Italian Lessons

Via Dante in Milano, on my last evening in Italy

I've finally caught up—sorry that this is out of order. Here's my last blog entry from the trip, written just over a week ago. This one jumps back to Italy and brings me home.

It's the last night of my month long trip. I'm in bed, tucked under the eaves of Eduardo and Anna's attic room, resting my head on one of the four huge beams that hold up the roof of this old house and listening to the rain patter on the skylight. After a month of sunny weather, my trip is ending under cloudy skies.

Eduardo and Anna's cozy attic guest room

The warmth and kindness of Gauss's relatives has more than made up for my crankiness over the sketchy information at the train station. This morning I set out on foot to meet Gauss's aunt Franca, the mother of Silvia, who we saw in Sydney. Franca and I hit it off the first time we met 30 years ago—even though we couldn't speak the same language—and whenever I see her, we have a great time. But on all my previous visits, Gauss has been there to interpret.

As much as I love Franca, I was dreading this day because I knew I would be entirely on my own, relying solely on my ratty Italian to keep the conversation going. But Franca was easy to talk to. We met at the Arco della Pace and then walked a few blocks to her apartment. Skillful at simplifying her Italian and slowing down, she began by asking me simple questions. I could understand about 70% of what she said, and within a couple of blocks, the conversation was rolling. On the way, we even ran into a neighbor of hers who asked me about the recent presidential election. The three of us managed to cover the basics.

Franca Frisia, Regina de la Cucina

Franca is an amazing cook, and she knew I would rather hang out at her place than go to a restaurant. As soon as we walked in her front door, she gave me a pair of slippers and spread my wet shoes and socks out on the radiator to dry. We headed into her little kitchen. Braised veal, artichokes, and mushrooms were warming on the stove, and a lovely heap of handmade tagliatelle was sitting on the cutting board, waiting to be cooked.

The first course was pasta with mushrooms. The sauce, simply made of mushrooms, garlic, olive oil and salt, awaited on the stove.

Franca dumps her freshly-made tagliatelle into the boiling water. Notice the freshly grated parmesan in the foreground.

She tosses the pasta and mushrooms carefully, and then it's time to eat!

First course, tagliatelle con funghi. Franca picked a sparkling lambrusco to go with it—fruity and full bodied but not too sweet.

Braised artichokes with garlic, butter, and a bit of parmesan. After I took this photo I was too distracted by talking and eating to snap any more pictures.

We lingered at the table, where she served me artichokes and veal, followed by two buffalo milk bocconcini—creamy and soft, with just the perfect hint of tang. At the end of the meal, she pulled out a selection of Neapolitan desserts: sfogliatelle, crispy, many-layered little pastries filled with ricotta; baba au rhum, small, spongy cakes soaked in rum syrup; and a kind of layered chestnut Napoleon. I was stuffed so full that it took a little effort to try tastes of each one, and Franca understood when I asked to cut a little piece off each one for a sample.

Between bites we ended up gossiping about other relatives and finding that we are in agreement about child-rearing and grandmothering (be as generous as you want to be, but draw the line and save time for yourself.) Franca has a lot to teach about what it takes to be happy. She entertains friends at least three times a week and while she misses her husband, Emilio, who died several years ago, she enjoys her life. She loves living in Milano, in the same apartment where she has lived all her adult life, because her friends are all there. She agreed with me that it is doubly important to make new friends as one ages—a lesson I learned from my father who, at the time of his death at age 83, had more friends my age than his. It amazed me that Franca and I could cover all these topics using the simplest of words, and in addition, I learned how she made the tagliatelle con funghi!

After lunch, she showed me her balcony garden with peach, apricot, and pear trees, enough to harvest. We walked to the nearby Castello Sforzesco to see an art exhibit that included an unfinished Michelangelo Pietà, one that I had not seen before. From there we moved into the decorative arts exhibits, which included things like hurdy gurdys and other bizarre musical instruments, sets of silverware, and an amazing ceramic crab the size of a small lunch table.

The visit was over too soon—I had to catch the subway back to Costanza's apartment where I would meet Gauss's uncle Eduardo. Franca walked me to the station in the rain, indulging me when I asked to stop and take a picture. Her late husband, Emilio, was a professional photographer, and as she held my purse and umbrella so I could take the shot, she commented on how good the lighting and atmosphere were. We hugged at the platform, and blew kisses to each other as the doors closed.

I believe that after I messed up getting the train from the airport to Cadorna station upon my arrival, Gauss's family stepped in, fearing that I might screw up again. Eduardo offered to drive me to the airport in the morning. With my larger suitcase (the one I bought in Istanbul to accommodate my purchases) and the rain that has moved into the area, I was happy to take it. As it is, we would have to get up at 5:15 to get there on time.

Eduardo and Anna in the entry/stairwell of their beautiful home in Monza. The funny pose is because they had been laughing and clowning around.

It's been more difficult to speak with Eduardo and Anna. Anna has always been very sharp and effusive, and can't seem to slow herself down. She tends to use complex verb conjugations that leave me scratching my head, but somehow we all got along anyway.

Despite the language barrier, she's treated me like a queen, making me an appropriately-sized little dinner and helping me replace the bulky tube that Donato assembled for the paintings I'm carrying home.

I was able to explain that after lunch with Franca I was not terribly hungry, so Anna prepared a simple snack of ravioli in broth, cheese, and homemade olive bread. Notice the little yellow Italian-English dictionary on the table next to my bowl of soup. It was my constant companion while in Italy.

Anna's homemade raspberry tart. I had a sliver after dinner and another piece for my breakfast the next morning. The dots between the pastry strips are hazelnuts, and they went really well with the raspberry flavor.

Update:

I'm now in the boarding lounge at Malpensa, waiting for my flight home. We got here in one piece, with plenty of time to spare. But poor Eduardo! The drive here was wet and inky, and large portions of the autostrade were under construction. It was clearly a challenge for him to navigate, and when we arrived at the terminal, I thanked him as best I could in my fractured Italian.

“Tu...molto coreggio per me guidare. La notte, la piave—e difficile. Grazie, grazie!”

Anyone who knows Italian will whoop with mirth at the way I expressed myself, but I think Eduardo got the sentiment behind it.

Bizarre photo of the day from Malpensa airport. There are smoking chambers in the concourses. They're more effective than those in Dubai—the smoke actually stays inside—but it's still weird to see people walking into a glass booth to suck on their cigarettes.

Money spent on travel is almost never wasted money, and I've gotten my money's worth on this trip. All along the way, visiting with people of different cultures, experiencing unusual animals and plants, or being out of my linguistic comfort zone has pushed me to grow and adapt. As I get older, change is more difficult, and that makes it more important to try. The long plane rides, unfamiliar foods, and ever-changing sleeping quarters are physically taxing, but the payoff is there. 

It's time for this adventure to be over. My brain is tapped out from scrounging for words, and my body is begging to sleep in my own bed again—and in the same time zone for more than a week at a stretch. I'm ready to get back in front of my computer with Tubby the cockatiel on my shoulder, ready to drive my own car, ready to see my kids, and babysit Elliana again. I'm ready to apply Franca's lessons at home. Anyone for dinner?