Lucy and I are snagged by the transit police on the Firenze tram

After nearly 25 years of both visiting and living part-time in Italy with spotless records, we were nabbed for not validating our transport tickets this week in Florence. Argghh, fines of 50 euros for each of us! And it was totally preventable, caused by my laziness . . . and compounded by my stupidity.

It happened on the tram from the train station to the airport. When we boarded, the tram was so jam-packed—and we were the last to enter—that Lucy’s backpack initially got stuck when the doors closed. There was absolutely no way we could have pushed through the crowd to reach the little machine that would stamp our tickets with the day and time. And I figured there was also no way that a transit police officer could get on the tram either. Even if he could, it would be obvious that I couldn’t have stamped the tickets—plus, he would have to delay the tram to deal with such a crowd.

So we were perfectly safe, right? But there are nine other stops before the tram arrives at the airport, and after the seventh one, enough people had exited that we were able to take a seat. On the eighth stop, Lucy pointed out that now I would be able to reach the ticket validation machine. I shrugged. “We’re almost there now,” I said. I’d been standing most of the way, and now I had a seat, and I didn’t feel like getting up. Lazy. Stupid. Because on the ninth stop, two transit officers boarded. Now they only had about a dozen people in each car to confront. Smart. Easy prey.

Of course, I showed my purchased tickets and tried to explain about the crowded cars. “Not my problem,” the officer said. “It’s not crowded now.” His logic was impeccable. He asked for our passports and explained that if I paid immediately, the fine would be 50 euros for each of us, but if I waited, it would keep increasing to a maximum of 360 euros. It took me a few moments to get over my dismay and anger, but I realized that I was trapped. He had our passports in hand and was entering our data into his little computer. I had no doubt that if I refused to pay immediately, this incident would come back to bite me in the pocketbook later.

I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride and pulled out my wallet. He was just doing his job . . . and doing it smartly by entering the tram when there only a handful of people were on board. And because it was the second to the last stop, he was not delaying the tram. We all exited at the final stop and conducted our business on the platform at the airport.

One thing that prevented me from being more upset was the thought, “At least this will make an interesting blog entry.” I quickly pulled out my phone and opened the photo app. I knew the officer would object to having his photo taken, but he was busy entering the data for Lucy’s fine and didn’t notice what I was doing. Rebel that I am, I was able to quickly snap off one photo before his partner saw me and stopped me from taking more.

If you’re thinking that officers accepting cash payments might be pocketing the cash, those days are probably in the past. Now they have machines that record the data, take credit card payments, and print out receipts. They also work in teams of two. I doubt any officer would risk losing his job by taking payments “in nero.”

Losing 100 euros for being lazy and stupid upset us for a time, and I have to give Lucy credit for not being angrier with me. She had prompted me to validate the tickets, and I just shrugged her off. “It’s my fault too,” she said. “I should have just grabbed the tickets and done it myself.” But in the end, we grant ourselves a little grace. We had not intended to defraud the system, and while my first reaction was to tell the officer that I wasn’t going to pay, I’m happy I was able to get my emotions under control and not make a fool of myself. And also happy that I didn’t delay paying out of pride or anger and then have to cough up 720 euros at a later date.

 

Life as a foreigner and single woman in Italy is not all “la dolce vita”

Some years ago, I wrote a couple of blog entries (see links below) about what it was like to be a female foreigner in Italy, with knowledge gained through observations, interviews with the women in my family, and books and articles. I believe this is vital information for women when considering the important decision to change countries, even for short stays, but much more so for those who are considering completely uprooting and buying or renting long term in Italy.

But it’s clearly obvious that I don’t qualify as any kind of expert on the topic, so I’d like to refer you to the observations of fellow blogger and author Chandi Wyant, a single woman who moved from California to Tuscany around the same time that Lucy and I started living in Montecarlo part time.

In her recent Substack, titled Chiming in on the Move to Italy Discourse, Chandi writes: “Americans become obsessed after vacationing in Italy and via hyper idealized Hollywood movies. I totally get the vacation thing. But vacationing and living in Italy are two very different things.”

Chandi Wyant

Chandi goes on to explain some of the not-so-sweet things about living la dolce vita as a foreigner, most particularly as a foreign woman. One of her first observations—something Lucy and I have seen as well—is that though Italians are very friendly with foreigners, it can be difficult to break into Italian social circles in more than a superficial way. Many of their friendships date back to childhood, and Italians can see us stranieri as very temporary, which in truth is pretty accurate. It’s also true that our developing language skills don’t allow us to have deep conversations anyway, and that’s another factor. It’s worth it to note that many of our best Italian friends here also speak English.

I’ve been told more than once that the best way for me to integrate into Italian society and learn the language more quickly would be to get an Italian girlfriend. For some reason, Lucy is not a big fan of that idea! Nor am I, for that matter. I’m okay with knowing I’ll never truly have close Italian friends or speak the language flawlessly, largely because I have such a great partner with whom I can share everything—and who also laughs at my sometimes pitiful attempts at humor (in fact, I showed her this paragraph and she chuckled).

My and my "girlfriend," doing our best to
blend into the Italian scene.

But all joking aside, I’m sure my life in Montecarlo would be somewhat lonely if I were single. And my difficulties would be multiplied many times, from what I’ve heard, if I were single and a woman. Chandi writes that she has given up dating, because most of the men who asked her out were seeking a relationship only for—to be blunt—sexual reasons. She’s also had difficulties with contractors who have tried to take advantage of her financially. While unscrupulous contractors may try to hoodwink men as well, experience shows that they see a single woman as an easier target. Not only that, Chandi even had to fight off two contractors who tried to assault her physically.

Chandi and I are not saying don’t move to Italy—there are many, many beautiful things about living here—but be aware that you will also be changing one set of problems for a host of new ones. Yes, the food here is great, and the cost of living is lower (outside of the large cities, at least), but so are the salaries. I could go on and on about the differences, but I digress. I want to focus more on the social aspects of life in Italy as a single woman.

Regarding her home remodeling, Chandi noted that hiring and managing male workers as a foreigner and single woman proved to be extremely frustrating and difficult. “Almost every worker was stupefied not to find a man in charge,” she wrote. “One of their first sentences was, ‘Sei sposata?’ After a year and a half of this, I was ready to scream and throw a hammer at a wall if I had to hear the question again about my marital status. Of course, it was none of their business, but they very much thought it was their business.”

I recommend reading Chandi’s eye-opening account, and while you’re there, you can sign up for her Substack and get her insider information on Florence—including fascinating art and history insights. She’s a historian of the Renaissance and a licensed guide.

My advice to any single woman—or couple, for that matter—considering moving to Italy is to do something that Lucy and I did. We came for three months at a time, always to the same place. We rented an apartment in an agriturismo, took language lessons, met our neighbors, and learned as much as we could about how to live as Italians. After our five-year trial period, we decided to buy our own home. By this time, we had looked at many houses and locations, and we knew exactly where we wanted to live. We had friends who helped us inspect the house, set up a bank account, select a geometra and notaio, and accompany us at the closing meeting. Had we purchased one of the other homes we had looked at over the years, it would have been a mistake. Without trusted friends to help with the purchase, we could have wasted thousands of euros. Making a major life change on a whim may work out in the movies, but it rarely does in real life.

Footnotes: Chandi has also written a book, Return to Glow: A Pilgrimage of Transformation in Italy.

My earlier blog entries about how women are treated in Italy are

Is Italy a safe and healthy place for young women (and men)?

Do Italian males live up to reputation for persistent and flirtatious behavior?

 

Chestnuts, once essential for survival, now just a thorn in my life

Chestnut trees and their fruit have been a vital part of Tuscan culture probably since the dawn of humanity. Lucy and I learned about the importance of chestnuts years ago when we visited the Museo del Castagno in Colognora in the Garfagnana. People roasted and ate the nuts and also ground them into flour. They used fallen tree branches to heat their homes, and the trunks to build their houses and make all kinds of tools and furniture. In short, nobody could have made a living in the hilly areas of Italy without chestnut trees.

However, they have not been so friendly to me. I recently discovered that chestnuts are the reason I’ve had so many flat tires on my bike while riding on the country roads around Montecarlo. Andrea, the guy at the bike shop who fixes my tires, showed me that I had more than 10 chestnut spines in my tires. Most of them were too short to reach the inner tube, but it only takes one biggy to do the job. After Andrea patched the inner tube, he used a needle-nosed pliers to remove the other spines. Now that I’ve realized why Lucy and I keep getting flats, I’ve vowed to check our tires regularly and pull the spines out myself with tweezers before they can work their way into the inner tubes. Hopefully this realization will save us a few trips to the bike shop in the future.

Our search for a physical therapist in Italy is a grand success

Lucy has her cast checked while in Gig Harbor
in February.

We are currently in the middle of our second encounter as official members of the Italian medical system. Last August on a trip in the Alps, Lucy tore her Achilles tendon before we came to our Montecarlo home in September. I went through a lengthy process to enroll us in the Italian health care system so that she could go to a doctor here in Tuscany (see One more small step). However, it was almost time to leave for Gig Harbor when we finally managed to see the doctor, so we decided to have the needed surgery in Tacoma in January.

Following the surgery, where they took a tendon from her big toe and grafted it onto her Achilles, Lucy spent five and half weeks in a cast and another two weeks in a walking boot. She started physical therapy in March, but now we’re back in Italy. Her therapist in Gig Harbor said it was essential for her to continue therapy so that she could gain the flexibility and strength she would need to walk normally.

On Tuesday, we went to the doctor’s office to make an appointment. We were asked if it was urgent and said no, so we were given an appointment date of about two weeks away. At that point, I explained to the secretary that we just needed a referral to a physical therapist, so she said we could come back that evening at 6 p.m. and wait for an opening in Dr. Fulceri’s schedule.

We came back a little before 6 p.m. and waited about an hour, while I mentally prepared to explain in Italian Lucy’s history and condition, but that was unnecessary. The doctor (he’s actually still in his final year of medical school) said he needed to work on his English for his coming exams, so my preparations were unneeded. Lucy explained her situation, and he told us that physical therapy would probably be covered under the system, but he needed to do a little research and get back to us the next day.

We received an email with a prescription the next morning, which we took to the pharmacy as instructed. By the way, the prescription was in the form of a pdf, with bar codes that the pharmacist was able to scan, giving all the needed information—a very efficient and modern system, it seems to me. However, after logging into her computer, she told us that there were absolutely no openings in all the province of Lucca within the next 10 days—and if I understood correctly, the prescription was only valid for that length of time. She said we could go to the regional health care office in Lucca to see if they could help us, but we got the feeling that we’d get the same answer there. Instead, since we live only five minutes from the border between the provinces of Lucca and Pistoia, we decided to drive to Pescia and try a pharmacy there—but with the same result. The pharmacist was apologetic and explained that this was a common issue in Italy. She said we could continue coming back to try again in a few days, but most people just made private appointments and paid for care instead of waiting.

So the next day, we decided to go directly to the fisioterapista in Altopascio that Dr. Fulceri had recommended, and fortunately we were seen immediately. Dr. Francesco Monachino gave Lucy a quick exam and noted that one of the reasons she was walking strangely is that her left leg was now a little shorter than her right leg. He recommended an insert of .5 centimeters, which we were able to purchase at the pharmacy. Lucy said she noted an immediate improvement in her gait and sensation of balance.

Dr. Monachino scheduled two appointments for us, one on Friday and the other on Monday. I’m writing this shortly after the first appointment, in which the doctor spent the majority of the session massaging and manipulating Lucy’s foot and ankle. He said that massaging the tendon was essential to break down and prevent the formation of scar tissue. He will do more massaging on the next appointment, he said, and also work on some exercises to improve strength and flexibility.

We were both very impressed with Dr. Monachino’s knowledge, professionalism and manner, and we’re also thrilled that we were able to so quickly find a physical therapist here. Yes, we weren’t able to get one that is paid by the state, but he actually costs less than we were paying for visits in the U.S.

It turns out that Lucy's physical therapist, shown
here, is actually semi-famous for being the PT
of world-renowned race car driver Robert Kubica.

In fact, the cost is one of the most astounding parts of the comparison between Italian and American health care. Dr. Monachino charged 35 euros for a half hour session, and he said that Monday he will charge the same for a full hour. In America, with insurance, we had a co-pay fee of $50 per visit. But the real shock came from looking at one of the EOBs, (explanation of benefits) from our insurance company. It seems that for each visit, the physical therapy clinic sent a bill that ranged from $200-300. The insurance company, of course, did not allow the full amount, instead paying around $80-110. Adding in the $50 we paid, that means the clinic was receiving about $130-160 for each visit, which lasted 40 minutes.

Lucy said that sometimes each therapist was dealing with two patients at the same time. The therapist would give Lucy some exercises to do, and then go and work with the other patient, returning to Lucy after giving the other patient some attention and then an exercise to work on—so essentially a 40-minute session only required about 20 minutes of the therapist’s time.

It’s not the intention of my blog to make value judgments on the differences between countries. We’re just relating our experiences as they occur and leaving it up to our readers to draw whatever conclusions. It’s also important to remember that experiences in Italy vary widely, so what happens to us may be vastly different than what happens to someone else. However, even with this disclaimer, I can’t resist noting that our American health care system is seriously wacked. If we had no insurance, would that physical therapy clinic in Gig Harbor really bill us $200-300 for 40 minutes of treatment?

On the other side of the coin, I noted that Dr. Monachino has an undergraduate degree in fisioterapia from the University of Pisa, and a masters degree in sports fisioterapia from the University of Siena. He has a 4.9 out of 5 rating in his Google reviews. Doesn’t that seem to merit fees of more than 35 euros per session? This could be why in the 10 years between 2005 and 2015, more than 10,000 doctors left Italy and moved abroad, according to The Italian Insider magazine. The article, published Feb. 4, 2019, went on the say: “Their departure is a damaging problem that is increasingly being felt as the National Health Service continues to lose even more professionals . . . Italy is committed to the training of excellent health professionals, spending large sums of money and then gives this heritage to others.”

Having the opportunity to observe the interesting differences between Italian and American societies is one of the pleasures of our divided existence. It would be easy to judge or complain that one country should emulate the other, but I try to avoid doing this. These countries have developed their societal systems over many years, and making sweeping changes would be like trying to change the tire on a car while it’s still moving. I prefer to observe, learn and do my best to adapt to the requirements of living in each separate world.

Driving in Italian cities without GPS not recommended!

We're home! Enjoying our other life
again in Montecarlo, Toscana.

Dang, how did anyone get anywhere in Italy before GPS? We arrived in Firenze Saturday evening, and though I had activated my Italian phone during our layover in Germany, for some reason I had only phone service, with no data. Therefore, after I got in my rental car and tried to drive back to the airport to pick up Lucy and our luggage, I almost immediately got lost. I had walked about 15 minutes to the rental car agency, but the routes for a walker and a driver are very, very different. Italian cities are full of one-way streets that are almost never straight for very long. When I took that first wrong turn, the street quickly looped in the opposite direction of the airport.

Most Italian cities do not have streets set up in a grid format, and many streets are one-way only.

I didn’t realize how much in the opposite direction I was going. I was looking for signs to take me back to the airport, but apparently, they don’t put these signs up for people going in the exact wrong direction, which makes sense. Gas stations in the city are almost all self-serve, with no attendant on duty, and most streets had no other places to pull over and ask for directions. Every once in a while, I’d see an airport sign and follow it, but at the next intersection, there would be no sign. Or there would be 15 signs, and I would frantically try to scan them all while the drivers behind me honked impatiently.

I’m embarrassed to admit that it took me at least 50 minutes to get back to the airport. I had no way to contact Lucy during this time, so she was wondering and worrying. Then we faced a second problem: Finding our bed and breakfast without working GPS. We made a brief effort, but after realizing again that we’d taken a wrong turn and now had no idea which direction to go, I decided to give up and just drive to our home in Montecarlo. Ahead of me was the familiar onramp for the A11 autostrada, and I knew I could find my way home from there, so I pulled over, called the Airbnb proprietor and said we weren’t coming after all. We only live an hour from the airport, so it really wasn’t that hard to stay awake. I’m not really sure why I had planned to stay the night in Firenze anyway.

Afterword: The next week, I went to the phone store we frequent in Altopascio, and the clerk there showed me that I need to sign up for a specific data plan with my provider. Hopefully, I’ll be able to figure this out on my own next time. It’s hard to believe that anyone ever survived in Italy without GPS. However, I should add that driving in the countryside in Italy is not at all difficult, nor is driving on an autostrada. Don't take my story as advice to avoid renting a car. I would say to make sure you have access to GPS, and avoid driving in large cities if at all possible. The biggest risk about driving in cities is not actually getting lost but getting ticketed for accidentally driving in a limited traffic zone (ZTL).

 

40 years after a harrowing aerial crash, my friend the pilot and the lady who administered aid find some closure

All of my hobbies, skills and interests combined dramatically recently to produce a fascinating and satisfying result. They thrust me smack in the middle of a compelling story about true heroes from both America and Italy.

The saga began on February 8, 1985, with Air Force Lieutenant Tim Brown flying what was supposed to be a routine mission from Torrejon, Spain, to the NATO base in Aviano, Italy, in an F16 Fighting Falcon. When a malfunctioning heater caused a flap to freeze, the fighter went into a stall before plummeting to the earth in the foothills of the rugged Dolomite mountains near the village of Limana. Providentially, Brown managed to eject in time, and he parachuted to the ground, dripping blood from a gash on his face incurred during the violent ejection. Brown’s jet crashed into a field, and pieces of it littered a broad area.

Remains of the F16 fighter in the snowy field in Northern Italy.

Brown hiked down the hills, where he picked up some footprints in the snow and followed them to the farmhouse of Ermelinda Dal Farra. She spoke no English, and Brown no Italian, but she took him in, tended to his wounds and alerted the Italian state police, the Carabinieri, along with the fire department, the Vigili del Fuoco. Within a half hour, an ambulance came and transported Brown to the hospital in Belluno, but their brief time together in Dal Farra’s home left a lasting impression on both Tim and Ermelinda.

In the days after his hospital treatment, Brown returned to the scene of the accident with other Air Force officers to review the accident. Tim had brought flowers with him to give to Ermelinda, but she wasn’t home, so he wrote her a nice thank you note and left the flowers.

Tim and I attend the same church in Gig Harbor, and I’ve listened to his fascinating story a couple of times. Each time after ending the tale, Tim expressed regret that he was not able to thank Ermelinda in person. Before Tim’s father passed away, he had encouraged Tim to go back and find the lady who had helped him. Since I speak some Italian and am somewhat familiar with the Veneto region, we even discussed the possibility of me accompanying Tim to revisit the crash scene and visit Ermelinda.

I expressed willingness to do this, but several obstacles stood in the way, the first being that Tim did not know Ermelinda’s name, and he wasn’t even sure of the nearest city. He knew he had been hospitalized in Belluno, though, but would he be able to find the farmhouse again? And then there would be the cost of travel and the logistics. One doesn’t just hop in the car and drive from Gig Harbor to Belluno. It would take considerable planning and coordination.

So, first things first, I told Tim I’d see if I could find the name of the woman who had first given him aid. Tim seemed to doubt that I’d be able to do this—which probably served as a challenge to my investigative reporting skills. I started by doing a search for news of the crash, and I found a few articles online. The crash had happened near the small city of Limana. I looked at the map to see where Limana was, and then I searched for all the newspapers in the region. I sent an email to each newspaper, and within a few days, I received a helpful reply.

Lauredana Marsiglia of Il Gazzettino di Belluno told me she had written an article printed on the front page of her newspaper: “Crashed F16 in 1985: he seeks the woman who helped him.” Marsiglia also said she was asking for information from the Air Club in Belluno. Within two days, not only had Marsiglia found the woman but she had interviewed her and taken a photo of both Ermelinda and her husband (who had not been present on the day of the crash). It turns out that she still had Tim’s thank you note, mounted and hanging on her wall.

Tim’s reacted with surprise and gratitude, emailing me: “Paul, I simply can’t thank you enough for all your work (and to think this all happened in some four days after talking with you in church last Sunday—truly amazing!) I’m grateful to know she’s alive; to have her name and to see the photo of her.  Though I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her at all, that’s my name at the bottom of the note she has, and I know I wrote her. Jem and I need to plan a trip to Italy to meet her and her husband. Thanks again, Paul, I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

However, the reporter wanted much more. She wanted to be able to make a video of a conversation between Tim and Ermelinda, and that went far beyond what Tim had in mind. He consulted with his old Air Force colleagues and the public affairs officer for the Air Force, and they all discouraged him from doing any kind of public interview. Reluctantly, I told Marsiglia that Tim had only wanted to someday meet privately with Ermelinda, but he wanted no further publicity.

Ermelinda Del Farra still has Tim's note, which she has mounted and keeps hanging on her wall.

However, in the meantime I had also been able to locate Ermelinda on Facebook and establish contact with her. I explained to her that Tim would always remember and be thankful for her kindness, but he was uncomfortable with how public the situation had become. She wrote back: “Good evening Mr. Paul. I was very pleased to hear that our American pilot looked for me. My whole family has always had him in their hearts for that miraculous event. We are always ready to welcome him when he wants. I will introduce you to my children, who also remember him. Now they are grown up, and I am a grandmother of three beautiful grandchildren. I would be very happy to spend time together. He is always welcome.”

And that’s the end of the story, or so I thought. But 2025 marked the 40th anniversary of the incident, and the people of Limana have not forgotten it. Journalist Giovanni Carraro contacted me in December to let me know there would be a special program at city hall on February 8 to memorialize the event. Present would be eye-witnesses and some of the first people to arrive on the crash scene, as well as Ermelinda Dal Farra. A documentary movie with interviews and details would also be shown.

I shared this information with Tim, and after some initial hesitation, he agreed to write a letter to thank Ermelinda and all the people of the community who had assisted him. He also sent a photo of himself and his wife Jem. The letter was translated into Italian and displayed and read at the special event.

This is likely the end of this story, as I believe these events have satisfied the need for both Tim and Ermelinda to find closure (although I would still be happy to accompany Tim if he does want to return to the scene). I received these notes afterwards from the main characters:

Tim: “Thanks so much for sending me the link (to the documentary video). I listened to the whole thing and was able to get a general sense of where the video was going, thanks to your summary. From a personal standpoint and though maybe not perfect, I do have a sense of closure on this event as I can truly say I fulfilled an aspect of my father’s encouragement to me years ago to thank Ermelinda. That wouldn’t have been possible without your help.”

Ermelinda: “Thank you for informing our dear pilot Tim Brown about the anniversary. Forty years have passed, and my family and I have never forgotten that famous evening. Tim, your letter was very emotional both for my family and all the participants. I would have liked to meet you, I hope that one day in private and alone with our families we can meet. It would make us very happy. Thank you, too, Paul Spadoni, for having been the spokesperson.”

Here is a link to the documentary of the crash shown by the journalist Giovanni Carraro February 8, 2025: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iozFe8YTmKI

 

 

 

A message to my grandchildren . . .

What is it like to be a parent and a grandparent? What is the one thing that is most important to a person of my age? I’ll try to explain this by starting with a story about a man name Michele Spadoni and his wife Anita Seghieri, my grandparents—your great great grandparents.

Michele Spadoni, surrounded by his seven children.

Michele was born in 1876 in Pescia, Italy. Michele’s family owned no property. His parents had no home of their own. They farmed other people’s property and had to pay rent in a house that had no indoor plumbing, an outdoor bathroom, no electricity, and was heated only by a fireplace. For their work on the farm, they were able to keep only 50% of the profits. The owner of the land kept the other 50%, even though he didn’t work. It was an unfair system, but for people who didn’t own their own land, it was almost the only option. Kids had to work in the fields with their parents. If they were lucky, they could go to grade school and learn to read, but most of them dropped out of school to help their families survive. One day when Michele was 11, he and his family were working in the fields in San Salvatore, just below Montecarlo. His 7-year-old sister Zelinda was home with their 90-year-old bed-ridden grandmother, and the fire in the fireplace caught the rest of the room on fire. The grandmother was too old to help Zelinda, who was trapped in the burning room. Zelinda was the fourth of Michele’s siblings to die young. Two other sisters and a brother died from illnesses that we would be able to cure today with modern medicine.

Anita Seghieri 

When he was in his 20s, Michele wanted to marry and raise a family of his own. He met and fell in love with an amazing young lady, my grandmother Anita Seghieri, who lived nearby. But he couldn’t marry her, for he had no money, no home, no education, no real occupation except farming. The economy in Italy was among the worst in all of Europe.

But Michele had a few things in his favor. His parents had taught him the value of working hard, and he was willing to do any job. Even though he didn’t have a strong education, he was very smart. And most of all, he was willing to experience new things. He was not afraid of adventure. Michele was 26 years old in 1903, and he had to find some way to make something of his life, some way to earn a living, some way to marry and raise a family. What do you think he did then?

He took a train to a seaport, Genoa, and then boarded a ship to America. The journey took about two weeks, and when he arrived, he had only $9. He spoke absolutely no English. The ship’s log listed his occupation as peasant, but then someone crossed out the word peasant and changed it to laborer. He found work in a steel mill, then as a cook, and then in a brick factory near Eatonville, Washington (see Clay City blog). After five years, he had earned enough money to go back to Italy and marry Anita. Unfortunately, during the five years he worked in America, both his dad and mom died. After the marriage, Michele and Anita went back to America, where he worked in the brick factory for another five years. This time the ship’s log listed his occupation not as peasant or laborer but as operating engineer.

He and Anita lived in a little cabin next to the brick factory. Anita gave birth to two daughters, Nelda and Clara, and was pregnant with a third child. Michele and Anita planned to return to Italy and raise their family there. Anita went back to Italy first with her two daughters (ages 1 and 2), and while there she gave birth to a third daughter, Lola. But she saw that life in San Salvatore had not improved. She was happy to be with her parents, brothers and sisters and cousins again. It was comforting to be able to speak the language and understand the customs of the people around her. But she realized that there would still be no work for her husband, and no future for her children, so she sent a message to Michele: “Italy is where you and I feel most at home, but there is no future for our children here. Stay where you are. I’m coming back to America. It will be our home now.”

1914 was an eventful year for Michele and Anita. They had their fourth child, their first son, whom they named Giulio, but to make his name sound more American, they called him Julius. They also moved to a rented home at the head of the bay in Gig Harbor, Washington, and Michele started work at a metal refining company in Tacoma. He took a ferry to work, since there were few roads and no bridge connecting Gig Harbor to Tacoma. Sometimes he would stay in Tacoma for the entire work week and only come home on weekends. They bought property in Shore Acres, on the south end of Gig Harbor, and built their first house. They had three more boys, Roy (1915), Claude (1918) and Rudolph (1921).

Michele on his farm during
his latter years.

At the end of World War 2, the three of the boys, now young men, started their own business clearing land, making roads and delivering coal and fuel oil. The fourth brother joined the business in later years. Almost all their sons and their nephews worked for the company, which was called Spadoni Brothers. Julius was the eldest brother and the head of the company, but these brothers loved each other and made most decisions by consensus. Like their father Michele, they were honest, hardworking and intelligent, and their business was a huge success.

Julius was my father, and he was one of the most amazing men I’ve ever known. Before he started Spadoni Brothers, he worked as a logger and then a welder. He built his own house. He could repair his own cars. He had a strong faith in God, and he took his children to church every Sunday. He was a fine example of what a man should be.  I never once saw him get angry or raise his voice (although he told me that he sometimes did get angry when he was younger). He and his brothers and sisters helped many people in need. One time I stopped to help some people pull their car out of a ditch. I hadn’t told them my name, but afterwards they said, “You must be a Spadoni.” I don’t know how they knew that, but I like to think it was because that’s what all the members of the Spadoni family in Gig Harbor did—they helped people in need without asking for anything in return.

My mom taught kindergarten in our home so that she could be at home with her children and still contribute to the family income. Later, when all her children were in school, she took a job as a first-grade teacher. She inspired in me a love for reading, and I give her credit for teaching me to be a writer.

I don’t really know if my parents and grandparents look down from heaven to see how I’m doing today. Maybe they do, or maybe they’re too busy with whatever work God has given them to do in heaven, but it is my strong hope that they are proud of me. I want them to know that I appreciate all the sacrifices they made so that I could have a good education, a good job, a home of my own and a happy family. I also appreciate that they taught me to love God, they taught me kindness, honesty, the value of hard work, and the importance of getting a good education.

I think they would be terribly disappointed if I turned out to be lazy, or dishonest, or selfish, or cruel. Or if I took all the education they provided for me and wasted it by living foolishly. Or if I sold all the property I inherited and wasted the money on fleeting pleasures.

I wish my parents and grandparents had lived long enough to see what a successful career I had as a teacher, to see the awards we won for the newspaper, yearbook and literary arts magazine, to see that I wrote two books, to see that I was named journalism teacher of the year and career and technical education teacher of the year in the state of Washington.

And even more than that, to see that I’ve had a long, loving and successful marriage to an amazing woman, and to see the four amazing children that my wife and I brought up. My parents and grandparents centered all their efforts on their families, and it paid off. I believe they would look back on all the sacrifices they made and say it was all worthwhile.

And now I’m no longer the child but instead the grandfather, and the greatest reward for me is to glory in the successes of my children and grandchildren. I too made a lot of sacrifices, working at multiple jobs throughout my life, many of them at the same time. I’ve been a laborer, a dishwasher, a truck driver, a logger, a photographer, a graphic designer, a journalist, an author, a landlord and a business owner. By working so hard during my younger years, I’m now able to enjoy leisure time with my family. Nothing gives me greater pleasure or satisfaction than seeing that my children and grandchildren are happy and are forming habits that will make them experience the same successes that I’ve enjoyed. My children are already there—they are well established in successful and fulfilling careers. They are honest, hard-working, kind and loving. As for my grandchildren, it’s too early to know what kind of lives they will lead. Will they also grow up to be honest, hard-working, kind and loving? I fervently pray that they will. Nothing could make me happier than to see them become like their own wonderful parents.

I hope that my grandchildren, as they grow into adulthood, will also want to make their parents and grandparents proud. I hope they will be grateful for the loving way they are being raised by their parents, and that they will repay this devotion by embracing the values of their parents.

To my kids and grandkids, I say that you never, ever need to give me a gift for Christmas, my birthday or Father’s Day. That’s because the most priceless gift you can give me is to live a life that will make me proud. If you do that, it will assure me that my own life, and the lives of my parents and grandparents, have been worthwhile.

Wrapping up our most social excursion abroad . . .

On the top of El Castellot near Ferhan's school.

Our most recent soggiorno in Montecarlo has come to an end, and it has been different from any other. Different from the early years, when we focused on language classes, studying genealogy, writing, making quilts and learning our way around. We still need to learn to speak Italian better, and of course we still discover interesting new places each time. But the biggest change this year is that we had more social interactions than any other time.

Special friends at Mont Blanc, France.

We started the trip with a spectacular 10-day tour of the Alps with Greg and Robbie Heath, Gary and Joan Albert and new friends Thom and Billie Kight. This took us through five countries: Austria, Italy, Germany, Switzerland and France. From there, we took a Flix bus to Montecarlo, arriving Aug. 23. This was the first time we’ve been in Italy in August, and as expected, it was brutally hot!

Roger, Rosemary, Gina, Lisa

We met with a variety of cousins, some from the United States and some from Italy. Besides having my brother Roger and his family visit, I also enjoyed a wine tasting with Pam Wagner and her family. Pam is an American second cousin on the Seghieri side of the family. I had met her only one time previously in the states.

Davide and I on Mt. Piglione

Italian cousin Davide Seghieri and I climbed the dual peaks of Monte Piglione together, a memorable time of bonding. Claudio and David Del Terra stopped by on their bikes for a visit in our home. Rocky Ferraro and his companion Nia took time out from their extensive self-guided tour of Italy to visit with us.

Don dining at Pallini

Don Mansfield, an old friend from our days at the University of Washington, stayed with us for three days with his wife Kathryn. Two dear friends from our church in Gig Harbor stayed with us for a few days, and we had meals with several friends from our church in Altopascio. We’ve become friends with two amazing American ex-pat couples who have purchased old homes in Montecarlo and Tofori and have totally transformed them. We enjoyed time with a warm and witty British lady who lives in San Salvatore. We gave an informal tour of Montecarlo to a group of six American tourists who were accompanied by cousin Gina Natucci. Our downstairs neighbors stopped by for dessert and conversation, and one of our elderly neighbors invited us into her home for a chat. Sonny Blinkinsop, an ex-student of mine from Olympic High School and his wife joined us for a excursion to Svizzera Pesciatina and lunch at 3 Angeli in Pescia. We even had a visit from three people—Julie, Massi and Deborah—who were previously only Facebook friends but are now in-person friends.

Enjoying a gourmet dinner at the Festa del Vino with imported America friends Heather, Suzanne, Marcus and Thomas.

We spent some time with a relatively new friend, Shandra, who is working on the purchase of a convent in Vorno. We introduced her to Joseph and Aurelio from our Altopascio church at a dinner in our home.  Shandra is optimistic that the purchase can take place in 2025, and that the villa will become an important stop for pilgrims on the Via Francigena. This is a project that Lucy and I hope to become more involved with in future years.

We are gradually increasing our familiarity with people who own the restaurants and shops in Montecarlo These are not necessarily people we can count as friends, but it gives us a certain amount of comfort to realize we know their names and that they recognize us as residents.

We are wrapping up our European excursion with a week in Spain, together with Dan and Sandra and family (minus only Josie). We’ve watched Ferhan play a soccer match, toured his school, splashed in the Mediterranean Sea, shopped and hiked and rode bikes in the hills and plains between Barcelona and Terragona.

We’ve packed in a ton of exploring and socializing in our 11 weeks in Europe, and now we’re getting excited about returning to our equally amazing family, friends and home in Gig Harbor. We often say that two or three months away is just the right amount of time, because we are not rushed; we have time to see people, explore new sites and revisit old favorite places. Now, though, we can hardly wait to get back to home sweet home!

Our first doctor's office visit goes well

We reached another milestone today, our first doctor’s appointment under the Italian health care system. I enrolled us in the system a few weeks ago, but since we had no need at the time for a doctor, we didn’t ask for an appointment. But last week, Lucy came down with a cold and sore throat, and it worsened on Sunday, so much so that we canceled a planned lunch with some friends from church.

She rested all day Sunday, and by Monday morning, she had improved slightly, but we wanted to make sure that we were taking the right steps for continued improvement. I went to the doctor’s office in the morning, and the secretary told me to bring Lucy between 1 and 2 p.m. and get in line to see our assigned physician, Dr. Fulceri. We arrived seven minutes early, and at 1 p.m., Dr. Fulceri came out of his office and called several names. Apparently, about three people ahead of us actually had official appointments, and the rest of us would have to wait in the order that we had arrived. I’m not sure why the secretary hadn’t given us an official appointment, but we would be the first in line after the other appointments. Interestingly, a sign on the secretary’s desk said that her afternoon hours were from 3-7 p.m., so the doctor was operating with no secretary, no nurse, indeed no aides of any kind.

Dottor Fulceri

We had to wait about 40 minutes before the doctor came out and asked for the next case. Lucy and I went in together, and we were happy to find that Dr. Fulceri speaks a bit of English. Basically, we could describe Lucy’s issues in English and be understood, and likewise he could explain himself in Italian and we understood. He first looked us up on his laptop computer and saw that we were registered with him as new patients. After listening to Lucy’s lungs and looking in her throat, he concluded that the infection was limited to the area around her vocal cords. Since her symptoms had improved since yesterday, he recommended taking ibuprofen twice a day to reduce the swelling. He also looked at her Achilles heel, which has been bothering her since she strained it in August. He confirmed that it felt swollen and recommended an ultrasound to see if it is healing normally. However, since this is our last week in Italy, that will have to wait until we return to Gig Harbor.

Office hours for our medico

Overall, we felt reassured that our basic medical needs will be in good hands during the months we spend in Italy. Yes, the waiting room and doctor’s office were old and a bit shabby by American medical standards. There were no nurses or physician’s assistants, and only one part-time secretary. But our wait was not particularly long, and the doctor took his time, listened carefully and seemed knowledgeable, polite and compassionate. There was no fee, no request for our insurance information, and we had no paperwork to fill out, although the doctor did ask Lucy to bring in a list of her medications and doses the next time she visits. I can see why most Italians are quite satisfied with their medical system.

With so many incredible Tuscan restaurants, it’s hard to pick a favorite

Montecarlo has more than a dozen restaurants, all of five-star quality. I wish we had the budget to dine out more often, but we don’t. Besides that, Lucy is an excellent cook in her own right, and furthermore, it is possible to buy restaurant quality meals at a rosticceria, or tavola calda, places which provide what is basically home cooking to carry back to your dining room. We have one of these nearby in San Salvatore, the macelleria of Luigi Bianchi and his family (they will even deliver). And even the prepared food at the supermarkets is great here.

Angiolo shows off the mushrooms that we
will soon be eating.

But we do occasionally dine out, especially when we have visitors, and so we’ve tried about half of the restaurants. This week we tried one new to us, Ristorante dal Pallini, and we’d have to call it a new favorite. Considering the high quality of all the other restaurants, this is a strong statement in its favor. Just what impressed us so much? I’d have to say it was the welcoming congeniality of the family that owns and operates the place. The cook, Angiolo, came out of the kitchen to explain how he prepares his risotto and to show us the fresh porcini mushrooms that had just been delivered from the Garfagnana. His wife Gloria and son Rumen checked on us and chatted with us periodically throughout the meal. Our friends needed gluten-free meals, and Gloria and Angiolo suggested several possibilities. Angliolo even invited me inside to view his sparkling clean kitchen.

Kathryn digs into some
exquisite risotto ai funghi.

What can I say about the food? I am neither a gourmet nor a picky eater, but I can assure you that it was every bit as fresh, authentic and delicious as the other fine restaurants in Montecarlo, but a little less expensive. We were fortunate enough to have picked a perfect day to dine outside, under the shelter of a sun umbrella, but the restaurant also has ample inside dining space. Perhaps the greatest drawback (though not for us) is the unusual location. Frankly, we don’t know how it can compete, because the average visitor to Montecarlo would not even know it exists. It’s at the end of a moderately rough dirt road outside the city walls on the west side. Any tourist parking in the main lot would simply walk down the streets of the historic center and pick one of the more visible options.

Lucy chose an antipasto misto instead
of a primo piatto.

Pallini is about a five-minute walk from the Porta Nuova. Start at the end of via Roma, go down the stairs and continue about 50 meters on a rough and uneven gravel road. At the T, turn right and follow the dirt road about 200 meters. They are open for both lunch and dinner. We hope the word spreads, at least among the locals, of this exceptional restaurant. We’ll do our part to give it some business when our guests ask us out for a meal!

 

 

One more small step: Enrollment in the Italian health care system

After dragging my feet for a few years, I have finally enrolled in the Italian health care system. Lucy and I have divided our lives between Italy and the USA for 14 years now, and a question we’re sometimes asked is how we take care of our medical needs while abroad—a very good question, indeed. The short answer is that we took our chances that we wouldn’t come down with a major illness in Italy, not necessarily the smartest idea, but, per fortuna, it came out OK.

I retired from teaching in 2010 at age 57, and since Lucy and I are essentially the same age, we didn’t yet qualify for Medicare. To tide us over until we reached 65, we enrolled in Samaritan Ministries, a health care sharing program that saved us thousands of dollars while completely covering Lucy’s successful battle with breast cancer in 2013. We became residents in Italy in the 2016, so at that point we could have applied for the Italian tessera sanitaria, but by then we had enrolled in Medicare. This covered our medical needs while in the USA, but Medicare doesn’t provide health services overseas. Fortunately, we enjoy excellent health. We do our annual physicals and inoculations in the USA, and we knew that Italian hospitals would provide us with emergency treatment should a sudden accident or illness befall us while in Montecarlo.

One reason I didn’t enroll before is that I had received conflicting information about the cost. I didn’t want to pay an annual fee for something we probably wouldn’t need. But an additional reason is that I wasn’t sure how to do it, and I lacked confidence in my ability to wade through the bureaucracy with my still limited ability to communicate in Italian. However, as the years passed and my language ability improved, I realized these excuses were pretty flimsy. I just had to go to one of the ASL (Azienda Sanitaria Locale) offices and ask for help.

I chose an office near Lucca, about an hour-long bike ride. I could have taken the train, but I try to take a bike ride every sunny day, and this gave me a good destination. I had to go to three different offices before I found the right one, but once there, I easily explained what I wanted. I had all the right documents in hand for both me and Lucy: carta d’identità, codice fiscale and, for Lucy, her permesso di soggiorno. It turned out that residents under a certain income don’t have to pay anything. Within an hour of finding the right office, I received paper copies of our health cards.

The only problem is that the doctor assigned to us was in Segromino al Monte, eight miles from Montecarlo. That’s not far in car miles, but it would require us to go down the hill of Montecarlo and up another long hill. Google maps say it is 50 minutes away by bicycle, which is all we use for a good part of the time here. I had given the clerk the names of three doctors I knew in Montecarlo and Altopascio, but she said they had no openings. I asked her to give us any doctor near Montecarlo; she told me she could only search the list by name, not by location. She had already been looking for almost 10 minutes, so I felt obligated to say OK when she offered this doctor.

A few days later, I went on the ASL website to see if I could find a doctor in Altopascio who had openings for new customers, and I found five. Armed with this list, I rode off to another office, this time in Capannori, a little closer, only to be told that none of these doctors was actually available. However, there was a new young doctor just starting out in Altopascio, so I asked for and was granted a change to dottor Alessandro Fulceri.

Once back home, I did a web search to see if I could find his office and office hours. I found out that a well-known doctor in Altopascio had recently retired, and the ASL was not able to find a replacement. They advertised the opening a second time and received only one applicant, a third-year medical student. They granted him a provisional certificate, and he will serve in an out-patient clinic 18 hours per week in Altopascio while he continues his studies.

Dottor Fulceri

I’m happy to have a doctor closer to home and am not concerned about his lack of experience. New doctors are often more current on new techniques and procedures, and there’s a good chance he speaks some English if we have trouble communicating in Italian. Next week, I’ll ride to Altopascio to see if we can get an appointment to meet him and get the latest Covid vaccinations. Meanwhile, I feel a little swell of pride that I was able to surmount another hurdle without having to rely on my Italian friends.

 

Climbing Monte Piglione—this day could not have been better!

Davide and me on the northern
peak of Monte Piglione.

I had the privilege of hiking in the Alpi Apuane mountains Saturday with perhaps the second best guida turistica in Italy, Davide Seghieri (sorry, Davide, but the top tour guide is still your wife Elena). Of course, Davide is not actually a guide by profession, but he certainly chose an ideal destination and route, not to mention that he also ordered up perfect weather—clear and mild.

The rugged peak of Monte Croce, which is also visible from our terrazza. With a cameo appearance from a bird.

We drove together for about an hour northwest of Montecarlo, past the village of Pescaglia, before the road turned too rough to continue by car. We started hiking at an altitude of perhaps 600 meters (about 2,000 feet), and it took us about an hour and a half of steady hiking to reach the northern peak of Monte Piglione, which has an altitude of 1,233 meters (4,045 feet). We stayed at the top for a half hour while we ate a light lunch and marveled at the 360-degree view.

The weather-worn trailhead sign.

Because of the unusual clarity of the air, looking west we were able to see the Ligurian sea and the cities of Viareggio, Pisa, Livorno and La Spezia. We could also faintly see through a light haze the islands of Elba, Corsica and Capraia—and even all the way to the mountains above the Italian and French Rivieras.

The peninsulas and the small island in the background protrude beyond the bay of La Spezia. Monte Matanna is in the center.

Here we are on the ridge ready to climb to the northern peak.

Looking north, south and east, we saw dozens of other mountains, including the impressive gray cliffs of Monte Croce, Monte Matanna, Monte Prana and the interestingly named Foce del Pallone, which translates as “mouth of the balloon.” As Davide explained to me and I later looked up online, the ridge is named after a balloon that became famous in 1910 and 1911 when a wealthy family that owned a resort and restaurant on Monte Matanna found an unusual way to transport customers up the mountain. They used a large balloon attached to cables that could lift as many as six people at a time. The balloon lift, though expensive, quickly became famous and carried wealthy people, including the king of Belgium, up to the exclusive lodge. However, its success only lasted six months, because one cold and windy day in February of 1911, a violent storm destroyed the balloon and its hanger.

Here we're looking south to Monte Prana, with the Mediterranean Sea and Viareggio in the background.

Davide told me the names of many of the other surrounding mountains, and it seems he has climbed at least half of the major ones. Monte Piglione actually has two peaks about 1150 meters from each other, connected by a ridge. We ate lunch on the northern peak and then walked to the slightly lower southern peak. From there, we could see Montecarlo, so now I knew that Monte Pigliano is one of the mountains we can see from the terrazza in our home. I waved to Lucy and even called her on the phone, but it was only in our vivid imaginations that we could see each other from such a great distance.

In this view from our terrazza, Monte Piglione is just to the right of the tree trunk. Note that there are two peaks, joined by a ridge. Davide and I are waving to you from the southern peak, ha! On the far right is Monte Croce.

Ripe blackberries on the trail.

Davide makes a great hiking companion, as we seem to have similar personalities. I was pleased that I was mostly able to keep up with him, since he is 14 years younger and extremely fit. For my benefit, he chose a destination that was only moderately taxing, and it is one that I will definitely want to repeat. Who wants to join me next time?