Kissing Pete

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself in a dark forest,

For the straightforward path had been lost.

Dante Alighieri

Saying goodbye to my Saint Peter is always difficult. He is the rock upon which the church sits, and at times, he is my rock, but he is also my friend. I walked so far to get to him. He is my north star, my confidante, my conscience. He is not always kind, but he is always there. He stands quietly in the large square named for him and he holds the keys to heaven gripped in his right hand. He is flanked by the grandeur of the Vatican and he has stood among the millions of tourists and pilgrims who have packed the giant piazza. Ninety six saints watch over my dear Peter from the surrounding colonnade and the tiny, dark, square Sampietrini stones lay at his feet. Upon arriving in Rome, I quickly head to the Vatican to say “Hi,” and before leaving Rome, he is my last stop. 

Recently, on a cool clear summer evening, I walked quietly towards him, through the nearly empty square, prepared to say goodbye yet again. A few stars winked and the moon sat low next to the Castel Sant’Angelo. Despite a soft breeze teasing the ends of my hair, the Sampietrini stones still held the day’s warmth beneath my feet.  I looked up at Peter, shocked to find myself already saying goodbye. 

“How fast time passes!”
“You’re telling me! I’ve watched a couple millennia just slide right by!”                                       
“But Peter, what comes next?” “ 

Time races.. I can hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut and stomp the ground, but still, time refuses to yield. I have blinked and 12 years have passed. And I never feel this more than at the start of another school year. Some of my students are going off to college, some are moving onto high school. Others are driving and discovering the joys of the opposite gender. (dear God!) My students are growing up... but am I? Friends are moving quickly through the stages of life; marrying, leaving the city, buying houses in the suburbs and larger cars, having babies and discussions about potty training and parenting methods. And yet, I am digging my heels in. I have no explanation, only questions. I feel so strongly that there is something I should be doing, but no matter how I search, I can’t discover this illusive purpose.  And so, like Dante, (only less talented,) I find myself in a dark forest, having lost my way.  But I am reminded that without his forest, without his inferno, without his purgatorio, Dante would never have stood in paradise chatting with Peter about faith.

“Peter, will I see you again?” Peter sighs deeply.    
“Jen, why don’t we start with the forest…”

I blew him a kiss and walked away.

                                                    

Calma

There is the historical Trastevere neighborhood with its narrow meandering streets and it’s plethora of trendy bars and boutiques. In one tucked away corner lies a tiny, dusty, cluttered shop full of soon to be repaired old instruments, a family of rescued stray kitties, and a retired man with small silver spectacles. There is the university neighborhood of San Lorenzo, home to La Sapienza, and filled with the buzz and energy of youth. One can frequently catch a stray scent of weed, while walking through these impudent streets. There is the excessively wealthy Parioli neighborhood with its immaculate historical homes and impenetrable gates. Chic dogs weave and chase through the upscale cars lining these streets. 

There is the heavily graffitied Pigneto neighborhood with its culture clash of gentrifying, young, up-and-coming Romans and its constant influx of desperate immigrants. There is the grandiose Piazza Venezia with its wide busy round-about and its massive national monument. 

There is Villa Borghese, the sprawling English style garden portrayed in Respighi’s symphonic poem, “Pines of Rome.”  There is Campo de Fiori, home to a picturesque daily food and flower market and and well known magnet for tourists. There is the southside Testaccio neighborhood, home to a large 19th century slaughterhouse turned museum of contemporary art. There is the stately Vatican, epicenter of the Catholic church and home to my beloved dear Saint Peter. 

Also...

There is a quiet road. There is no historical significance that I am aware of, only an empty curvy road surrounded by trees and connecting the city center to the northwest commuter neighborhoods of Balduina and Torrevecchia. The road dips gently into a subtle valley, just deep enough to trim a more than a few degrees off of a stifling summer day. 

After an evening well spent in drinks and dinner with friends or wandering the crowded banks of the Tiber, it takes only about 3 short minutes for a scooter to traverse this mini highway from end to end, but in that short time, cool air kisses overheated skin, humidity laden trees perfume the night, and stars shine brighter overhead while clouds chase across the face of a super moon. 

One reaches out a hand to touch these chilly dark hours, One exhales, then inhales deeply, purposefully as hair whips and curls in the wind. Occasionally, one attempts to freeze time, only succeeding in stealing precious moments. But as the road begins to climb, one leaves the brisk quiet behind and looks to the way ahead.

The Home by the Sea

In my kitchen, I am confident. I can cook a feast for 30 while only breaking into a light sweat. I can bake perfectly formed cupcakes with creamy centers and light enticing frosting at a moments notice. I have been having a life long love affair with my Calphalon frying pans and me and my knife... well, we are best friends. BUT, when I am taken out of my kitchen, out of my element, when I am placed into unfamiliar territory, such as in a tiny kitchen by the sea about 45 minutes south of Salerno, a kitchen complete with a strong Italian mama, my previously mentioned skills dissipate. I looked down in horror at the head of lettuce, the simple task of tearing each leaf causing my hands to shake. 

“Am I taking too little time to wash the salad? Am I taking to long?? When the hell was the last time I washed my lettuce?? Am I tearing into pieces insultingly small? Oh dear God, does she want me to squeeze the lemon on the salad? How much is too much? What if this is the cleanest most sour salad to ever exist in the history of all creation? Where is a tornado siren when you need one???”   

Antonietta Raffaella rules her kitchen with an iron strength earned from 45 years of marriage, raising two children now going gray and chasing after three energetic grandchildren. She is a tiny woman, not quite reaching 5 feet, with a sturdy build and patches of pale vitiligo affected skin dotting her capable hands and feet.  Her short puff of hair is tinted red, matching her cardinal colored nails, and her smile is well etched into the lines of her face. Beyond raising her own children, she dedicated her life to helping others through her work as a nurse to mentally and physically handicapped children and young adults. At the wise age of 66 years, she has well earned her summers in the little house by the sea.

Rizziero, Rafaella’s husband, endearingly known to some as “Baffone” (The Big Moustache,) is a bulldog of a man, with the arms and legs of a triathlete and the belly of one who is blessed with an extremely talented wife in the kitchen. He is the definition of a man’s man with his dark hair, sun bronzed skin and forceful personality. He spent his entire career building and inspecting cars at the end of one of Fiat’s assembly lines and in his retirement, he obsesses over crossword puzzles and falls asleep while sitting at the dinner table, his head slowly drooping into his afternoon expresso. He lives loudly, full of generous emotion and when he heads off to the bathroom, his adult children (who really should know better) snicker and say “ scimmie con le scarpe da ginnastica ai piedi.” (it smells like he ate monkeys and gym shoes.)

Rizziero is from the old guard.. the generation who knew how to find dinner in the sea, how to fix cars, how to hold a hammer, how to repair one’s house, the generation who voted for the communist party and still would if one currently existed in Italy, the generation who believes wives tales such as “wet hair will cause migraines” and “one should never open the refrigerator barefoot,” the generation whose hands don’t fit comfortably on a computer keyboard...the generation in which people spoke face to face to one another.

Every August, Raffaella and Rizziero play host to family and friends in their little house by the sea, while living by the motto that “to feed is to love.” Guests are embraced as family and are given food and drink to a near bursting point, and after a week of sun, sand, wine and quiet evenings, one cannot leave their orbit without a bag of potatoes grown in their own garden. 

However, their’s has not always been an easy path, and there were times in their many years together when one thought seriously of leaving the other. But even so, even as the breeze through the window carries the smell of the sea and they fall into a comfortable bickering, Raffaella leans her head towards Rizziero and their chairs are close. 

Dangerous Ciambelle!

my downfall...

I knew as soon as I saw the little ciambella, that I must have it, but I also knew that to have one would likely cause great physical distress. However, one must weigh moments of true happiness carefully in comparison to the potential resulting pain..

We were strolling one cool summer evening, through the final night of a Partito Democratico festival (the left leaning political party of Italy’s current fresh faced leader, Renzi.) We passed by stalls and tents full of used books, incense, free Tibet info, pizza, assorted sweets and hippy clothes (otherwise known as ‘clothes I like to wear.’) I stopped to watch at one stall as a man shaped dough into hand sized rounds before dropping them into a giant deep fryer. On another counter, hot, golden fried orbs glistened as they cooled. Two woman then liberally doused each doughy bite of heaven with sugar before arranging them as a display to tempt ravenous pilgrims such as myself.  

Unfortunately though, there are two types of food that, without fail, cause a nearly immediate need for a toilet... ‘Deep Fried’ and ‘Creme.’ But there are two types of food that I truly love... 

After walking by the ciambelle stall 3 times, I decided to ignore ALL past experiences with my digestive system. As I lovingly picked my very own sweet ciambella, the server woman gestured to multiple pastry bags full of potential filling... chocolate creme, vanilla creme, limoncello creme, Nutella (holy mother of GOD!!) I gestured to the simple vanilla and watched as she stabbed the center of my ciambella, inflating it with euphoric amounts of fatty goodness.

I picked up my newly adopted ciambella.. now weighing in at at least a kilo, and I bit through the golden crispy outside, tasting the soft warm spongy center. Oil dripped onto my fingers and hands as my lips became coated with sugar. My eyes rolled back as I sighed rapturously, thanking the gods in all forms.

Ten minutes later...

“Oh No, we need to go home NOW!”

“We are about 30 minutes away. Can you make it?”

“I think so..” said haltingly while breaking into a cold sweat..

Italy’s Florentine 13th-century poet Dante (otherwise known as Il Sommo Poeta,) devised many gleefully imaginative punishments for woeful sinners in his Purgatorio; the envious had their eyes sewn shut, the proud crushed under rocks, the slothful forced to run incessantly. However, I propose a change to his punishment of the gluttonous. Rather than having the overeaters starve while surrounded by overly tall trees full of succulent fruit, I propose that the punishment for a life lived stuffing one’s self silly must include a lengthy (years long) ride on the back of a scooter, over painfully uneven cobblestones while one’s intestines are trying to turn themselves inside out.   

SamPietrini is the endearing name of the heavy, square volcanic stones that pave the tiny streets of Rome’s city center. Sharing the namesake of the basilica that centers the catholic church, these little Saint Peters add character and loveliness to an ancient city. They also add misery and torment to the life of those who head downtown to overindulge in the culinary joys of Italy. We raced home over the crooked bumpy streets while I prayed to a sadistic Saint Peter and tried to internally manage the waves of abdominal cramping. Despite the unimagined closed roads, despite backtracking, despite catching every red light (which is only a suggestion to stop...) despite getting stuck behind not just one but TWO buses on narrow streets, We made it home before digestive armageddon.. just..

Twenty minutes later...

As I sat exhausted on the couch, the cold sweat and spasms receding, I reflected on the night’s events.

“I really wish I had another ciambella right now ”  

Mangiare

Sometimes I am asked why I keep returning to Italy. However, I usually just shake my head slightly and smile to myself. “Pfft.. silly question!” 

Alessandra, Mimmo and their son Tommaso, live in a fifth floor apartment about 3 miles north of the Vatican.  While no bigger than my old Andersonville apartment (which is HUGE by Roman standards!) Alessandra and Mimmo’s upper class home is filled with warmth, plants and beautiful books. Located on the top floor of the building, this lovely home boasts a stunning patio that extends the entire length and width of the apartment and overlooks a garden shop below. With multiple chairs and tables, a swing, a well loved foosball table, a plethora of healthy growing herbs, a couple fruit trees and enough plants to rival the garden center below, it is clear that life is lived on the patio. 

I arrived to a mixture of family, friends and work companions.. some of whom fell into all three categories, mingling on the patio. Luca, a confident, middle aged, fit pilot with impeccable english, cut limes and mixed drinks with the intensity of a nuclear scientist. I sipped a shockingly potent Caipirinha, a Brazilian drink made of lime, sugar cane and Cachaca (a liquor distilled from sugar cane,) and as the level of my drink slid lower, the warm tingling in my fingers and toes became more prominent.

L’aperitivo (or the meal before the meal,) consisted of drinks and little bowls of nuts and crackers placed strategically throughout the patio. People chatted happily while heaping salsa di salmone and tzatziki onto their crackers and children raced and weaved between the adults. Men gathered loudly around the foosball table, their overly enthusiastic play gradually shifting the table across the floor. 

As Alessandra set plate after delicious plate onto sturdy tables, we drifted happily towards our seats. I sat next to beautiful Isabella, the perfectly poised and kind wife of Luca who laughed and said “this is Italy,” while gesturing to our unconsciously gender segregated seating. I reached forward to giddily load my plate... pizza di ceci (chickpea pizza made by the talented Teresa,) pasta with smoked salmon, sesame seeds and cilantro, salad, and mozzarella di bufala (mozzarella the size of softballs.) I unwittingly asked a friend how to say “fresh mozzarella” in Italian and received a look of horror.. “but mozzarella is ALWAYS fresh!?”

Multiple bottles of rich red wine were passed around as Alessandra set the next course on the table, Pasta con ricotta, cherry tomatoes, basil, and black pepper.  While I ate to bursting, yet another course appeared, flavorful roasted zucchini and eggplant. The children, three adolecent girls and two boys, having no interest in vegetables or the adults lingering over them, slipped off to find their own amusement. Rather than rushing off to computers or Ipads, the kids had instead set up a store in Tommaso‘s room, selling little unwanted knick knacks and assorted hotel lotions. Lacking cash, I traded a Chicago button pin for an owl bracelet.  

I returned to my seat, gleefully accepted a glass of Vueve Cliquot and settled in for the dessert course(s).. I dipped my spoon into a tiny cup of sweet, light watermelon jelly and fresh creme, while recognizing that I would HAVE TO try the little cup of apricots and creme. I drooled over a plate of delectable beautiful pastries filled with an assortment of pistachio, creme, chocolate and fruit, and I nearly wept in gratitude as the profiteroles appeared in front of me (profiteroles are tiny little balls of pure blissful joy… one who eats them immediately attains nirvana) 

I ate until my stomach filled to my esophagus, while people drank expresso in the cutest daintiest little disposable cups I have ever seen and bowls of cherries and plums were passed around. As I waddled to the front door at the end of an evening of irrepressible gluttony, a bag of profiteroles and plums, fresh from the patio garden, was handed to me.

Sometimes I am asked why I keep returning to Italy.  "Pfft…"

        

Mac & Cheese and Jose Cuervo..

The problem with trying to have an emotional breakdown is that often times, the mundane details of life interrupt. I simply want to hide in my bed and cry, I want to forget everything, I want to drink to numb off the edges, I want my mind, for one moment, to be quiet. But just as I am pulling up my covers and letting myself sink into melodramatic despair... “Jen, you idiot!  It’s now July and you forgot to buy your car's city sticker!”  As I shut down that overly practical thought and reach for a glass of alcohol, my phone beeps..”Jen, did you go to Rome? If you are here, there is a funeral..Can you cantor?”  Life, it seems, doesn’t allow time for wallowing. 

Right now, I should be on a plane crossing the ocean. I should be hours away from warmth and my dear Saint Peter, but because I am a coward, I am in my bed with mac & cheese and Jose Cuervo. I miss my Saint Peter, but he would likely be ashamed of me right now anyway. I can’t make decisions and yet I can’t keep trying on different choices like the day’s clothing. I can’t expect people to be there for me when I am unable to be there for them. And so, I try to take myself out of the equation, to stop from failing myself and everyone around me... I make choices.. and then I panic that I made the wrong choice.. and then I am back where I started.. in bed with mac & cheese and Jose Cuervo. And just as I finally feel the tingling warmth of the second shot, just as the circles in my mind slow...

“Jen, buy your damn city sticker!”
“Oh, Peter..” 

Life Tastes like Wine...

An entry for the DaVinci Storyteller Competition...

I had walked for hours, sweat and dust caking into areas that I had never really given thought to before; my eyebrows, my salty upper lip, behind my ears and knees. I had passed row after endless row of celery green grapevines and I had begun to obsessively plan my first swallow of evening wine. As my mind fixated on thoughts of full strong flavors and the resulting warmth of dazed limbs, my body reveled in the dry heat of the Rioja sun.  After nearly a week of walking the pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago (Saint James) I was moments away from reaching the fabled wine fountain at the Bodegas Irache. I stumbled up the last remaining steps, already tasting the heady wine, and I gleefully turned the lever, my hand posed to catch the precious drops. And…? 

Nothing!!
"Son of a B%@$#!!!!"  

I had been thwarted by the many pilgrims faster than I, who were at that moment carrying camelbacks full of wine. (as a side note, rubber flavored warm wine drank from a camelback is truly foul.) 

While I suspect that I would have difficulty discerning a $15 bottle of wine from a $100 bottle of wine, I have come to the conclusion that the world occasionally stops to collectively take a sip and who am I to refuse?!  Wine has marked so many moments; a smooth glass of red with an old man in Genova, an exploding bottle of cheap Cava among laughing friends in front of Saint James,  A bottle of Lambrusco shared with a sunset viewed from the top of a mountain, a plastic cup toast of expensive Prosecco in Saint Peter's Square, a sacred taste of holy communion, a crisp white wine while staring into the eyes of a new lover... Occasionally, life tastes like wine.  

I have a good life. I live in a beautiful city and teach music to a bunch of overly precocious kids in Chicago's north shore. (I will not admit to the amount of times that I have been coerced into playing "Let it Go" from Frozen.) On the weekends, I tutor English as a second language, cantor for masses and play gigs. But sometimes, the cold of the Chicago winter seeps below my skin, permeating through my bones. In these moments, there is nothing for me to do but to pack my bag, grab my ukulele and my passport and head off in search of a new adventure. 

When there are moments in which practicalities prevent me from escaping Chicago's hectic cold, I must simply stop to take stock of the memories I have made and the stories I have brought home to share with my students, family and friends. These moments are jumbled together into one solid blanket of warmth…Buying pounds of chocolate and overindulging with giggling orphans and nuns in Peru, petting a sheep at 2 am one rainy night in Ireland, Sharing crackers with a donkey in Liguria, watching socks dry next to the sea in France, incurring the wrath of an Italian mother in Rome, blowing raspberries with a family in Riomaggiore...  

I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.

"So Jen, what will your next adventure be?"

"Well…hmm…"