A typical day

My Dad asked me, "tell me about a typical day." I thought about that. No day is typical yet. Every day is different. There are some consistencies now that we've moved into our house. We have coffee in the morning, Jim goes to work, I walk the dogs, I do various other things that I have a hard time accounting for, Jim comes home from work, we drink wine and eat dinner on the terrace, we go to bed. But that's pretty much what our days were like in Seattle, except that I was more gainfully employed and the weather wasn't reliable enough to eat outside every night. And that description misses the nuances of living in Italy where each day is different and something disturbing, funny, crazy, or heartwarming happens.

Take today for example. I drove Jim to work because I needed the car. I needed the car because after three days at the house I need to come off the hill. You see, my life right now is fairly limited, you might even say it's monastic. The simplicity and solitude is nice, and I enjoy my walks and my time studying Italian, but after three days I need to see and do something different, even if it is just getting groceries in Sarzana. Today, I actually had a few tasks, but before we leave to drive Jim to work, I receive a call from Arturo, the handyman. Amazingly, I manage to understand that he is coming to the house, although I'm not exactly sure why. He wants to come in the morning, but we agree on 3 pm. My first successful phone conversation in Italian.

After dropping Jim off at work, I drive to Lerici and park just outside the no-drive zone. I walk the dogs into town and after several altercations with other dogs, I decide to let the dogs loose on the breakwater, which I had done many times in the past. "Signora. Signora. Signora!" Damn, she's talking to me. I turned. "Lah, lah, lah, lah, cani! Lah, lah, lah, lah non permesso! Lah, lah, lah, lah ...." I don't understand much Italian yet, but I do understood that she doesn't think I should let the dogs off-leash on the breakwater. I put the dogs on leash and walk into town.

I visit our real estate agent in hopes that she can help me figure out the 14-page, 4-part contract that arrived in the mail from the electricity company. Fortunately, Alessia says she will take care of it. A good thing for me, because I had started to translate the forms using Google Translate, but when I got to the part that translated to "this form needs to be filled out by the Chamber of Commerce," I knew I needed help.

Back at the car, I wonder what those papers are under my rear windshield wiper. It can't be a ticket because I parked in this spot many times while living in Lerici. It is a ticket. After wandering around, I see a new sign that says as of today only residents can park here. Crap!

I need to get away and the dogs haven't had much exercise, so I drive to a spot on the Magra River that Bruno and Bella love. It's an estuary full of ducks and Bruno swims after one group until they take flight and then he swims after another. No one is around except a few guys fishing in the river, but a man suddenly appears and starts talking to me. I understand from him that there are lots of ducklings around. He's concerned about the dogs hurting them. I'm feeling a little beat up today, but this man is very nice and I understand his concern. I call in the dogs, and we head for home.

At 3 p.m., as promised, Arturo shows up. He's with another man, who turns out to be an electrician who our landlord has sent to look at the dishwasher, which caught fire last Sunday. Jim and I had been sitting on the terrace when we heard a strange popping noise from inside the house. When I walked into the kitchen, the dishwasher, which we have yet to use because we have only a few dishes, was spewing smoke and sparks. The electrician confirmed that the dishwasher was rotto, broken. The two men leave but not before Arturo hands me a tray of produce from his garden. It weighs about 10 pounds, and the vegetables and herbs are absolutely beautiful. I like Arturo. He's very patient with my limited Italian. If I don't understand him, he just gets closer to me and talks louder. He also loves Bruno. When he called me earlier in the day, he said "Come sta Bruno?" When he arrived, he got down on his knees and pulled Bruno's head into his chest and gently rubbed it.

Jim comes home. We drink a bottle of wine on the terrace and watch the sunset through the pine trees. We have pasta with a sauce of Arturo's fresh vegetables. The end of another typical day.

l'ultimo della strada

Jim and I have been living here for a little more than a week. And while we are eager for our household shipment to arrive, we are also enjoying the pace of life at the end of the road. We have a table and chairs, a bed, a pot and a pan, enough silverware to eat with, a referigerator, and a pantry full of Italian goodies. Really, what more do we need?

For me, this house is a fun departure from our home in Kirkland. From Pacific Northwest woodframe home to Italian country stone farmhouse. There are many contrasts, but the biggest is the size. This house is probably one-third to one-half the size of our Kirkland home. The walls are two feet thick and all of the windows are covered by beautiful wrought-iron grates. Unlike our Kirkland home, which is nestled into a vale, this house sits on the crest of a hill. From this perch, the farmhouse is bright and cooled by a constant breeze. The owner has left much of the artwork and some of the furniture that was in the house, which used to be rented out as a vacation home. Some of the paintings are 400 years old and are dark and foreboding. Beautifully hand-painted ceramics and old maps cover many of the walls. We had the owner leave the two amoires because there are no closets in this house. It will be interesting to see how our Scandinavian-style furniture and Pacific Northwest art and photos fits in with the decor here.


For Jim, this is a wonderful place to come to in the evening after work. It's worth the 30-minute commute to have the solitude and vistas. Half of Jim's commute is just getting up and down the hill that we live on. The other half is a mix of country road, city street, and highway. The most amazing thing is that there is only one stop between here and Jim's work. The European system of roundabouts is impressive. No more sitting at red lights with the engine idling.

This weekend will be our first at the house. Last weekend we drove to Florence to look at a motorcycle and do a little reconnaissance. It boggles our minds: it's a 1-1/2 hour drive to Florence. And because it's so close, we felt little pressure to see the sites. In fact, we only visited one site (the Baptistery), and then spent the rest of our time walking around, getting our bearings, and, of course, eating.

Next week our household shipment arrives. There are a number of things that we are eager to have, but mostly we just want to get unpacked and finished with this transition so that we can get on with living in Italy.

Leaving Lerici

Tuesday morning I load our few belongings into our car and drive from Lerici to our new home near Falcinello. It's fortunate that we don't have much to move, because Jim is at sea and because Lerici has a no-drive zone for visitors in the summer and we are parked just outside that zone, about 200 yards up the road. I want to ignore this restriction, but the cameras at the beginning of the zone prevent me from tempting a ticket. Everyone has told us that if you try to sneak into the zone, you should expect a ticket in the mail in 3 to 6 months.

It takes me over two hours to ferry our baggage up to our recently purchased 2002 VW station wagon, "Dora." The last load includes Bella and Boomer, who squeeze into the remaining space.

Lerici was the perfect place to spend our first six weeks in Italy. Jim commuted to work by bus; I walked everywhere. The village was beautiful, the people were generally friendly despite being overrun by tourists, and our landlords were wonderful. But the location had its challenges. The dogs couldn't leave the apartment without being on leashes, particularly after Boomer was caught with the owner's prized turtle in his mouth in our bedroom! Walking the dogs was acrobatic at times, trying to maneuver the two of them away from people, dogs, food and tidying up after them. (You can't really appreciate how much dogs poop until you have to pick up every one of these gifts!) Also, it was clear that we weren't going to get used to the noise. The buses, the two-stroke engines, the loud TVs were too much for our spoiled suburban-American ears.

Driving the road to our new home was like doing yoga. I feel my body relax and my mind empty. The road up here has me laughing; although not everyone would find it funny. It's so narrow in places that it's challenging for one car to get through. The switchbacks are so tight and the road forks in so many places that frequently the main road disappears until the last second. Fortunately, there is little traffic. It takes me 12 minutes to drive the length of Via Prulla. When I can drive no farther, I park the car and let the dogs out. We are home.


I've spent the last two days marveling at the 1900-built, recently renovated farmhouse and the surrounding views. The house sits on a hillcrest. To the south is our nearest neighbor who has a lovely villa with swimming pool and friendly old German shephard. To the east, houses with red tile roofs are sprinkled throughout the forested hills. To the north is a beautiful grove of pines with an inviting trail that has yet to be explored. To the west, expansive views of the sea and the town of Sarzana below. The property has eight olive trees, which is enough to harvest and press for our own supply. It also has fig, pear, apple, and cherry trees. The parking area has a 3-foot-high hedge of rosemary that Boomer must be peeing on because he smells like the herb, and dill and oregano are sprouting up everywhere. There are signs of owl and wild boar, which is a delicacy in this area, and yesterday I saw a raptor fly low over the house.

Our friend, Jim Pollock, used to have a saying about his magnificent home overlooking Lake Washington: "Is this a little slice of heaven or what?" In fact, he said it so much that a friend turned it into an acronym so that it was quicker to say: ITALSOHOW. That's how I'm feeling now and as I write am realizing that the acronym almost spells "Italy." Maybe I can work a "Y" into Jim's saying! "Is this a little yard of heaven or what?" Bella and Bruno think so!

La Spezia and the Maritime Festival

La Spezia, the town that Jim works in, is a ship-building, shipping, and naval town. The town and surrounding area have been a naval stronghold for millennia. Because of its military value, the Allied Forces leveled La Spezia, making it the third most bombed city in Italy during WWII. In the early 1800s, Napolean built up the naval fortifications in this area after he created the short-lived Ligurian Republic. Before that, the Genoese and Pisans built castles and fortifications along this coast to stake their claims. And before that it was the Greek and Roman navies fighting it out for the land along the sea.

The town of La Spezia isn't particularly attractive by tourist standards, perhaps because it has very little old city, but it's a pleasant town with a thriving Tuesday market, broad tree-lined avenues, and wide sidewalks covered by large porticos.

La Spezia's Maritime Festival was nearly two weeks ago. As part of the festival, we toured the Italian navy's tall ship: Amerigo Vespucci. Built in 1930 as a school ship, the Vespucci is 330-feet-long with a steel hull and three masts. It's 30 km of rigging is all in traditional hemp rope, except for the docking lines which are synthetic to meet port standards. With 26 traditional canvas sails and a full gale, it can reach 12 knots per hour. This is a beautiful ship tied up at the dock. Just imagine what it would look like under full sail!

The festival had other ships of interest, from the world's largest mobile crane to dozens of ancient ship replicas that teams from all over Italy brought to La Spezia to compete against one another.

Many tourists come to La Spezia but only to catch the train or boat to the Cinque Terre. Because there are so few tourists and because of its military-industrial flavor, it feels like the real Italy.