoIyRbithBDprDGDTf9axi37IGtXXrYwQdQxv73ne_3zBJe2FkBirSQPhpnBhnKCI1sWAVSstmEJofQ4oE51GMI3KOZuBj1gJ5FoV2bJe5sDWzGnItkVOxE451eACFUJvSZDU7Hxv8P3CmLcQqOg/w640-h539/Padule%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911448537861141728.post-34531817631077754012023-03-27T15:26:00.007-07:002023-03-28T05:15:12.270-07:00More bike riding under the Tuscan sun<p></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times",serif; font-size: 18pt;">Last
fall I wrote a blog on why I love </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times",serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://livingwithabroadintuscany.blogspot.com/2022/11/bike-riding-in-tuscany-opens-up-new.html">bike
riding in Tuscany</a></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times",serif; font-size: 18pt;">, so I shouldn’t be writing another one so soon—but I just can’t
help it! With the temperature in the high 60s and the sun shining brightly, I
took two rides today, a short one to Altopascio in the morning on an errand,
and then a longer pleasure trip to Tofori in the afternoon.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomm63uc3yipt07_lX4yVVU2cCTmzJEK9Z_S3A2BaM44YxdXELCR-DPV6BWAs3-cO0aFNl6h5ZkLAsx12tAoVqwVWRHJ15yE19VfzHiNqxGMjaaK8etDTK3SHFBQvsLowfHjUFTrW4Yt5pd0Nl6G3BSIeO4vaLu8MzzLpifvS8hU5T_IF0pBRu7AMF-w/s1000/Montecarlo%20from%20Tofori%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="1000" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomm63uc3yipt07_lX4yVVU2cCTmzJEK9Z_S3A2BaM44YxdXELCR-DPV6BWAs3-cO0aFNl6h5ZkLAsx12tAoVqwVWRHJ15yE19VfzHiNqxGMjaaK8etDTK3SHFBQvsLowfHjUFTrW4Yt5pd0Nl6G3BSIeO4vaLu8MzzLpifvS8hU5T_IF0pBRu7AMF-w/w640-h422/Montecarlo%20from%20Tofori%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking south from Tofori towards Montecarlo and Montechiari.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Elation floods my
senses from the combination of freedom, beauty, independence and serenity.
My <i>Italwin</i> electric-boost bike glides quietly and effortlessly
over the multitude of little-trafficked backroads in the Valdinievole. On my
hour-long afternoon ride, I encountered fewer than a dozen cars, with the
exception of a half kilometer stretch on the moderately busy via Pesciatina
that I needed to traverse to get from Gragnano to via San Gennaro. Starting
from Montecarlo, I took the road northwest to San Martino in Colle, passed the
Quercione and continued on to Gragnano. Once I left via Pesciatina, it was all
uphill to Tofori, an elevation increase of about 220 meters in 3.5 kilometers,
but with the power from my e-bike, I never broke a sweat. And what goes up must
go down, but oh so quickly and effortlessly.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: 18pt; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxsE4DEoXlYQ76mOBX-L7QAK-6JCyVReBKEXvt1QGK61nqSblGMqLonrH19DKO24whQoYRt-iS4kx1Ny1If7Nf_fbymzZhDSIfyax9iEl8r9muckz6D16p6qLrWuR_1H-gFCN2Z3L5lSf_LhzO5V7MvRVOfI8TilpfEJviE9qwKHlTAKXEX00NqOHzQ/s1000/wild%20flowers%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="1000" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxsE4DEoXlYQ76mOBX-L7QAK-6JCyVReBKEXvt1QGK61nqSblGMqLonrH19DKO24whQoYRt-iS4kx1Ny1If7Nf_fbymzZhDSIfyax9iEl8r9muckz6D16p6qLrWuR_1H-gFCN2Z3L5lSf_LhzO5V7MvRVOfI8TilpfEJviE9qwKHlTAKXEX00NqOHzQ/s320/wild%20flowers%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild flowers in Gragnano.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I glided past twisted
grape vines, rolling hills of olive groves and numerous multitextured and
ancient stone-and-brick buildings, some of them more than 600 years old. Many
of the roads are rough, as they consist of asphalt placed directly over ancient
mule and cart paths that were carved out centuries ago. With minimal grading
and no placement of gravel sub-base prior to the paving, these hillside roads
are subject to settling and development of potholes, and only minimal efforts
are made to modernize them.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 18pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjVwigVqqZ3nVD2W3PFs35TKlBCakNyE94bffy0Yas-OALpUiOihdaDHv7aYijNNCTm0u578fPWzCq8JtVHbJq2m-omtjZouOvEz6I80h6eS2bTMP8OXXz7Msxtz7gX2jX9NhoFMvuWk6Ln9Pt-L2HF6WQ-eZqJiKRATqLm9lzpojnAFqZGwq8xtTTQ/s900/rodent%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjVwigVqqZ3nVD2W3PFs35TKlBCakNyE94bffy0Yas-OALpUiOihdaDHv7aYijNNCTm0u578fPWzCq8JtVHbJq2m-omtjZouOvEz6I80h6eS2bTMP8OXXz7Msxtz7gX2jX9NhoFMvuWk6Ln9Pt-L2HF6WQ-eZqJiKRATqLm9lzpojnAFqZGwq8xtTTQ/s320/rodent%20(1).jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hazel dormouse!</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">On my return trip, I
pulled off on an off-shooting dirt trail and followed it over a tiny brook,
until it became too rough to continue. I stopped to admire the wildflowers and towering
oaks, and to just soak in the silence, broken only by the songs of wild birds.
I even found what looked like a cross between a mouse and a ground squirrel
hiding in the weeds. Thanks to some online help from our friend Wendy, I later identified it as a hazel dormouse. I've not seen a mouse with a bushy tail before. I mentally filed the location away as another great place
for a picnic with my wife and a nap on a warm summer day.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCCBQ7NzgCLxojQcZo5eUvLDr2u4RWNkfcxkmxqxfcME6o7DPGjBpTOptG4rvHne-xxwvqvsBjQNha80XoBwL3M0udVlVnPzbmk7DWxLJnjOBafb4ocAkzGuRbyYE1BBgB9nCX93_tepH5FzaQVQSDdR8evG3-fppv2nMesr4eO2Ic5gxoGD_zcyBGg/s1200/oaks%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="889" data-original-width="1200" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCCBQ7NzgCLxojQcZo5eUvLDr2u4RWNkfcxkmxqxfcME6o7DPGjBpTOptG4rvHne-xxwvqvsBjQNha80XoBwL3M0udVlVnPzbmk7DWxLJnjOBafb4ocAkzGuRbyYE1BBgB9nCX93_tepH5FzaQVQSDdR8evG3-fppv2nMesr4eO2Ic5gxoGD_zcyBGg/w640-h474/oaks%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oak trees in the sunshine in Gragnano.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #222222; font-family: times, serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p></p>Paul and Lucy Spadonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18320762457158246716noreply@blogger.com1