Our family ties with Ilio, Lara and Mauro Spadoni et al resolved

Ilio Spadoni

After some initial frustration, I found the link that connects the family of Ilio Spadoni of Ponte Buggianese to ours. The problem was that Ilio didn’t have quite the steel-trap memory that I thought he did. He had given me the wrong birth date for his grandfather Francesco and the wrong wife for his great grandfather Virgilio.

Lara Spadoni

When I stopped by Ilio’s house to ask for additional information, I talked to his sister Lara, because Ilio was out working in his fields. She looked at the info that Ilio had given me and said that the wife of great grandfather Virgilio had been Emilia Benedetti, not Annuziata Foderi. The latter had instead been married to one of Virgilio’s brothers, she said. Once I had this information, and the correct birth date for Francesco (which I found in the baptismal records of Ponte Buggianese), the clerk at Buggiano found the documents I needed to connect Ilio and Lara’s family to our tree.

Mauro Spadoni

Once again, though, the tie is distant, as it has been with many of the Spadoni families I have found here. Our nearest common ancestor is Francesco Spadoni, born around 1455. I had hoped to find that they had descended from one of the brothers of my great great grandfather Pellegrino Spadoni.

Yesterday I went back and met with Lara, Ilio, their brother Mauro, and Ilio’s wife Rosanna. I gave them a detailed line of descent dating back to 1430, showing all the names and dates I have for their ancestors. Ilio and Lara argued briefly over whether their great grandmother had been Emilia Benedetti or Annuziata Foderi. In the end, Ilio realized that he had remembered poorly and that Lara and the documents I had found were correct.

I also explained how the first Spadoni family of Stignano had probably been land owners and somewhat wealthy, because one of the three tombs beneath the floor of the church of Stignano is for the early Spadoni family. Ilio said that likely some of the first Spadoni families to move to Ponte Buggianese had been land owners, but in the passage of time, they had met with economic problems and also had to divide the land among their many sons. His nearest ancestors had been tenant farmers, as had most of the Spadoni families I’ve found in the region.

Lucia Spadoni x 2

When Lucy and I went to the weekly market in Ponte Buggianese today, we stopped at the hairdressing salon of Lucia, one of Ilio and Rosanna’s daughters. Lucy said that if she hadn’t already made an appointment with her regular hair dresser in Gig Harbor, she probably would have had Lucia cut her hair—one Lucia Spadoni cutting the hair of another.

I take on the challenge of a new and large Spadoni family puzzle

I had only meant to take a minute to drop off a family tree for Bruna Spadoni and her family, but I ended up with much more. I visited Bruna and her family two weeks ago (Back on the pleasant trail of distant cousins in Tuscany) to see if I could find out how I was related to Bruna. After finding the connection, I made up a family tree and drove over to drop it off yesterday afternoon.

Mario Nottoli, Bruna’s son-in-law, greeted me as I drove up, and he quickly explained that he had another Spadoni family that he’d like me to meet. Would I like him to take me there now? I had no camera, no notebook with family records, not even paper, but I’ve learned to seize the moment when a chance comes along, so I said, “Perchè no? Andiamo.” And we were off on a 10-minute drive from Chiesina to Ponte Buggianese to meet the large extended family of Ilio Spadoni.

Ilio lives on a farm on the edge of the Pescia River on the south side of Ponte Buggianese. Another eight members of the family gathered around the kitchen table to meet me. I didn’t even try to take down peoples’ names. I told them right away that I wanted to come back with my notebook and camera, and they said I would be welcome any time. Instead I borrowed some paper and began asking for information about family history.

Ilio thinks the farm has been in the family for a couple of hundred years. He said his family had moved from Stignano to Ponte Buggianese at some unknown time in the past. He also said (I think) that at one time his ancestors had been guards for a jail that had been located nearby. I did notice that his farm was located on Via Ponte alla Guardia, so that would fit with my understanding.

Ilio gave me information on the birth for his father and grandfather, including dates, months and years, which I found remarkable. My hobby is genealogy, and I can’t remember my grandfather’s date of birth (isn’t that why we have computers and notebooks?). He also provided the year of birth and name of his great grandfather. One of his granddaughters (I think that’s who it was) wrote out a detailed chart that included 40 family members, both living and dead, with dates of birth for many of them, also very impressive.

I promised to return with complete information on how we are related and with a family tree showing ancestors back to the 1400s, just as soon as I could check my records. Mario took me back to my car, and his wife Mara (Bruna’s daughter) thanked me for the family tree. I didn’t stay long, as it was nearly dinner time.

Back in the house, I met with some frustration when I found that my records didn’t include the birth of either Ilio’s grandfather Francesco, which Ilio had listed as Dec. 12, 1878, or his grandfather Virgilio in 1852. This morning I went to the city archives of both Buggiano and Ponte Buggianese, and they didn’t have them either. Prior to 1883, Ponte Buggianese didn’t have a city hall, so records were kept at Buggiano. I should have found Francesco’s birth there, and the clerk found a couple of Francesco Spadonis born around that time, but not a Francesco of Virgilio.

Virgilio’s birth would not be recorded in the city records because Toscana had only been part of the kingdom of Italy since 1861. However, I have meticulously copied all of the baptismal records from the church into my notebooks, and I found no Virgilio Spadoni born in 1852. I found one born in 1858, but he had a different wife, and his children didn’t match Ilio’s family at all.

I’ve met, either in person or online, nearly a dozen branches of the Valdinievole Spadoni family in the past few years, and I’ve always been able to place them in the family tree if they can give me family names and dates prior to 1900. Some people do crossword puzzles, sodaku, Words with Friends, geocaching and any number of mental exercises. My game is fitting together our family tree and finding new connections, and so I will dig into this. I have a new puzzle to solve, and that just makes the game more interesting. Hopefully I’ll have some results (and photos of new relatives) to show before we go back home in a few weeks.

We fail to conquer Monte Sagro, but vow to return another time

Hike number two in our book of 50 Tuscan hikes didn’t pan out quite as expected—but it’s hard to have a bad day in Italy. We stayed flexible and still had a good time.

I told her to back up a couple more steps, but she wouldn't do it.

Looking out the window at 7 a.m., the sky was as clear as we have ever seen it in the Valdinievole. We left by 8:30 a.m. for a two-hour drive up past Carrara into the Alpi Apuane to hike above the marble quarries on the trail to Monte Sagro. The vista down to the quarries from the parking lot is unbelievable! Some high clouds were rolling in off the Tyrrhenian Sea, but we still had a clear view of the snow-white quarries and the red-tiled roofs of the city of Carrara. We could see all the way to the coast, although clouds obscured our view north toward La Spezia, Portofino and the Cinque Terre.

The amazing marble quarries of Carrara. Photos
don't do them justice!

We made a couple of mistakes that turned out to be good fortune, though. Following directions in the hiking book, we left our car in the designated parking lot and hiked about 20 minutes up a rough dirt road to the trail head. We saw a half dozen cars parked in a large dirt lot at the trail head, and we realized then that we could have easily driven this section and saved 40 minutes.

Dead end at the cave.

Our next mistake resulted from not following the guide more carefully, however. It said the trail goes “up onto a rocky ridge just above and parallel to the dirt road.” We didn’t read that carefully, though, and the dirt road seemed like the most logical path to follow—until we found that it ended at a dark cave. After pulling out the guide book and retracing our path about 15 minutes back, we easily found the trail and had hiked up it for about 10 minutes when we met three men coming down.

The clouds kept coming, dropping lower each minute.

“È una bella giornata,” Lucy said as we passed them. “No, it’s not,” the last man said. “It’s windy, cold and the clouds are dropping down so you can’t see a thing up there. È una brutta giornata.”

We reconsidered for a moment. If we went any higher, we too would be enveloped in fog. We were on a ridge, unprotected from the wind and chill, and the hike is listed as three to four hours long. Did we really want to walk in the clouds for that long, without being able to see the mountains we had come to see? Probably not. So we went back down.

Exploring an abandoned house.

By the time we returned to the car, drove down a dead end road to explore a crumbling building that probably once housed marble miners and drove back down the winding road, the heavy fog had dropped almost to Carrara. We had hiked for an hour and a

Same house.

half and experienced a great view of the marble mountains before the clouds came. We realized then that had we not made two wrong moves, we would have been high on the chilly ridge, unable to see any mountains and maybe not even the trail, so our missteps had actually proven providential. We also knew that next time we should drive all the way to the trail head and start on the correct trail. I think Monte Sagro will still be there the next time we come to Italy, and we definitely will be back.

A nice field of daffodils near the parking lot.

Africans in Italy still have many kilometers to go for full acceptance

I have always found it odd that Italy, the European country closest to Africa, has so few people of African descent integrated into its society. We see plenty of Africans, but they are, for the most part, separate. I have never seen a black police officer, government official, grocery store clerk, train conductor, waiter or bank clerk.

Blacks play on the professional soccer and basketball teams, and they stand on the sidewalks and in piazzas selling purses, umbrellas, socks and a host of other household items. People of color usually sit apart by choice from whites on trains and buses. Why this separation occurs undoubtedly has no one simple answer, and I certainly don’t pretend to be an expert on race relations in Italy. However, lack of expertise has never stopped people from having an opinion or making observations.

Part of it is fear of the unknown. Stefano Mammi told me that immigration from Africa didn’t become commonplace until the 1990s.

“So many people started coming then, especially from Nigeria,” he said. “But there weren’t many jobs, and they didn’t learn the language quickly. Many of them saw Italy as a temporary place to earn some money, get their European citizenship and then move on to another country. A lot of them spoke English and wanted to go to England.” Some came from French-speaking African countries, and they hoped to eventually move to France, but Italy was easier to enter.

I recently read a “rant” on Facebook from my friend Alicia Gray Cortes, who complained that “so many Italians are racist.” She noticed that a black man had offered the empty bus seat next to him to some Italian teenagers, but they refused it.

“Once on my way home I sat next to a Nigerian man, and we talked the whole hour-long ride,” she said. “He told me that Italians will never sit next to Africans and that he is always treated poorly. He mentioned how it makes him angry and it does not make him want to integrate and be a part of the culture and community. He said that I was obviously not Italian because I was not just sitting next to him but talking to him like an equal. It’s sad and infuriating!”

One of Alicia’s friends followed up with a comment: “I can totally relate. I ditto your sentiments. I am a victim and have personally experienced racism from the Italians. I can tell you countless stories that will bring you to tears; however, they have gotten better. I've seen posters and pamphlets, educating the people on ‘manners and etiquette.’ They are trying, but it still hurts!”

Alicia’s dad, Steve Gray, has been a missionary in Italy for some years and also lived in America for about the same length of time, so he is well qualified to compare racism in the two countries.

“I have seen here in Padova that first generation Africans do not integrate well on the whole,” he said. “However, I don’t see this as out of the ordinary with even first generations from several countries, white or black, in America. I think that because this is such a new phenomenon in Italy, Italians themselves are just trying to come to grips with it.

“Certainly, the laws concerning jobs are very pro Italian-born-blood favorable. For example, our Albanian young lady friend graduated from nursing school in the University of Padova. However, because she is not an Italian citizen, she cannot work in the hospitals as a nurse. She can only do privatized nursing. For Africans working in the factories, they will never become managers, even though they may qualify, because they are not Italian. However, this may also be true in America, so I don’t know if it is really any different than anywhere else.

“The foreign children who are born here go to Italian schools and even the university, though they still have no great future in front of them. However, even Italians graduating from the university here have no future because of the bad Italian economy and ways of doing things that are so archaic.

“So, yes, there is discrimination, but I’m not sure if it really is different than many other struggling nations.”

I see other hopeful signs that attitudes can be changed. Migrants who have remained in Italy send their children to public schools, and I see mixed race groups of children walking and talking together. The children often grow up speaking Italian without accents and adopting the values of their classmates, increasing their chances of being accepted into mainstream society.

Members of the Pro Loco Marliana preparing for the sagra.

We recently participated in the Sagra delle Frittelle Dolce in the rural community of Marliana. I noticed right away a young black man working alongside other members of the pro loco (a grassroots group of local volunteers working to promote the community). Members were helping people park, filling a large kettle with oil, setting up tables, preparing food and stoking a fire beneath the kettle. Oumaru wore a Marliana Pro Loco t-shirt and was interacting in a casual and friendly manner with the other men. Originally from Mali, he had been studying science at a university in Syria when warfare forced him to flee first to Libia and then Italy. The Italian government placed Oumaru in a hotel in Marliana, along with dozens of other refugees, so that he could learn Italian and receive the documents he would need to live and work on his own.

Mali is a French-speaking country, and Oumarou said that he had tried to go to France, but they refused to admit him. He has been in Marliana for more than a year, and he has found part-time work at the misericordia, an Italian group that provides emergency first aid. He is also attending a class in Firenze on “how to take care of people,” he said.

One of the local men, Pablo, explained that the government has sent as many as 40 immigrants at a time to Marliana. “At first, the older people here were scared,” he said. “They were afraid the people had come to steal from us, or at least take away our jobs. Gradually, the community has come to accept and help them. However, there still aren’t any jobs for most of them.”

Oumarou has been exceptionally well received, though. “He’s very intelligent,” Pablo said. “He learned Italian in just a few months, and now he’s like one of us, part of the community.”

The local priest has taken an active role in helping the immigrants, and someone in the community made an apartment available to Oumarou when his government housing allowance ran out. While it seems that he is on the road to transitioning into society, I wonder what will become of the other immigrants who weren’t able to learn Italian so quickly or find jobs.

A triumphant day of living the sweet life in another Corri con Paolo walk

We participated in the six-kilometer division of the Corri con Paolo Saturday, the second time we have entered this benefit walk for young cancer victims and their families. This year we actually won a prize! Sort of, anyway.

Starting the race: Nancy, Stefano, Obi, Lucy, Annette and Frank.

No Italian event can be held without a few words
from the local mayor. 

Last time we walked with two friends from Lucca (click here for story), and this year we were joined by Gig Harbor cousins Frank and Annette Bannon and our friends Stefano and Nancy Mammi from Padova. The entry fee is only 3 euro, and prizes are given based on group size. No times are recorded. Thinking back on the results from last year, I thought it likely that a group of six would be large enough to receive a small prize. In fact, last year, our group of four would have received a prize had we properly entered as a group.

The band passes in front of our house.

I had tried to register as a group last year but couldn’t figure out how to do it. This year would be different, because I had Stefano with me to make sure I didn’t miss any steps because of my mediocre language abilities. He checked us in as a group, and we saw the officials write us on the list with the number six beside the name Spadoni. But it still wasn’t enough, as we would find out at the end.

Pirate clowns waiting for prey.

We pinned racing labels on our shirts, and even though we paid for six entries, we were handed seven labels, so Obi, Nancy’s labrador, got one too. Just then, the city’s band commenced playing and marched the length of via Roma, and we snapped some photos. We focused especially on our favorite musician, Flavia Seghieri, the daughter of Davide and Elena. I even got one photo as she marched right past our house. We followed the band to the end of the street, which was more or less the starting place for the walk.

We were greeted by a cluster of pirate clowns, who wrapped some participants up in ropes and posed for photos with others. Helium balloons were passed out, and then we released them all together, signaling the official start of the walk. We looped through the city and then down the main entrance and out of town heading north. The roads and trails offered great views of Montecarlo, Porcari and the plains below. We received drinks and a variety of snacks at the five-kilometer mark and again at the end. We each received a gift bag as we crossed the finish line.

When I walked over to the prize board to see if we had qualified for a group prize, we weren’t listed, even though a group of three received a prize. When I asked why, I was told we hadn’t filled out a form with a list of our participants, something that hadn’t been mentioned on the poster or by the officials who registered us. I’m sure it is one of those things that everybody is expected to know by word of mouth. Anyway, they gave me a potted daisy when they realized we had been unintentionally slighted, and I carried it through the streets in triumph. But the real triumph was being able to experience a piece of la dolce vita and share it with friends.

New language blunders to add to my collection of amusing stories

Sometimes the Italian teenagers we meet here are shy about trying out their halting English skills, even though most of them study English several times a week. I’m sure they’re afraid to make a brutta figura by mispronouncing words or using bad grammar, a fear I completely understand but have, for the most part, overcome. It is essential for us to communicate somehow, even if only badly. Learning to laugh at oneself is an important life skill!

I recently had an article published in Fra Noi, a Chicago-based magazine for Italian Americans, about humorous blunders I’ve made or been told about. Several of the stories came from our missionary friends Steve and Patti Gray, and when I thanked them for their help, they told me two anecdotes that I hadn’t heard before that are worth passing on.

Both were made by their friend and co-worker Terry Paretti. On one occasion, he was introducing a visiting pastor who had come from Germany, and he repeatedly used the phrase pastore tedesco, which means German pastor. However, pastore means shepherd, even though it can also refer to the leader of a church flock, a pastor. Grammatically, it was correct, but because of the famous breed of dog, a German pastor should be referred to as “un pastore dalla Germania,” a pastor from Germany. Terry’s reference elicited polite smiles from his Italian-speaking audience each time he referred to the wonderful dog who would soon be addressing the people.

The other instance also involves a famous German, Martin Luther, who was the topic of one of Terry’s sermons. In Italian, Luther’s name is Lutero. However, the accent should be on the second syllable instead of the first, but Terry didn’t know that, so he repeatedly mispronounced the name. This wouldn’t have been worth mentioning, except that there is another almost identical word, l’utero, with an accent on the first syllable. Utero is uterus, so he gave a sermon on Martin the Uterus.

The Fra Noi article is not available for viewing online without a subscription, but I will scan in the pages so you can at least see the fine artwork done by my niece Gina (Spadoni) Lillie. Most of the stories in the article I’ve already published in these two earlier blog entries, and it may be easier to read them there:

Language blunders embarrassing but, from distance of time, amusing

More amusing language blunders

Sleepy Marliana comes alive with sagra in honor of chestnut flour treat

About 20 minutes from Montecatini and Pescia, up in the foothills of the Alpi Apuane, lies the little village of Marliana. On most days, it is quiet, with few people on the sidewalks or the piazzas. But if you visit on a day when the local people hold a sagra, you’ll see an entirely different version of Marliana.

Marliana viewed from the street above

Necci batter

Yesterday, we were drawn by an poster advertising the 53th annual Sagra di Frittelle Dolci. A sagra is a local fair, usually a celebration of a local food or a raw ingredient, and there is a sagra somewhere for every traditional Italian food. This one featured a fried dessert called necci, made with chestnut flour.

“Attending a sagra is a way to get a taste of Italian country life and food culture and get away from tourist crowds,” writes Martha Bakerjian, an Italy travel expert for About.com. “You order food to be cooked by locals with a passion for the local cuisine, then sit at communal tables with other locals to eat. Eating at a sagra is usually inexpensive as well.”

Adding chestnut wood to the fire

Pouring in the oil

Netting the necci

Chestnuts were once vital for the survival of every family in the Tuscan hills. So important was the chestnut that it was known as the “bread tree” and its fruits “tree bread.” The nuts were collected, dried and ground into flour to make bread and many essential meals.

The sagra was scheduled to start at 3 p.m., but we arrived in town around noon and sat at an outside table in the Piazza del Popolo, where we ate a long, slow lunch at the local restaurant. In so doing, we were able to see the local families involved in setting up the central food booth and the huge kettle used for frying the necci. I wandered into the enclosed area several times to observe the preparations up close and talk to some of the men from the town. People-watching is one of our favorite activities in Italy.

A neccio, with a few bites already taken.

Pablo Luisi, who said his family has lived in Marliana for at least 300 years, told me that the sagra would probably lose money, but the town had a second one in the summer that would attract more people and thus pay the expenses for the spring sagra. It was a tradition important to the long-time residents of the city and a way to honor the memory of bygone times, when chestnut flour was “the only thing available.”

The kettle, filled with palm oil, is heated by a wood fire, fueled, of course, by chestnut branches, and the heat is trapped by a curtain of branches, leaves and sod over which the men periodically pour water to prevent the curtain from catching fire. The batter is made only with water, chestnut flour and a little salt, and it is formed into pancakes which are then deep-fried in the batter and dipped out with a special tool. In smaller-scale productions, necci are fried in pans the same way we make pancakes. Then they are rolled up like crepes and filled with ricotta or Nutella. I choose ricotta for my filling, considering it to be more authentic in holding with past traditions.

And are they delicious? No, not really. Maybe if they added sugar and chocolate they would be more appealing, but with the creamy ricotta filling, I can see why they would have been regarded as a treat for people on limited diets, and I’m certain that they are healthier than the sweet desserts we typically eat today.

Not long after the first neccio came out of the kettle, a band from Versiglia made up of veterans of the alpini—a special alpine unit of the Italian army—treated us to a few songs in the piazza. Then they headed a parade that looped through the town and consisted first of the band, then of alpini veterans from other nearby towns, then local dignitaries such as the town’s mayor, and lastly the town’s citizens and other fair-goers such as ourselves.

Alpini playing in the parade.

The procession stopped in front of a war monument while the band played another patriotic song, and the mayor and a couple of alpini members gave short speeches. If this had been a larger town or a more elaborate sagra, the festivities probably would have continued into the night and included a communal meal. The streets also would have been lined with booths selling other traditional food, as well as jewelry, clothing and knick-knacks. The Marliana sagra had only a half dozen other booths. We left after the speeches, thinking that we had experienced the main events and had tasted part of the true flavor of life in this beautiful village.

Back on the pleasant trail of distant Spadoni cousins in Tuscany

A sudden urge struck me yesterday to pick up a trail I had dropped a few years ago and then had almost forgotten. I had discovered that great grandfather Pietro Spadoni had two brothers, Francesco and Angelo. They had moved away from Pescia around the same time that Pietro had moved from Pescia to San Salvatore. The archives in Pescia recorded Francesco and Angelo as having moved to San Salvatore as well, but that is probably incorrect, as I could find no mention of them there. I found some traces of Angelo’s descendents in Chiesina Uzzanese and of Francesco’s in Spianate, a little community between Chiesina Uzzanese and Altopascio.

I had planned to call on some random Spadoni families around Altopascio three years ago, using Elena as an interpreter. However, I ran out of time that year, and then I got involved in other projects in the next two years. When I came across something in my notes that reminded me of this neglected trail, I realized that now I can speak Italian well enough to visit these families on my own. And so today I went on a mission to visit Bruna Spadoni, who according to the online Italian white pages (www.paginebianche.it) lives just south of Chiesina Uzzanese.

One can’t always be sure of the accuracy of the white pages, because they’re not always the most up to date, but I was lucky this time. I found Bruna, age 92, who lives in the same home as her daughter Mara, son-in-law Mario and granddaughter Silvia. Once I explained who I was and told them of my interest in genealogy, they invited me in and offered me something to drink.

Bruna told me her dad had been named Plinio, and she had no problems remembering his date of birth and the names of both of her grandparents. With that information, I was able to find her dad’s name in my notebook, and since the name had a check mark beside it, I knew that I had it in the family tree. I told them that we were surely related, but not as closely as I had hoped, since they weren’t descended from either Francesco or Angelo.

We had a nice conversation about the history of the Spadoni family in the area, most of which they were unaware but happy to discover. We asked questions of each other, shared family information and complained about the politicians in both the United States and Italy. I promised to return in a few days with a complete line of Bruna’s Spadoni ancestors dating back to 1430. Back in my Montecarlo home, I found that Bruna and I are very distant relatives, with our nearest common ancestor having been born in 1455.

There are so many reasons I’m glad we picked Montecarlo as our place of residence in Italy. Surely one of them is that it gives me a perfect excuse to be welcomed into the homes of strangers, where I can experience their hospitality and get a chance to practice and improve my Italian. There are four more Spadonis listed in Altopascio and seven in Chiesina Uzzanese, so I guess I can do this pretty much any day I want to. Someone around here is bound to be a descendent of Francesco or Angelo, but even if not, they’ll be relatives of some degree, and we’ll have a good time getting acquainted.

Our house now has a name and a sign, Casa dei Benedetti, a fitting title

We’ve never had a house with a name before, but now we do. We were explaining to one of the Montecarlo shop owners where we lived, across from the bank, and he said, “Ah, la casa dei Benedetti.” We decided then that this would be its name. Cousins Frank and Annette, who are visiting from Gig Harbor for a week, brought us a hand-made wooden sign reading “Casa dei Benedetti,” which is now hanging in our living room.

It was once common for Italian country homes to have names, though I think city names not so often, unless it was a grand or historic home. I don’t think our house actually has a name, but it was probably built in the 1400s, since it is on the main street in the city. It is thought that all the homes on via Roma were built by the 1500s. Old maps show it to have originally be occupied by the Neri family. Also of interest to us, the same old maps show that just a few houses away was a house built by distant relatives, the Seghieri Bizzarri family.

However, we bought our house from the Benedetti family, four siblings about our age who grew up here, so some people still remember it as the house of the Benedetti. We like that name because it has a double meaning that we find very appropriate. Benedetti means “blessed,” and we certainly are.

Another milestone is reached: My carta d'identitá is in hand

Happy day! I finally have my Italian carta d'identitá. After having struggled in the past to get my citizenship, passport and codice fiscale, the carta came as an anticlimax; it was just too easy. But I’m not complaining.

After I located a foto tessera booth in Chiesina Uzzanese (thanks for the advice, Luca) and paid 5 euro to get three correctly sized photos taken, I went to the municipio in Montecarlo, gave the clerk my photos, paid another 5.42 euros, waited about 10 minutes and walked out the door with my proof of residence.

What hurdles still await me? Probably next year I’ll figure out how to get signed up for the health care system and have a doctor assigned to me. I have the electric and water bills set up for auto payment, but I still need to figure out how to do this for the gas. We need to get Lucy’s Italian citizenship; that will be done in the Italian consulate in San Francisco. I need to see if I can set up an auto payment for property taxes. That’s about it.

With most of the logistical issues behind us, we can fully enjoy the peace and beauty of being in Tuscany. Now the next major decisions I will face are just these: fruit juice, water, red wine or white wine with dinner tonight? Pasta with pesto, or with ragú?

Book editor selection is small step forward for my publication hopes

My long, slow effort to publish a book about our experiences in Italy has taken a step forward, as I recently chose an editor from among three that I was considering. All of them did a sample edit of about half of my first chapter, and I basically went with the editor that I felt was the most ruthless when it came to suggesting changes and additions.

The first editor to respond gave me glowing comments, but she didn’t really do much editing. The second editor made some good stylistic and grammatical changes, and she had excellent credentials. I was poised to chose her, but I decided to wait for the third editor, who had told me that she couldn’t get back to me with a sample edit for about three weeks because she was busy on another project. I told myself she would have to really knock my socks off to beat out editor number two, and then she did it.

Having been a journalist and journalism teacher for much of my life, I am accustomed to the editing process and know how much a second pair of trained eyes can improve a text. I know my own writing is not above criticism; in fact, every time I re-read one of my blogs, I find mistakes or wording that could have been more effective. I didn’t want to hire an editor who would tell me only what she liked about my writing.

However, the editor I selected, Lizzie Harwood, had other factors in her favor. She also has written a memoir about her experiences in a foreign land, Xamnesia: Everything I Forgot in my Search for an Unreal Life. I downloaded and read this while I was waiting for her sample edit, and it was well done. She is currently living in France and once spent part of a year studying in Italy, so I knew she could relate to our experiences of living abroad.

However, perhaps the most significant consequences of my choice may be that Lizzie is adept at book publicity and publishing through the new avenues of print-on-demand and e-books, and for a little extra, she will guide me through these experiences. I may well need this help, because I have almost given up on trying to find a publisher through the conventional methods of querying an agent and then a publisher.

I have resisted looking into any kind of self-publishing because of a sense that there is still some stigma attached to it. I would be saying, “My book isn’t good enough attract a real publisher.” But darn it, I’ve read at least 20 other books about foreigners living in Italy, and my book is better than most of them. How did they find publishers when I haven’t been able to?

However, in the past month, I made a list of books printed in the last 10 years about living in Italy and France and then looked at the names of their publishers. What I discovered opened my eyes: Nearly 90 percent were self published; most used Amazon Digital Services. A few found small or specialty publishing houses. Almost none were printed by mainstream publishers.

This is probably because mainstream publishers—and agents as well—are hoping to land something that has the potential to be really big. “99 percent of titles printed will never sell enough copies to recover all the costs associated with creating and publishing them,” book author Lee Ballentine wrote in Forbes magazine in May 2014. That means that the other books have to sell well enough to pay for the money-losing 99 percent that publishers have taken a chance on. The odds that my memoir about living in Italy is going to be a runaway best-seller are about the same as a pig flying over the moon. Travel memoirs are a niche field that have dedicated fans who will always generate some sales, but the novelty and fanfare that made Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun so popular has cooled.

I may still find a boutique or specialty publisher, but the odds are long, and likely I will have to find another way. Fortunately, views are changing, as the authors of The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published have noted: “The fact is, self publishing can be a ball. The onus of the ugly duckling is gone . . . people are publishing books on their own because they choose to. Because they see opportunities in the market and want a bigger share of the pie than publishers offer; because they want full control of their book; because they don’t want to have to wait for the sloooooow publishing machine.”

Now I have to wait for the editing process, and afterward I’ll have the difficult task of re-writing based on my editor’s suggestions. But I’m encouraged with the knowledge that I’ll come out with a better manuscript, that I’ve found a way forward that is ultimately under my own control, that I will eventually have a book to show.

A perfect day for the first of our 50 hikes in the hills of Tuscany

Almost there--We take a selfie while gathering strength for the final assault. 

The predicted warmest day of March and a book called “50 Hikes in and around Tuscany” both shouted at us yesterday, saying we should take a hike—and so we did, spending a good part of the Saturday before Easter taking the Monte Pisano loop. It is listed as a moderately easy five-mile hike that takes about three hours, and experienced trekkers that we are, we knocked it out in a little more than five hours—we like to stop and smell the flowers, eat the chocolate chip cookies and M&Ms from our backpacks, and take various breaks for photos and to catch our breath.

We had a little trouble finding the way to the trail head, because our GPS device couldn’t find the address we put in, and the guidebook gave directions from Firenze and Pisa but not from Lucca. After fussing with the GPS for 15 minutes, we gave up and just decided to go through Buti and pick up the guidebook directions from there.

It cost us an extra 10 minutes of driving time, but hey, who wouldn’t want to go through a city called Buti (understand that the Italian “u” is pronounced like the “oo” in boot). Of course, I had to stop and have Lucy snap a photo of the sign, and she said point to the “Buti,” and so I did.

We found this a perfect time of the year to hike, because the deciduous trees still have no leaves, the plants and flowering trees are blooming and the temperature is perfect. The only problem is the perpetual haze in this area of Tuscany that prevents long-distance views. I think some of the haze is naturally occurring, but most of it is likely caused by the burning of olive branches and smoke from the paper manufacturing factories that are abundant in the region. Each of the 50 million or so olive trees of Tuscany has to be pruned to be fruitful next fall, and then the branches are burned throughout the winter and early spring. The day had almost no wind, so the haze deepened throughout the day, preventing us seeing more than about 40 miles.

A nice photo taken by Lucy. See what I mean about the haze?

Lucy coming up the trail just before we stopped to take a cookie break.

The guidebook says, “From the summit you can clearly see the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the mouth of the Arno River, as well as the Tuscan Archipelago to the west, the Tuscan hill country to the south, the Alpi Apuane, Cinque Terre, and Lucca to the north. On an incredibly clear day, particularly in the winter, you can see the snow capped French Alps across the sea.” We could, with great difficulty, make out the Leaning Tower in Pisa and the towers in Lucca, but we could only see as far north as Viareggio—only about a third of the way to Cinque Terre. We didn’t even try to take long distance photos, because of the haze and the fact that we don’t have a telephoto lens and a polarizing filter.

We did see this view of Lucca, but not as clearly as the one another blogger captured and I have borrowed.

We noticed that even the scenic photos from the guidebook were hazy. However, I later went online to some other blogs and tourism websites and grabbed a couple of photos of what we might have seen on the right kind of day and with the proper equipment. We couldn’t see Montecarlo because it was either too far away or blocked by Monte Serra, the highest of the mountains of Pisa and the one with all the telecommunications antennae that we see every day from our terrazzo. We did enjoy watching three hang gliders sailing over Lake Massaciuccioli, although they were pretty far away.

See the Torre di Pisa down there? Neither do I, but we could just make it out as a little speck in real life.

Lucy commented that what impressed her the most were the bicyclists, who rode their mountain bikes all the way to the top of the mountain. “They had great stamina and fortitude, as well as giant leg muscles,” she said. “Riding down would be scary, too, with the gravel and rocks. And won’t their brakes overheat?” I told her that their bikes were probably worth more than some of our cars. Two bicyclists had bikes with electric motors to help with the climb. There were a few other hikers, but we were by ourselves for the most part. Monday is Pasquetta, a traditional day in Italy when families take hikes and picnic in the countryside, so it probably will be more crowded then.

This is also a borrowed photo. Le Cinque Terre would be just about where the sun is setting, although on the seaboard side, so on a clear day, one can see as far as the Cinque Terre, but not actually see them. In the foreground is Lago di Massaciuccioli, the lake which mostly famous because Giacomo Puccini had a home nearby and often went huting and fishing there. Behind the lake is the beach-side city of Viareggio.

Lucy refused my challenge to engage in
a pine cone fight.

We hope in the weeks and years to come to take more of the 50 routes listed in the book, especially some in the nearby Alpi Apuane—even if most of those promise to be more strenuous. We’re thankful that we’ve chosen to come to Italy while our health still permits us to take hikes like this.