Il Sette Bello

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2011-10-31T08:24:00.001+01:00

Amandola: a love affair turns 10

2011-10-30T18:12:00.001+01:00

This month marks something of a milestone for me. It was exactly 10 years ago – October, 2001 – when I first visited a town in the heart of the Sibillini Mountains in the Central Italian region of Le Marche. I was so enamored with the place, I immediately thought: I gotta ring my bank manager. The place, as you know from this blog, is Amandola. I had a little money left in my bank account, just enough to make a down-payment on a stone house sitting on the top of a hill, one that overlooked a valley and the front ridge of the Sibillini Mountains. The sun was shining bright. I stood on a stony lane under an old oak. I was ~~desperate~~ curious to see the inside of the house, but Michael, who had the keys, insisted we first go take a walk, to look around the 'hood, to come to this spot and take in a view I'll never tire of: the midieval spa town, Sarnano, in the valley below, the mountains soaring above, the hilltop towns of Gualdo, San Ginesio sparkling in the sun just beyond.

It took a few months for the sale to close. I had the keys the following March. I was cutting the grass in April, and again in May and June. I was swimming in the sea in July and in the mountain lakes in August. I was discovering a new culture, improving my pigeon Italian and re-acquainting myself with the art of home repairs. I lived in London at the time and got out as often as I could, which, thanks to Ryanair, was fairly often. We threw big pizza bashes and barbeques and, later, we had some amazing Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's feasts. As the name suggests (in Italian, Amandola can be broken into "amando la," or loving her) I fell in love with the place. And ~~I still am~~ we still are. Amandola is now a wondrous playground for the Garba twins. Our summer get-away is now the highlight of the year.

Now, this is not a 10-year anniversary thing, but I do have a new site that explains a bit more about the house, and the region and the things about the place that we've discovered over the years. It's called Sibillini Slow. And, I've set up a Facebook page for it as well. Please check it out and follow us.

How to be UnGoogleable

2011-10-27T16:26:00.001+02:00

One from my personal archives...

By Bernhard Warner (May 28, 2008)

Recently, I received an odd plea for help. A former colleague emailed me to request that all references to her be expunged from the online news blog I coordinate for a university here in Rome. It was a legitimate request, I concluded. I went into the old posts and deleted the one in which her name appeared. (I should note here that the post was about an upcoming event on campus from over a year ago and had absolutely zero news value to readers today. So, I pulled it.)

She was grateful for my quick response. A few minutes later though she was back in my in-box. This time, the tone was less gracious. She Googled her name and still the reference appeared. Clicking on the link brought you to a dead URL, but still there was enough of an article snippet visible on the Google search results page to clearly identify her with the university. She told me she’d prefer to remain at all costs “un-Google-able”.

At first I was startled by the statement. There is a whole industry dedicated to making you or your business appear top of the heap on Google, Yahoo, MSN, etc. Search engine optimisation experts, those whose job it is to find every soft spot in search algorithms, abound in every language. Visibility is big business. Why would you want to hide from the search engines?

Of course, there are plenty of reasons. Some ordinary people, politicians, celebrities, companies or brands simply want pieces of their past concealed, or, ideally, wiped off the public record. It’s possible to achieve the former. But eliminating all signs of a person’s existence, once published online – i.e. achieving a state of “un-Google-able” – that’s another story entirely.

“Un-Google-able? I don’t think it’s possible,” says Nilhan Jayasinghethe European Vice President and Head of Natural Search for iCrossing, an online marketing firm that specializes in SEO and online reputation management for major brands like Toyota, Coca-Cola and LEGO. “The problem is you simply have no control over all the outlets that publish something about you”.

If the published item is a one-time reference and it’s pulled offline relatively quickly, then there’s a chance you can escape the search engines’ reach. In the case of the post I mention above, the Google spiders swept the news blog about two weeks later and all traces of the original story (as far as I can tell) were eliminated. She was lucky.

Had the story been picked up by just one blogger who then made mention of her on his blog, or had her name been posted on a social network site or in some community forum or newsgroup somewhere, forget about it. There’s virtually no way to get all the references taken down unless you track down each person responsible for publishing the details and plead your case to them. Or, had she been photographed with a group of ex-colleagues and had she been tagged in the caption there’s a good chance these days that that photo would end up on Flickr or another online photo-sharing site for the wired world to see. To be sure, monitoring your personal reputation in this Web 2.0 age is a real chore.

For big brands it’s becoming a full-time occupation. “For a company with a reputation issue that’s being discussed online, all you can do is strengthen your own position,” Mr. Jayasinghe says. “The idea is to get your positive news out there more prominently online, and increase the prominence of others talking about you so as to bury the bad results”.

For major corporations, there’s a simple formula to keeping reputations intact these days, one that they may be surprising to hear. Like the old song goes -- you’ve got to accentuate the positive. The problem is corporate PRs and political spinmeisters have a long history of attacking the unsavoury version of a story. It’s the eliminate the negative school. But this approach doesn’t work any more. The more you attack the negative, the more visibility you give it, and the more prominence it gets when someone types in a search query.

Mr. Jayasinghe gives an example of how best to approach bad news that just won’t go away online. A pharmaceutical client was taking a beating from activists, bloggers and consumer watchdogs for some business decisions it had made in the past, he recalls, adding “and they thought the treatment was neither fair nor ethically right.”

The prescription? iCrossing advised the client to begin publishing all the positive news it had about the situation, even enlisting the help of charitable organisations it worked with to bring to light a new side of the debate that had not been discussed. In publishing the positive news the company was able to defend its reputation and steal attention away from its critics.

“With many clients, we have been able to help them suppress it (the critical chatter) provided they have enough positive material they can use to build up their reputation,” Mr. Jayasinghe.

That works fine for big brands. But what about private citizens, ones with no PR budget or brand-reputation specialists to call upon? You may succeed in getting your university friends to pull offline those embarrassing late-night-drinks-filled photo shoots before a prospective employer sees it, but otherwise, your reputation is in the hands of many. You have less control than you think. Sounding a bit like an overprotective parent, Mr. Jayasinghe advises, don’t do anything stupid that can later be republished online.

As for being “un-Google-able”, forget about it. The majority of us all will be easily indexed on Google (or worse, a wanton namesake will be) at some point in our lives. But even private citizens can bury the embarrassing bits. If you care to.

I wrote this article back in 2008 when I had a column for The Times (of London). It's now hidden behind the Times paywall. The original article can be found here.

olives!

2011-10-09T23:34:00.000+02:00

Vinofiles, the harvest season approaches. Fancy a trip to Italy?

2011-09-01T09:30:00.001+02:00

I'm back in Rome after a few blessed weeks in the hills of Amandola. It was the greenest August I can recall in the foothills of Sibillini National Park. Not surprising after a wet July (as the photo album below can attest).

That might not have been great news to travelers, but it had wine producers smiling. The uncharacteristic summer rains have winemakers optimistic that the 2011 vintage will be one of the finest in years. Of course, we'll all know in the coming days when the grape harvest starts, usually in mid-September. And that's kind of the point of this post.... it's a call to vinofiles curious about experiencing this magical time of year: the annual grape harvest when the locals' grins grow to even greater proportions. Marche is a rich wine-producing region for red, white, and rose'. It is the home to dozens of indigenous grapes, most famously the Verdicchio, but there are also very impressive lesser-known whites like the Pecorino and Passerina, and the fragrant red Lacrima di Moro d'Alba.

From Amandola, it's easy to get to all these wine-producing regions. Let us know if you want to book Casa Chiocciola, our lovely stone house in the foothills of the soaring Monti Sibillini. We're offering a special discount on remaining dates in September and August. Drop me a line at Bwarner@gmail.com for futher details.

Buon gusto!

2011-05-29T10:57:00.000+02:00

A weekend in piazza: the Beatification of JP2

2011-05-29T10:51:00.004+02:00

This is a bit late in posting, but it's still worth it. A few weeks ago me and a young documentary filmmaker from Rome, Luca Paradiso, spent the better part of a weekend camped out in Piazza San Pietro to film the Beatification of John Paul II, a story told through the eyes of the weary pilgrims and faithful who made the journey from all over the world. We had a lot of fun doing it for one of my clients, Opera Romana Pellegrinaggi.

Here is their story:

The Mamertine Prison, the Leavenworth of Ancient Rome

2011-01-24T14:31:00.005+01:00

This year, I'd like to get back to blogging. Here. I've been a bit time-stretched with the launch last year of SMI and, more recently, Jospers. But I hope this year to get some time to blog about life in Italy more. A few of you have long given up on me. I'm hoping to win you back… with stories like this one.

First some background: On Thursday I co-organized a private tour of the Carcere Mamertino (or, Mamertine Prison) just beside (and under) the Roman Forum for select bloggers and Rome-based journalists. It was on behalf of a fascinating new client, Opera Romana Pellegrinaggi, part of the Vatican. ORP has one-of-a-kind access to many of the most important historic and cultural sites in and around Rome including guided tours of the Sistine Chapel at night, the Vatican Gardens, a Vatican Library exhibition, and the Carcere. (They also organize pilgrimages to the Holy Land, Lourdes, Santiago de Compostela, etc.) ORP works closely with some of Rome's most important historians and archaeologists on the preservation and upkeep of these sites. On Thursday, they arranged to have Patrizia Fortini, an archaeologist who was part of the excavation team for works on the jail a year ago and in 2000, give us a guided tour. A bit on the excavation that wound up last year: it was crucial work as it lent more evidence to a story that's been circulating around this city since Emperor Constantine's day - that saints Peter and Paul were both imprisoned here prior to their execution. It's a legend that gives this sacred place extra importance to Christians looking for insight into those turbulent early days of the Church. The conclusion: there is still no 100% proof Peter and Paul were incarcerated here, but it's very, very likely they were.

Fortini explained to us that the Carcere had a dark and bloody past, also a sacred and spiritual one. First, the bloody part. As Rome grew into an conquering force it needed a proper maximum security prison to house its vanquished foes. The city fathers turned to what had been a pagan shrine, establishing it as the maximum security prison of the ancient world in the centuries before the birth of Christ. Here they imprisoned reviled enemies of the Kingdom/Republic. Why here? Location. Victorious armies could parade enemy combatants through the Foro Romano (cue cheering, baying throngs) and straight into the Carcere where they were executed (usually by public strangulation or stoning or something equally brutal) fairly soon after.

To the early Romans, the Carcere was well known as a place not to be messed with, even before it became the Leavenworth of ancient Rome. It was known that a spring ran under the jail. To the deeply superstitious pagan people the subterranean waters were believed to be a conduit to the netherworld (Fortini says they looked for this underground river, but there's nothing). Killing someone here, the ancient belief went, would send them straight to Hell. The Romans trotted out this story as if it were fact that this jail was literally the gateway to Hell. Anyone who entered here never returned, but instead met an end of eternal damnation. Imagine then the state of mind of Peter and Paul upon entering this place, chained, beaten and condemned to eventual death. They had stronger convictions, as did their determined, early Christian followers. This of course made Peter and Paul even more dangerous to the State. Executing them here, the thinking may have gone, would silence these early Christians. This is an important point. Peter and Paul were indeed enemies of the State. Following the tradition of the day, they would have most certainly been imprisoned here in the baddest of all jails of the ancient world.

Among the other things Fortini told us was the discovery of remains of three cadavers - a man (at about 180 cm tall, a very large one for this era), a woman and a 10-year-old child - during the most recent excavation. The fascinating detail came from radio carbon dating determined they were from the 8th Century BC, which gives us a bit further detail on just how old this place is. The official history is that the jail construction started at in the 6th Century BC, but this discovery would show that the foundations go back much further and that it served some major function for the city well before it became known as a prison.

A tour of the jail (it's open to the public) is really one of those uniquely Roman experiences. It's rich in history and spirituality. Archaeologists have succeeded in piecing together vital bits that spell out just what kind of deadly consequences the founders of the Church would have been facing as they sought to build their flock. It's something to put on your itinerary if you are interested in early Church history and the life (and death) of the Church's founding patriarchs.

If you are coming to Rome and want to book a tour, you can reserve tickets here. In the off-season, it's possible to do a tour without booking ahead. Still, it's advisable to reserve a place.

Where is the Mamertine Prison: located near the Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum. It is literally under San Giuseppe dei Falegnami Church, just off the via dei Fori Imperiali.

For another review, check out Arlene Gibbs' reportage on Nile Guide: Rome.

The cult of Maria bambina explained

2010-12-27T11:06:00.010+01:00

We're in Umbria with the nonni this holiday season. In these parts it's tradition on the feast day of Santo Stefano (Dec. 26), regardless of how nasty the weather, to feast in the afternoon (we had a favorite meal, stuffed pigeon) and then to walk it off, pushing baby carriages to the upper square of a random hilltop town. Here, you usually stumble upon an elaborate presepe (Nativity scene) or even a presepe vivente (a Christmas pageant that continue until the feast of Epiphany). Our chosen destination yesterday evening was Corciano, a lovely little hilltown that ticks all the boxes: quaint, frigid, presepe, and more.

Usually, the presepe is situated in one part of the old town, in a quaintly derelict courtyard done up to look like a stable. In Corciano, all the lanes of the historic center were lined with life-sized presepe figures, including characters I don't remember from the gospels, like the town drunk sleeping one off on a stoop:

When I incredulously asked Xtina who that guy was, she informed me that I was missing the bigger picture. Artists had sculpted these figures, she responded. The implied message is that where I see a drunk, she sees artistic impression, a bit of logic I intend to use back on her some day (or evening).

Where we were both in agreement was the town's big Christmas art exhibit: a fascinating, if not totally creepy collection of 19th Century ceramic and wooden cherubs depicting, of course, the baby Jesus and, naturally, Maria bambina (the baby Mary).

I didn't really question all the limbless, taught cocoons that passed as the Christ child.

I did have to pause though at the young, crowned Christ child seated on his throne in resplendent white robes.

But even the Hasburgian Christ child couldn't compare to the Maria bambina figures, which looked like dolls that a young Diane Arbus might have collected.

If you're not familiar with Maria bambina (the exhibit refers to it as the "culto" or cult of Maria Bambina) story, here's the basics: the Maria bambina has had her devotees for close to a 1,000 years with the veneration of these statuettes becoming a bigger deal from the mid-18th Century. There are stories of the bambina curing infirm nuns and helping couples conceive. Pilgrims still make the journey to the Motherhouse of the Sisters of Charity in Milan to pray to the miraculous wax image of the infant Mary.

Back to the Corciano exhibit now... where you could see several depictions of Maria bambina, mostly on loan from collections based in Northern Italy and Germany. As such, the baby Mary is a well-fed blonde with an unfortunate haircut, blue eyes and a glazed look, not unlike a young Meg Whitman after a bad perm job. That got rained on.

Now you know the story of Maria bambina.

OK, who brought the monkey?

2010-11-28T09:41:00.004+01:00

It's not really Thanksgiving tradition to bring a monkey to the festivities, but I can recall over the years sitting down to the table with a primate or two. Heck, I've brought a few myself to the family feast as dates, and it always ended reasonably well. No food being tossed at the other guests. Rarely a high-pitched shriek mid-conversation. And the kids seemed to enjoy their company.

So when we got a call this week from Simo to ask if he could bring a guest – a well-behaved simian, Toto', he informed us – to what's become an annual Rome Thanksgiving meal, I figured, myeah, why not? Xtina and I have become expert zoo keepers these days with our little duo. What could go wrong?

Then I had second thoughts. What if Simo is not speaking metaphorically. What if it's an actual monkey. That kind of primate we've never had at a Thanksgiving meal. Not that I know of, anyhow.

How'd it turn out? Judge for yourself.

Right. Not the worst-behaved primate at the party. Toto', you're always welcome to join us at Thanksgiving.

For those who are wondering: Toto' is a 6-month-old capuchin monkey.

Btw... the turkey/stuffing combo once again rocked! The trick to tasty turkey, I'm convinced: pack it with as much pork product as you can find.

What do Italian children eat?

2010-11-15T16:21:00.007+01:00

If you're thinking home-made pasta, meat balls and gelato, guess again. Here's a public-safety-message-meets-modern-art-installation that hangs in the entrance of the pediatric surgery ward at Bambino Gesu, the children's hospital here in Rome.

These items were all fished out of the throats of Italian children after very delicate surgery. You can see for yourself that there's enough coins here to buy a nice dinner for two. But there's also:

several crucifixes and charms
a rubber eraser
pencils
the ink part of a ballpoint pen
1 metal pencil sharpener (the same child also ingested a button cell battery)
a light bulb
a monster fish hook (big enough to snag a sea bass, I'd guess)
a 2.5-inch wood screw
several clothes hooks
a pair (!) of keys, still on the key ring
a plastic lid (the size was roughly equivalent to the cap of a container of 35-mm film)
a hollow metallic cylinder that looked a lot like a bullet casing

Here's a close-up of the fish hook (you can also see the eraser, light bulb, and, at top center-right that odd looking bullet casing thing), or as close as I could get with my crappy Blackberry:

If anyone else has access to the pediatric surgery ward in their area, I'd love to compare notes.

Arrosto di maiale all'umbra

2010-11-07T21:09:00.005+01:00

What's this? An ISB blog post? Call it a special occasion. I've charmed my mother-in-law into turning over her special pork roast recipe, a perfect autumn dish.

Here it is:

Ingredients:
Pork roast
1 red onion
3 apples
1 garlic clove
apple cider vinegar
olive oil
prosciutto

1) Dice up the apples and onions and place in a frying pan with a spot of vinegar, garlic clove and olive oil. Fry into a mash.
2) Make a 2-3 inch incision in the roast and stuff well with the fried apple/onion mash. (Really stuff it well so this sweet center remains intact later when you carve the pork roast.)Like this pic? Was playing with a new app (for me), PicSay.

3) Place roast in a roast pan and brown it. After browning, cover roast with strips of prosciutto. Dump the rest of the mash in the pan (or keep it on the side if you don't want them to interfere with potatoes, etc). Soak roast with white wine, or vinegar. Leave under medium heat for 10-15 mins.
4) Place in oven at 180 C (360F) temp for 45 mins.

Buon appetito!

Thanksgiving turkey stuffing recipe

2009-11-23T17:09:00.003+01:00

In the spirit of service journalism, I'm sharing our internationally acclaimed stuffing recipe from last year.

For a 10 lb bird
1 loaf of old, stale bread. A good loaf. Not Wonder.
A good clump of fresh parsley.
Celery
Onions
Carrots
laurel leaf
150 grams of sliced pancetta (or, even better, guanciale)
600 grams of chestnuts
1/2 kilo of "polpa di maiale e vitello" or minced pork & veal
4-5 eggs
a glug of milk
12 teaspoons of Cognac (yes, this is the secret ingredient!). For those of you wondering, yes, Armagnac works just as well.

1. Boil water. Throw in chestnuts for 30 mins. Afterwards, deshell and throw contents into a bowl. Chuck in the blender. Blend.
2. Cut your bread into cubes. Crack open the eggs and add the milk. Mix together to get a mushy mash of old yellow bread. Add diced parsley. Add the diced onions. Add the diced celery. Add the diced carrots. Mix more.
3. Throw the pancetta into a blender and whip up into a mash.
4. In a big bowl, add your mushy bread, your pancetta mash, the chesnut mash and the minced pork. Mix well.
5. Add your cognac.
6. Let sit for half-hour.
7. Turn your oven on.

Now, prepare your bird. (it really should be sourced from your local butcher and not one of those plastic, tasteless, Butterball creations, but even if it is, we got you covered.)
1. Rub the outside of your turkey and in the cavity with a clove of garlic.
2. Sprinkle salt on same. Add laurel.
3. If you are feeling decadent, throw a tablespoon of the Cognac into the cavity as well.

After the half hour has lapsed, fill your bird with the stuffing.
Place in the oven. After 20 mins, drizzle a glass of white wine on the bird. Repeat after an hour. Keep covered for duration of cooking.

Enjoy!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Buon Ringraziamento!

Ao! 'Oppy 'olloween!

2009-10-31T10:27:00.005+01:00

That's how the locals say it here in Garbatella. No pesky "h" to slow them down. I'm really pleased the Romans have adopted Halloween, or at least a number of the shops have here in Garbatella. It's always been a favorite holiday of mine. When else could you dress as a pirate and not get funny looks? (speaking of which, have the Somalis ruined that choice of costumes this year? Hope not.) Back in my London days (during the Bush Administration), the locals were hostile to Halloween. They saw it as some creepy American import and wanted no part of it. Sure, Halloween is a creation of the all-powerful rubber mask lobby, but as a form of cultural imperialism, it's pretty benign. I'm sure the local bakery feels the same way.

Why is Halloween so great? You get to carve up pumpkins. Lara, Stefano and I went to work on a real beauty after dinner last night. Here's our handiwork.

Boo!

This post brought to you by: Italian in-laws

2009-08-16T22:04:00.005+02:00

It's the end of the last big summer weekend here in Italy, Ferragosto (orginally named for Ceasar Augustus' traditional holiday, "Feriae Augusti," and then nicked by the church). No doubt, the summer will plunge on here for another 6 weeks at least, but the first wave of holidaymakers will be returning to work tomorrow after several much-needed weeks' rest.

Us? We're in Perugia. With the in-laws. We seem to have spent a good portion of the summer with them (I'll explain why in future posts), including during our cherished summer holiday. I wrote this next bit a few weeks ago, but only now am getting around to publishing it... Here goes:
---------

We're back from a lovely weeklong vacanza in La Maremma, a region of Southwest Tuscany with fantastic beaches, great wine, amazing food and those classic hilltop towns. La Maremma is a real gem -- a rare piece of Tuscany that is off the tourist trail, and yet close to Rome. Keep it a secret!

We vacationed with the in-laws, which cues up a new Top 10 (well, there's just nine) list. This one -- "Top 10 (erm, 9) clues you've been on holiday too long with your Italian in-laws" -- reads as follows:

1. you race to the breakfast table to get first crack at the family blood pressure kit.

2. at the beach, your mother-in-law is quick to point out the Jesus in the driftwood.

3. you're quick to correct her -- that's Jesus *and* Mary in the driftwood!

4. After repeated warnings, you begin castigating other random mothers who allow their children in the sea a mere three hours after lunch.

5. your father-in-law punctuates every mosquito kill with an "Obama!," even in church.

6. even your father-in-law, who knows nothing of the sport, grumbles about the Mets at the breakfast table.

7. likewise, you too grumble about the cosmic injustice of more than 30 years without an Italian pope.

8. you no longer cringe when your father-in-law, an art critic, suggests to the lovely husband-wife team who run the Slow Food trattoria how they could improve the food, even before it's served.

9. you agree, the Tuscan coast is lovely and all, but it just doesn't compare with the land-locked Umbrian Riviera.

Graffiti, art or blight?

2009-06-27T20:01:00.008+02:00

I have this tendency to grumble to anybody who'll listen about Rome and its graffiti problem. Our 'hood, Garbatella, in particular, is covered in grammatically dubious expressions of teenage love scrawled on the side of walls, on benches, on playground swings. Slow-moving nonne, I'm convinced, are at risk of getting a "Ti amoooo, Giovanna" declaration across their house dress. Nobody else seems to share my irritation though, so I thought I'd grumble about it here.

You see right outside our apartment lies the university, Roma 3. There are acres of clean wall space that are just taunting the aspiring graffiti artist. Until recently. A bunch of characters every other weekend sneak down to the tracks below the house and go to work on the wall of one of the university buildings that abuts the railway. I've begun to document the gradual transformation from nondescript building to urban canvass. With it, my opinion is beginning to change...

The first batch of photos were taken on the morning of June 1st after I noticed a new batch of boxy letters scrawled on the building below:

And then, last night I woke up around 3 a.m. to catch an inning or two of the Mets-Yankees game. It was a warm evening and the windows were open and, at one point in between innings, I hear that unmistakable rattle of spraypaint cans. I peered out from my salone into the darkness below and could just about make out two figures in black busy at the foot of the same building. Remarkable to me was that they did the work completely in the dark. They had no lights and there was just a sliver of a moon in the sky. Here's their handiwork:

The latest embellishment is certainly an improvement. So, I'm starting to refine my opinion of graffiti. If done well, it's not so bad. It adds a little color and life to otherwise drab city walls. The meaningless exclamations, hastily chucked up on a building, they are nothing more than vandalism. The graffiti artists should be more angered by these amateurs than me.

Marche, as the church saw it

2009-05-28T19:47:00.001+02:00

Here's a wall map mural from the 1500s found in the famous Vatican Map room. It shows the provincia di Ascoli Piceno "back in the day." Yes, I'm a total map geek. Naturally, I zoom in on "Mandola," 16th Century shorthand for "Amandola," evidently.

Therapeutic mud

2009-04-12T11:33:00.007+02:00

No, this is not a post about thermal hot springs. It's about mountain biking, a day out with the fellas for a 50km (that we somehow screwed up, and turned into something closer to 65km) giro across northern Lazio.

In the spirit of service journalism, here's the map:

The trio included Stefano, our fearless guide. Here he is after demonstrating how to extricate yourself from knee-deep mud.

Next comes Bruno, a trained medical professional who is fond of recounting in mouth-watering detail favorite meals from across Italy. Starving, pedaling along the trail, the effect of these stories is vivid hallucinations. Dishes of pasta, steak and potatoes seem to appear one after another along the trail the closer you get to lunch hour. Mirages, all of them. Drat! Here's Bruno, settling for a picnic of panini and tepid water.

I brought up the rear, snapping photos and asking questions.

Turns out Italy is filled with routes like the one we took yesterday. They're vestiges of the railroad age, a grand age indeed in Italy. A century ago, Italy built an incredibly comprehensive network of rail lines, connecting just about every town, village and city to the outside world, bringing passengers and commerce to even the quietest out-of-the-way place. The automobile put this age to an end. Today, there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of km of old rail lines. Perfect for mountain biking!

Berlusconi v. the Queen

2009-04-03T09:54:00.001+02:00

Rule Number One: Use your "inside" voice when you are in the Queen's company.

The full story is here, courtesy of, gulp, The Daily Mail.

Where Romans go for coffee

2009-03-15T21:41:00.005+01:00

Sure, the Pantheon is pretty impressive. But if you see determined Romans stream past around the back, paying little attention to the place, it's probably because they are on their way to Caffe' Sant'Eustachio for un caffe' vero. The constant queues are testament that this could be the best coffee in the world.

William Grimes back in 2002 wrote in The New York Times about the place:

When the need for a real espresso becomes overpowering, buy a ticket to Rome, tell the taxi driver to head straight for the Sant'Eustachio cafe. The espresso will be perfect. A little expensive, but surely worth the trouble.

For the pastry chefs among you, check out this informative video about making tiramisu, with Sant'Eustachio coffee of course.

Don't mess with a man in tri-colore wig

2009-03-15T21:13:00.003+01:00

The Azzurri this year are having a rough 6 Nations tournament. There was much hope for the future of Italian rugby after a few promising victories against the French and the Welsh in years past, but this year, nah, not so fast. The Italians cannot seem to put a full 80 minutes together and they don't seem to have a try in them as the tournament wears on.

Still, the Italians are proud of their club. And, as the Azzurri took the lead against the mighty Welsh in the second half and battled to the 71-min mark with a 15-13 lead, you cannot blame the home team fans from getting a little carried away. Stefano, sitting next to me (pictured above, proudly displaying the national colors of Peroni red; Matt of Gastrokid fame is next to him, Matt's lovely wife, Jowa, just out of the picture) at Stadio Flaminio yesterday, started heckling a bemused Welsh supporter late in the second half as the poor guy left his seat, for a beer no doubt.

As the guy walked past, Stefano yelled at him:
Go home, friend! You are cooked! Boiled!

Surprised, he looked up at us. Speechless. Go home!, Stefano yelled again. The Welsh fan turned and walked off, to cheers from the nervous Italians and the good-natured Welsh sitting all around us.

A few minutes later the Welsh stormed down the field and scored. The Welsh never looked back.

A photo tour of Garbatella

2009-03-08T16:55:00.006+01:00

I mentioned below it's such a spectacularly sunny day today here in Rome. Walking back from buying the newspapers I snapped a few photos with my N95. (There are also some old shots too).

First stop: the market. It's been under construction, the sign reads, since 2004. There hasn't been any progress on the structure since we moved in 18 months ago. But today, I see, there's a fresh coat of paint, declaring Fascism is still off-limits. The old lefty spirit of the 'hood is kind of quaint these days. Today the Left in this country is becoming more fragmented and irrelevant every day, sad when you consider the alternative, Berlusconi and his lot, have zero credibility outside of Italy. Garbatella reflects the decline of The Left. The PD (Partito Democratico) HQ closed up shop a few weeks ago. Still, you can see colourful mural homages to Che and Castro and even Bobby Sands just a few steps from this delapidated market. Perhaps there's a metaphor in there. Not sure.

Walking downhill now you come to the Basilica of Saint Paul's, Rome's other basilica. Most pilgrims head to St. Peter's across town while St. Paul's sits quietly on a flat patch of grass between the river and the hills that lead into Garbatella. It's really impressive inside, particularly the cloister where relics of the early Christians abound.

We get nice sunsets from time to time too.

I blog for the trees

2009-03-08T13:11:00.004+01:00

Remember the Lorax?, the Dr. Seuss character who... of course you do. Yep, he's the one "spoke for the trees." Left, right, center, Taliban, we all like the trees.

In Rome, we have the wondrous pini maritimi, it's a maritime pine tree that is pruned in such a way so as to resemble an open umbrella, perfect for summertime shade. In southern and coastal Italy, the pini maritimi are an iconic fixture, like the toilet-brush-like cyprus that adorn some of the tonier hills of Tuscany, Umbria and Marche. Wisely, these benevolent giants -- the pini -- are protected by the state. And they line most of the streets here in Garbatella, our 'hood. Even though their root structure tends to ripple the pavement and sidewalks, no one would speak out against the beloved pini maritimi. They are so stunning they function as a nice distraction from the endless grafitti, the latest Giovanni + Giovanna per sempre declarations, and even the garish mutande flapping in the breeze. When you enter a courtyard here in Garbatella, you are first greeted by the pini, then the rabble who live underneath them, then more pini. Somehow, they bring harmony to, Ao!, this part of Rome.

But, there's a problem. A nasty infestation has hit several species of pine trees in Southern Europe, and, it appears as if it's now here in Rome. As a result, the state is chopping down 155 of these trees in Garbatella, the local press reported this week.

I took a stroll around the neighbourhood today. It's one of those glorious early spring days here in Rome. The light is incredible. I tried to make out which ones seem fit enough, and which ones must go. They all seem fit to me. I want them all to stay! I'm having a Lorax moment. I'm sure I'm not alone.

Lamb + Artichokes = Heaven

2009-02-28T19:04:00.003+01:00

Poor Barbara & Fulvio, our old neighbours and good friends. We've been promising them a coscio di agnello con carciofi (leg of lamb with artichokes) dinner for weeks now. Finally this week we set the date. It was last night. But la nostra famed cuoca, Xtina, was unavailable to cook. What to do? Send in the Yank. Yep, me. Don't gulp. It was, I humbly write, a real pleaser. But it took a bite or two into the meal before everyone agreed. The look on poor Fulvio's face when he was informed l'americano had done the cooking was priceless. He'd been looking forward to the meal for days only to find out last minute that the clumsy understudy was filling in. Later, after many incredulous compliments, they were even more pleased with the outcome. Maybe they could pull it off too? And, in the spirit of service journalism, you can too:

Ok, here's my recipe, as whispered in my ear by a very patient Xtina:

1 Leg of lamb (make sure your butcher gives it a few good whacks first with his samurai knife along the bone)
Salt
pepper
garlic clove
white wine
olive oil
lemon
fresh sprigs of rosemary
prosciutto (one thick slice)
potatoes
artichokes

Take your leg (no, not your leg, the lamb's leg!) and rub it all over with salt. Coat lightly with pepper. Drizzle olive oil all over the leg.
Cut your prosciutto into long thin strips and drape over the lamb.
Next: cover the lamb with rosemary sprigs and diced garlic. Squeeze a half lemon on the lamb.
Let cook at 180 C (360 F) for about 10 mins. At 10 min mark (more or less) soak your leg in a nice white wine. Don't be shy.
Cook for another 30 mins, and then:
Add your diced potatoes. Apply more wine (as needed). Salt them potatoes, of course.
Let cook another 30-40 mins.

What kind of wine? Depends on your tastes. But I'd say something on the dry side. Not a girly Chardonnay in other words. We do most of our cooking with Falanghina, an Italian white from south of Rome. Works for fish, roasts, lamb, whatever. And, you probably can find it in your 'hood if you ask.

Now, your artichokes. This is artichoke season in Italy, so the markets are usually brimming with these tasty stalks. It's much less labor if you can find them pre-plucked. Even, still there's work to do. Cut them just below the stem (don't throw out the stems!) and slice the heads into 4 pieces. Surgically remove the "hay" (Xtina's description) from the center and maybe cut the pieces in half again. Cut the stalks into cubes, leaving the gnarly tips for the trash.

In a deep pan under a high flame, coat the pan in olive oil and chuck in your diced garlic clove. Chuck in your artichoke pieces, and, after three minutes, soak with wine. (Between the lamb and the artichokes, you may go through a half- to 3/4 bottle of wine.) Coat with salt. Stir occasionally so they don't burn. Turn down the flame and cook, covered, for a half-hour. Add wine as needed.

Note: if you are serious about your lamb, go to a trusted butcher and ask on which days they get them in. Fresh = best.

You can thank me later.

R.I.P. John Martyn

2009-01-29T21:11:00.001+01:00

What brought you here

2009-01-25T19:07:00.003+01:00

I know why I am here. This 'lil blog is a place for me to vent/spout/rouse/amuse/assume/observe/opine/maybe inform/you get the point. But what brought you here? I thought I'd visually represent (thanks to my new favorite geek tool, the word cloud builder Wordle... Can you tell I'm procrastinating on more serious work?) some of the search terms ISB visitors have plugged in to stumble upon this blog. I took the most recent 100 traffic referrals and pulled out the search terms then plugged them into Wordle. Eccoli, i vostri pensieri/interessi:

Fix it again, Fiat

2009-01-20T20:22:00.005+01:00

I couldn't resist that headline today, even if it earns me cold stares the next time I'm in Perugia. What am I referring to? Today's column on The Big Money.

And, check out our Brand Watch column for a great new Heineken ad on the airwaves in the Netherlands. Soon to hit on a TV near you. (if you still watch TV)

Belated Best of...'08

2009-01-18T14:51:00.003+01:00

I'm bringing back the somewhat annual "Best of..." list, a list that bloggers with failing long-term memory compile to recall some of the finer places they've eaten, wines imbibed and random good times. How bad is my long-term memory? I forgot to write a "Best of" list last year. The most recent one dates back to Best of...'06. Here's what I said then.

As for '08, here goes:

Best Meal (Italia): I know everyone hates when the big match ends in a tie, but that's okay here on this blog. Yes, there are two winners for '08: fittingly, one is from the South, the other up North.

On 4th of July, we went to Il Braccionere located at the very top of Ischia. It's easy to spot from the ferry boat. Look for a light on the top of the highest point on the island, then look up again. We ate heaping portions of roast coniglio (rabbit) served in a ceramic bowl. Finger-licking good, as the Colonel used to say.

A few months later we found ourselves in Northeast Piemonte, in the city of Biella. There, you can find Ristorante Baracca (there's no truth to local rumors they will be changing the name to Ristorante Baracca Obama after Tuesday's swearing in ceremony), famous for its boiled tongue. My initial report can be found here.

Best Meal (fuori Italia): This is a long overdue nod to my favorite (regular) restaurant in London, Brindisa, a few paces from Borough Market, por tapas bonitas. It's one of the highlights always of my regular trips to London these days. The acorn-fed joselito is always a pleaser, as is the fritatta.

A very close second for '08 was Naka Naka in Chelsea (the other Chelsea -- the west side of Manhattan) for really nice sushi and a duck appetizer that was out of this world.

Vino:
White: I usually jot down the names of pleasing lesser known producers (and lesser known varietals) for this annual list. When it comes to wine, I'm a silly populist, I guess. Here's my fave for '08: a 2007 Pinot Gris from the valdaostano producer Lo Triolet. Marco Martin, the name behind this wine, really needs to invest in a proper web site, one that can help us find/order his very distinct wines. Simple, pleasing, reasonably affordable. Also, his Gamay '07 is an exceptional red, a table full of stinco-eating Italians agreed.

Red: Staying close to Rome, it's Casale del Giglio's Mater Matuta '04. It's a shame the price keeps going up, maybe a sign they're doing something right with this vintage.

Usually, Il Sette Bello adds beaches, gelato and films to this list, but I'm going to leave it at just wine and food for 2008. It's all I can remember.

Surviving the downturn (Tip No. 19)

2009-01-04T20:23:00.003+01:00

In today's Il Sole 24, Italy's top financial daily, Davide Paolini writes that the financial crisis could likely result in an improvement in the quality of food we eat, bringing about a resurgence of cibi poveri ("poor food") to the typical Italian home. Traditional foods like Baccala' (cod), sardines and pasta fatta in casa (pasta made-at-home) will return to Italian homes, a nice consequence of an otherwise paralyzing economic crisis.

Cue our first attempt to make pasta at home. A big success!, I write before tasting.

Your father-in-law could be a nutty liberal if... (Hint No. 15)

2008-12-27T22:09:00.007+01:00

...he buys you a hand-made crèche from Naples featuring an Obama wise man.

What Italians eat for Christmas

2008-12-27T17:56:00.007+01:00

A proper Italian Christmas meal varies by region. Seeing as we were in Le Marche for the 24th, we decided on a brodetto, a thick fish stew that contains (usually) shrimp, squid, coda di rospo (monkfish -- pictured above), sgombro (mackerel), gallinella (Gurnard) and, if you can find it, scorfano. We couldn't find the scorfano, but there were still cheers all around.

Here's our version:

Wrong number

2008-12-18T19:31:00.003+01:00

At least once a week, we get a wayward caller dialing our apartment. For all I know it may be the same wayward caller (here he is again, in fact, twice now in the last three minutes.... Ok, fatto. He'll call back no doubt.)

I realize the etiquette for handling mis-dialed calls varies greatly by country, but I cannot quite get my head around how it works here in Rome. For example, in the US, the person who incorrectly rings is usually the apologetic one. In the US, once you've mis-dialled and disturbed someone else it's not customary to ask any more questions. Just apologize, hang up and go about your business. Often the one on the receiving end makes it painless. They hang up before you have a chance to apologize. Perfect in my book.

In the UK, I found, whenever I mis-dialled it was the person on the other end who was apologetic. Terribly apologetic. And they would rarely hang up first. Perhaps hearing my American accent they would linger on the phone thinking I was in need of help, some direction maybe. But what? It was always me who would mutter an apology and hang up on them.

Here in Rome, it's completely different yet again. Whenever I pick up the phone and respond "pronto" (I love how the national phone greeting here is "I'm ready"), I get a terse "Chi e'?" snapping back at me. They are speaking formally but the tone is anything but. Here's how it plays out from there:

Me: "Chi e' Lei?" Who are You? (formal)
Caller: Giovanni?!?
Me: No, mi dispiace, pero Lei ha sbagliato. No, I'm sorry (I can probably drop the "I'm sorry" part but after four years of misdialed phone calls in London it's now permanently wired into my synapses). You have erred.
Caller: CHI E' LEI?
Me: Lei ha...
Caller: CHECOSA E' QUESTO NUMERO? WHAT IS YOUR PHONE NUMBER, YOU SILLY AMERICAN?!?
Me: (cue: rolling my eyes)
Caller: (rattles off a sequence of numbers -- either the last four numbers or the last seven numbers)
Me: No, Lei ha sbagliato. No, you (formal) have erred.
Caller: oh. (click)

Two minutes later he/she rings back.

White men can't...

2008-12-13T19:58:00.002+01:00

...make a proper sugo di cinghiale. Or can they? Lo chef famosissimo inglese Jamie Oliver heads to Le Marche (I believe this was aired in the UK at the end of the summer) and enters a wild boar pasta contest. Can he impress the townfolk?

Complimenti!

And, a note to Jamie Oliver, if he happens to be poking his head around this blog. If you are back in Le Marche in mid-May, I hereby invite you to Amandola for the annual "pizza festa" competition. The participants are hardcore, but there's plenty of wine and sunshine.

She comes in colors in the air

2008-12-02T17:19:00.003+01:00

And just hours before I snapped this photo I was getting some playful grief from Xtina about rainbows. Evidently, the sister's boyfriend, maybe the most conscientious Italian on the planet, constructed a rainbow for the sister's birthday. "Now, whenever she enters the room," Xtina informed me, "she's greeted by a rainbow... Where's my rainbow?"

Presenting... your rainbow, baby.

*Never the same soup

2008-11-24T23:09:00.005+01:00

Five years ago this month I picked up a woman at a train station. The Ancona train station. It was a Friday night. Kinda foggy. She'd never seen me before. I'd never seen her either. But we sorta felt as if we'd known each other our whole lives. (A month of email courting and long distance phone calls will do that, I reckon). She was expecting me. I was late, too late to pick up flowers or even memorize some nice words to say in Italian without screwing up the syntax.

I broke the ice with a question: "hai fame?" Hungry?

Yep, she nodded, and I drove us off into the gloom in search of a trattoria (whose name I still can't recall) maybe a hundred yards from the port. They serve brodetto all'anconetana, a famously rich soup of all the goodness that the fishermen can round up each day in the Adriatic. I'd eaten there once before and I couldn't stop smiling for days afterward. I figured the brodetto would calm our nerves. It did. She approved, and of me too.

I don't want to think it was the brodetto that brought Xtina and me together. But it certainly smoothed the awkward culture clash. Whenever I sit down to brodetto marchigiano I think of that meal. And smile.

Why am I thinking of this now? Because The New Yorker's Mimi Sheraton in the recent food issue goes in search of il brodetto migliore, and of course she settles in Le Marche. Abruzzo too (which for some crazy reason the line-editors allow to call Abruzzi, which hasn't formally existed since the Kennedy Administration. Whatever. Who cares.) A worthy dish gets a nice write up. Smiles all around.

*btw, one of Xtina's more famous lines is "always the same soup" to describe anything that quickly becomes habit. Never brodetto of course.

Move over "Conjunction Junction"

2008-11-24T12:57:00.002+01:00

This little ditty is from the gang at The Big Money, with Jim Ledbetter on vocals.

On the trail of...

2008-11-10T14:57:00.005+01:00

... truffles, white truffles to be exact (aka Tuber Magnatum Pico). Those pictured above (that's Stefano's hand) are black truffles, not quite as good, but still pretty damn tasty.

It may not feel like it here in balmy Italy, but we are in the middle of white truffles season, the perfect excuse every October and November to go foraging through the woods in search of this ridiculously expensive tuber. But worth every penny! Last year, we went with Alberto and Marcelo, two local tartufaii, in the woods below my house in Amandola. Yep, Amandola is one of the few places on earth where these blessed organisms grow. I wrote about it for The Guardian. The story is out today. You can read it here.

News quiz

2008-10-25T14:43:00.002+02:00

Who wrote...?

Business, financial institutions, and investors throughout the economy rely upon derivatives to protect themselves from market volatility triggered by unexpected economic events. This ability to manage risks makes the economy more resilient and its importance cannot be underestimated.

Was it....

a) Ken Lay, ex-Ceo of Enron
b) Dick Fuld, ex-Ceo of Lehman Brothers
c) Alan Greenspan, former Fed chief
d) Lex Luthor channeling Ayn Rand

The answer is "C". Mother Jones has the full story. Warning: objectivists may object.

Behold, pizza inglese

2008-10-14T21:41:00.003+02:00

Word of warning: if you're in London and you ask for a mozzarella di bufala pizza, you're more likely to get this. Mozzarella di bufala + Margherita Pizza = Pizza Ingelese

Subterranean Dow Jones blues

2008-10-11T12:39:00.003+02:00

A reader at The Big Money authored this brilliant Dylan-esque number, Subterranean Dow Jones Blues.

Boiled tongue action

2008-10-06T21:03:00.003+02:00

And you were expecting an analysis of, what, the fall of global capitalism? The end of Wall Street? The undefeated NY Giants (or, "Giganti," as Xtina says)?

Nah, this post is about food, and, yes, it will circle back to include all the themes above, metaphorically speaking. Xtina and I were in the northern reaches of Piemonte (Piedmont) this weekend, not far from the Swiss border, or, if you're keeping score, the French border too. Armed with our trusty Slow Food guide we made our way on Friday night to Biella, a city that was at the center of Italy's industrial revolution, famous, back in the day, for its textiles factories. These days, it's famous for, non lo so. No matter, we were hungry, and the guide book highly recommended Ristorante Baracca. Sold.

To the uninitiated, I should say here, Piemonte is one of the true culinary gems of Italy, a place I first read about in one of Jeffrey Steingarten's zany journeys to find the meaning of life in a dish of pasta. Close to the French border, Piemonte specializes in richer, heavier dishes than we get here in Central Italy. Comfort food, as they say. Risotto in buttery, cheesy goodness, for example. And the wine? This is Big Red country. Barolo, Nebbiolo, Barbaresco.

We booked a table as we zipped up the superstrada and miraculously found the place without any help whatsoever from the proprietor. ("Go to the Questura. And park," were his instructions.)

Once inside, the first shock is the prices. There was not a single item on the menu priced above 10 euros. And the wine, all excellent, was equally reasonable, cheap even. We each picked an antipasto, primo and secondo and then a 40-euro-bottle of '97 Barolo (a can't miss-year if you happen to find one) and the check came to just 72 euros. Try that at home. A bottle of '97 Barolo, if you are so lucky...ok, you get the point.

I'm going to zip through the first two dishes. L'antipasto locale was, in a word, squisito. For a primo, I had the agnolotti dripping in a meat gravy. Xtina had a heaping dish of risotto that she had difficulty finishing. For the main course, I ventured into new territory: lingua bollita. Yep, boiled tongue. There are people who walk this planet, I was told before ordering, who rave unintelligibly about the virtues of boiled tongue. Who? My father-in-law, Xtina informed. Again, sold.

Boiled tongue is a bit of an experience. It stews in a deep pan that sits on a wheeled cart. And, when it's on the menu, it goes fast. The waiter and waitress push the cart back and forth across the restaurant to beckoning tables and slice up the tongue as select diners gurgle in delight. They then serve the meat - it's grey, tender, slightly spongy - with a selection of condiments: spicy mustard, pickled fruits, garlicky pesto, tangy mayo, and so on. My explanation here, I realize, does not do it justice. It's like a really tender Sunday roast, if oddly shaped. It's just that when the tongue emerges from the stew, speared by its handler, it looks completely out of context. It's unmistakable: it's a massively inflated slithery tongue with a knob of meat on the wide end. But, I have to say, lingua bollita is really worth the culinary adventure. If you are a bit squeamish, buy yourself a nice bottle of Barolo to wash down the first few bits. Afterwards, you'll be licking your plate. It's that good!

And here are a few more tips:
1) The trick is to get a table and order early. My advice: don't order the tongue after 10 pm. Who knows what you'll get as the carving knife edges closer to the tip.
2) No matter how tasty, don't get carried away. For example, it's never polite, mid-chew, to stick out your tongue and ask your date: "Can you guess which tongue is mine?"
3) Be careful: when chowing down on such a dish, even polite gestures can be misconstrued by your date. Regardless of the context, "would you care for a little tongue?" just doesn't sound right.
4) If your date is an anti-vivisectionist, it's probably wise to skip this dish altogether. (I once dated an anti-vivisectionist. Turns out it was the only thing she was opposed to... You're right, bad joke.)
5) Don't ask where the cook sourced the tongue. Does it matter?

The Big Money launches

2008-09-15T22:21:00.003+02:00

Today is launch day for Slate.com's The Big Money. Bookmark it. Blog-roll it. RSS it. Post it to your Facebook profile. Sign up. And, no, I'm not just saying that because I am one of the contributors (and, yes, this explains my terrible blog posting record here of late.) For more details, check out today's NYT profile on Jim and TBM.

Caption contest

2008-08-23T18:20:00.005+02:00

This friendly sign greets visitors at one of the more popular entrances to Yosemite National Park in California. It's just screaming for a caption. I'll start:

"I'll give you my little Rocky when you take him from my cold, dead hands!"

Today's Business on Slate/The Big Money

2008-08-21T13:13:00.003+02:00

Here's a better link for those looking to get a quick jump on the big business stories of the day. It's called Today's Business Press, a daily feature of the soon-to-launch biz news site, The Big Money.

Fannie whacked!

2008-08-19T14:58:00.002+02:00

My first column, a co-effort with Matt, for The Big Money's daily business round-up appears today.

Love the headline, but the credit goes to Jim, our editor. It's great to work with you again, amico.

Dear readers, please bookmark/RSS/spread the word about The Big Money which will be launching in full in a matter of weeks. For those of you who are unaware of The Big Money, it's the new Slate business news site, headed up by Jim Ledbetter.

Sideways: the movie (Lakewood edition)

2008-08-13T19:17:00.003+02:00

Xtina, the one-time avante garde filmmaker, shot this short clip a few weeks ago from a recent family gathering. The game is called "Texas horseshoes", I believe. It's older brother Greg's creation (who else?), my rival in this particular clip. If I can get the instructions on how to build one of these out of PVC piping I'll post it online.

Vacanza finita

2008-08-13T19:07:00.002+02:00

Bad news for us, but, for you, my (3) loyal readers looking for workplace distractions, this could be a good sign. Yes, I'll be posting again more regularly, starting in the coming days. But, for now, I leave you with this explanation as to where Xtina and I have been over the past few weeks. I wrote it up for my Times column this week. (btw... I purposely left out the link for Casa Chiocciola, our rental cottage, in the article, but will plug it in here for those of you who are curious.)

Dateline: Flushing, Queens

2008-07-25T01:02:00.005+02:00

have to be quick here as the battery is running out on my computer. Here are some fotos from our outing at Shea Stadium today to see the Mets beat the Phils in dramatic fashion. It likely will be our last ever family outing at Shea. Incredible to think of all the good times we've had there: watching the Mets clinch the division in '86 and then storming the field to rip up a piece of outfield turf (that's still prospering in the backyard of 31 Ford Court no doubt); two 18-inning games including one where I saw Rusty Staub play his final game in the outfield. Today tops them all as we got to pass off the tradition to the next generation. In winning style, no less.

Go Mets!

Table stakes

2008-07-07T22:03:00.003+02:00

Here's a tip: if you happen to be dining out with your Italian in-laws it's always best to stifle your urge to look skyward and thank the gods for the dish you are eating. If you have a favorite table dance, drop that routine too. Obvioulsy, keep the mmmm, mmmm-ing to a mmminimum. Why? Because otherwise you'll have to answer the most frightening question an Italian mother-in-law can fire at you: "You seem to be enjoying that," she'll point out, followed by a chilling pause, and then......."How does it compare to how I make it at home?"

When you find yourself in this crossfire, one should:

a) Si faccia finta che non capisco la sua lingua. Translation: Feign stupidity. Play the language gap card.
b) Create a diversion. Quickly draw her attention to your father-in-law who is no doubt doing something irksome at this very moment.
c) Wipe the stupid, ecstatic grin off your face and lie through your teeth. Learn these words: Assolutamente no!
d) Come clean and admit your dish was sent directly from the gods.
e) anything but d.

If you answered "d", you just bought yourself a lifetime of twice-boiled pasta and last week's meat loaf whenever you come to visit. Oh, and forget about ever sleeping with her daughter again.

And, here I was the other night, gnawing on a rabbit leg, cooing a bit too audibly for my own good, when I got hit with the full interrogation.

You need to understand what a bind I was in. My mother-in-law's specialty is roast rabbit. (She also makes a sinfully good pigeon and pheasant). She's proud of her rabbit prowess and is secretive about every aspect of its preparation from her supplier to the spices. But it's pretty clear she can source the best coniglio in Central Italy. But she only makes it on special occasions like a Sunday dinner when we come to visit them in Perugia or big holidays.

And so, this weekend on the island of Ischia, for July 4th we went to Il Bracconiere for a nice meal to celebrate American Independence. I told them the tradition was barbecue, conveniently leaving out the hotdog and hamburgers part. Acting on a tip from a chatty bartender who knows his roasted game, we circumnavigated the island until we got to its highest point and arrived at Il Bracconiere. (Here's the chef on YouTube reading poetry.) Bracconiere too is famous for its coniglio. And, so it was like a clash of greats: Liliana on someone else's turf to sample the rabbit that the Ischitani in the know rave about.

A few bites in, she turned to me and dropped the bomb. And so....?

I immediately looked to Massimo for my diversion. There was none. He too was distracted by the coniglio, as was Xtina. I decided to face my inquisitor. It was different, I stammered. She let me off easily. We agreed the rabbits of Ischia are different from Umbria and we tucked into the rest of our meal. We then moved on to another 4th of July tradition: the cinghiale, or wild boar.

ISB mail bag

2008-06-30T23:47:00.003+02:00

Here at Il Sette Bello we get the occasional piece of reader mail that we endeavor to answer as promptly and comprehensively as possible. This means every 18 months or so. You can send your mail to ISB's editorial offices in Rome. With Poste Italiana, it should arrive in by December when we will put off running our next installment.
Eccola, la posta:

Dear Sir,
In the U.S., the 4th of July is a major holiday when the Americans celebrate Indepedence Day. I'm thinking of taking off both Friday and Monday, but I've already used up my vacation days for the year. Any advice on how I can duck out without the boss knowing?
-- G. W. Bush, Washington D.C.

Dear Mr. Bush,
In Italy, a Friday holiday is an excuse to invoke the "ponte," or "bridge". This means if the holiday falls on a Friday you take off Monday too as there could be traffic on Sunday night. Plus, you need a day of rest after three days away from work. Oh, and no respectable worker shows up at work until 11 a.m. on the following Tuesday. Getting out early on Thursday is also permissable... Confused?

Dottore,
Is Italy ready for some Wham-Bam-Thankyou-Maam!-Change, the kind American voters are going to open up on the Republican Party this November?
- M. Obama, Chicago

Dear Ms. Obama,
Italy is on its 63rd government in as many years. Voters here detest change. That's why they vote in the same band of criminals every 10 months.

Professore,
I'm in my 70s and am considering a position as the next leader of the free world. The problem is people see me as, you know, old. How does Italy, a G8 nation, manage to keep the same band of crooked old guys in power running the country for so long?
- J. McCain, Phoenix, Az

Dear Mr. McCain,
Only in your 70s!?! Write back in ten years and we'll talk.

Dear Sir,
My family and I run America's largest beer brewery, one that is particularly beloved by America's future: college kids. The problem is everybody else seems to think our beer is pretty undrinkable, except the Belgians who now want to buy us. Can a Belgian with a thirst for Budweiser be trusted?
- A. Busch IV, St. Louis, Mo.

Dear A. Busch IV,
It's true. Your beer is pretty undrinkable. Our advice: sell it to the Belgians who have a terrible track record doing anything constructive other than making very drinkable beers. Also, if you have any pull, please have the Coors family sell out too.

Watching Azzurri fans turn blue

2008-06-23T15:45:00.005+02:00

Triple-digit temps is not helping the mood of most Italians today who watched in anguish as The Azzurri crashed out of the Euro 2008 tourney last night with an anemic 4-2 penalty shootout loss to Spain, the first loss to Spain in 88 years.

Tension was high when the two sides went into the penalty round. Here's how the drama played out from our perch at Piazza del' Gazometro last night.

Portrait of the artist as a young man

2008-06-18T13:06:00.004+02:00

That, of course, would be Michael.

Through the 29th of June he has an exhibition in Perugia at the former Chiesa di Santa Maria della Misericordia on Via Oberdan in the centro storico. We were there on Sunday for the grand opening where Michael was feted by Perugia's unstoppable art critic Massimo Duranti... I shot this video before the crowds arrived with my N95 phone.

Esplosione!

2008-06-17T23:32:00.003+02:00

Italy goes up 1-nil on Pirlo's penalty. Shot on my N95 huddled in the rain this evening at Piazza del Gazometro, a nice little event thrown by Partito Democratico. A rare win for il PD.

It was a pretty lacklustre match. No head-butts. No scandalized national heroes. But Italia lives another day.

What!? No Dan Brown!?

2008-06-17T14:38:00.006+02:00

So says the Vatican, which will not permit Ron Howard and his crew to film the impossible adventures of symbolist extraordinaire Robert Langdon for the upcoming "Da Vinci Code" prequel "Angels and Demons" on its property here in Rome, The Times reports.

Father Marco Fibbi, a spokesman for the Diocese of Rome, told The Times: “Normally we read the script but this time it was not necessary. The name Dan Brown was enough.”

Apparently, Don Fibbi's not a fan.

[End of post. Insert cliff-hanger here.]

London: surveillance city

2008-06-04T09:12:00.002+02:00

The Tate Modern is having an exhibition on street art with massive wall murals outside. This one captures a bit of the flavor inside (tho I didn't get in.) Yes, I'm in London for our Social Media Influence Conference. Come by!

lettera d'amore

2008-06-01T22:10:00.003+02:00

The other night after dinner Lara proudly presented us with her son Davide's first (of many) love letters. Davide, whom I mention from time to time here, is 5-and-a-half. He and I build drippy sand castles together at the beach. He knows my Italian is not so sharp and so it's usually me who builds the sand castles while he barks out instructions and keeps an eye out for anyone in a bikini who might stomp on it. After a few bikinis walk well past he usually stomps on it himself.

That's Davide. He's a typical boy. He loves his plastic monsters, The Gormiti, his Power Rangers and gelato with panna. He is mad for DVDs like Monsters Inc. and Wallace & Gromit (sub-titles don't matter to him) and race cars. Now he's old enough to get love letters. Or una lettera d'amore.

I have to admit, before I'd even seen the letter, I was a bit dismissive. Sappy love letters are for girls. And love letters written by small children with shaky penmanship and poor grammar is the stuff only a mom could swoon over. So when Lara handed it to me, already safely sealed in a protective laminate, I wasn't expecting much.

How wrong I was. Our deconstruction of the letter went on at least a half-hour, and could have gone even further, but everyone at the table shut me up. This love letter was a piece of genius, twisted, sappy genius. Call it Shakespeare meets Wes Anderson.

Davide's admirer is six, a full six months older than Davide. The maturity shows. Let's call her C. (It's only fair.)

With your typical love letter, of course, the formula rarely changes. You get a single narrative line, particularly with those who've mastered only the present tense and cannot go more than three words before mistakes pile up on the tracks and those unsightly scribble corrections start to mar the narrative flow. Between the blotches there is the address to the object of the desire ('Dear so-and-so' or 'My dearest so-and-so'); feelings are communicated ('When I see you I feel...'); wishes and hopes are expressed ('I want us to live together forever...') And, an x-filled salutation seals the compact.

C ripped up the old formula and started at work on an incredibly detailed plea that was dripping with symbolism. Firstly, she took the sheet of paper and turned it landscape-wise and divided the sheet into separate message boxes for the full effect. In one of the message boxes she wrote (and I am translating here)

Dear Davide,
I want us to have three, or six!, small children. I love you. C

C repeated the "ti amo" elsewhere, which is a sweet touch because Italians usually use the less specific term of endearment "ti voglio bene" ('I want you well'). Don't get me started on "ti voglio bene". It could be the least romantic line in any of the Romance languages! When I hear it I cannot help but feel the recipient is being cheated, like the speaker is considering his or her options. The proper response to "I want you well" should be, "You damn well better!" which translates roughly to "lo dovresti!"... In any case, C doesn't fall for the banal trap that her Roman classmates might. Nah, she poured out her heart using the most literal, unambiguous term of endearment there is. You go, ragazzina!

The rest wasn't so clear. C took a piece of wool material and sewed a pocket, which she glued to the lower right hand corner. Inside the pocket she placed, naturally, a single die and a plastic Spiderman wristwatch. The die, Stefano believes, symbolizes that her feelings for Davide is a game of chance. A roll of the dice. Yep, pretty much sums it up. The Spiderman watch could be a reference to "forever" or to the promise "I'll be waiting for you to turn 6 like me". To Davide, it meant Spiderman! In fact, Davide went right for the wristwatch when the letter was presented to him after school. He didn't bother with much else, which had us all feeling the poor girl has cruelly learned far too quickly in life that Roman men are more interested in fancy wristwatches than expressions of "ti amo". We all sighed in unison.

We're not finished with the letter though. The capper, for me anyhow, was the paper itself. The letter was written on the back side of a page that had been snared from an instruction manual. On the flip side was a photocopied page -- Chapter 23 of an instruction guide to Lotus Notes, it read.

The symbolism? We had no explanation.

Tron meets Dante

2008-05-28T10:32:00.005+02:00

That was my little metaphor for Perugia's Mini Metro project, which I wrote about for The Guardian this week. The Perugini don't understand the reference. That's Ok. They're not thrilled with the Mini Metro either. I was mightily impressed with the futuristic project. If you are going to be in the city this summer, get on and give it a ride.

And certainly not to be missed is a fantastic exhibition of new work by the English painter Michael Eldridge; a truly exceptional body of work by this innovative master. At the ex-Chiesa di Santa Maria della Misericordia. A whamma! From June 15 through 30th.

This post sponsored by the letters k,w & y

2008-05-18T18:39:00.003+02:00

Who knew three simple letters could kick up such a fuss?

The Portuguese government on Friday voted to add 3 new letters to the alphabet -- k,w and y. The measure will also phase out hyphens, eliminate silent consonants and standardize the use of accents. Thus, from here on in, it's spelled "otimo" (and not "optimo") to say "great" in your next flirty chat session with a Portuguese beauty. Capite?

Why the sudden changes? Because the Portuguese language is under siege by globalization, Google searches and the ascendancy of its former colony, Brazil. Thus, the humble Portuguese decided last week to adopt Brazilian Portuguese as the official state language, to be phased in over the next six years. Defenders of the original Portuguese collected a rather underwhelming 33,000 signatures protesting the move.

Never mind that Brazilian Portuguese is spoken by at least 190 million of the world's 230 million Portuguese speakers. For linguists, this is an historic moment: one of the original Romance languages is ceding its position as an "official" language to its upstart former colony. Could other languages be next? British English maybe?

Pizza bash fotos

2008-05-14T16:14:00.007+02:00

I'm a bit late in getting these pix online. These are courtesy of Michael who is already disputing the results of the pizza festa. I hope to have more online shortly (from less disapproving participants). The top one is Michael's impressionist wonder. He called it "fantasia".Usually, manning the fires of the pizza oven is a man's job, but Giulia (above) and Eugenia (below) taught me a thing or two about handling the pizza pallet. Che brave!

Simone's piccantissima pizza. He finished in the bottom five, but I thought it was a fine effort.
Mangiamo! I don't recall whose pizza we're eating at this stage, but you can see, if you squint tight enough, what's on the judges' minds.

My sausage/raisin/pecorino romano trifecta. It was the last pizza of the day and came out only half-cooked. Next time.

In town and ready for a good time

2008-05-09T19:25:00.003+02:00

For those of you following the story of the endangered bald ibises (I wrote about it a few weeks ago for The Guardian), I have some good news to report: Medea, the most wayward of the bunch, has finally been located. He's been ensnared and transported to the breeding area in Fragagna, Northern Italy by members of the Waldrapp research team. He had been unaccounted for since early April when he and his flying partner, Aurelia, separated on the northerly migration.

Now in Fragagna, Medea (pictured above; he's the one on the left) will clean himself up, don a fancy new robe, practice his best come-on lines and will find himself a nice female. I hope he finds a female soon. Evidently, when the male ibis is stimulated for breeding -- like NOW! -- hormones trigger a noticeable reddening of their neck and head, removing all mystery from the courtship.

Ladies, count yourself lucky!

For more on the Waldrapp team and the incredible work they are doing, check out their site here.

Exorcising pizza demons

2008-05-04T19:40:00.006+02:00

For three years now, a dark cloud has hung over a certain pizza oven in Central Italy. On an otherwise pleasant May afternoon in 2005, a champion was crowned for her pizza prowess, claiming for the second straight year the crown of "Best Pizza, regione Marche, provincia di Ascoli Piceno, EU-approved, Il Sette Bello-sanctioned" at the annual (well, not including 2006 and 2007) pizza festa in Sant'Ippolito (pop. 12 max; 400-plus pecore). The problem was the winner was known to be intimate -- nods, winks, nudges -- with the organizer. Worse still, that organizer is a not-to-be-trusted straniero, an americano, me.

That year's winner was Xtina who whipped up an, objectively speaking, revelatory pizza: a pine nut/raisins/salt/olive oil with garnish of fennel number. She toppled a strong international field. (Details are here). But once the ballots results were in, charges of favoritism, nepotism, pizza-ism were sounded, reaching even the capital here in Rome. Italians who missed the 2005 pizza gara ganged up on the winner and poisoned her coronation. People even questioned whether pine nuts + fruit belong on pizza.
Would Xtina's good name ever be restored? Would the pine nut become the pineapple of pizza toppings? Would there ever be peace again in Sant'Ippolito?

Fast-forward to this weekend. A collection of promising rookies, vengeful veterans (and no, their pizza is not served cold), me and the reigning champ went at it in the hills of Sant'Ippolito in this the fourth crowning of best pizza. Three countries, five Ph.ds and nine pizza philosophies were represented. Regionally, we were a diverse group too. You had the liguri duo, Simone (pictured above) and Luca, who trash-talked the competition in an odd dialect throughout the afternoon and smuggled in their ingredients from former Genovese colonies. Then there was the charming romane, Giulia and Eugenia, who were whisking pizze in and out of the oven like the famous pizzaioli of l'obitorio. The most imposing force was the perugini 3: Xtina, younger sister Francesca and Fra's boyfriend Daniele. Rounding out the nine were the Peroni-swilling barbarians, me and Michael. Michael and I are the original pizzaioli of Sant'Ippolito, a community founded by wayward pilgrims in the dark, pre-pizza years of the Middle Ages. We'd like to think that in organising this annual pizza festa we are bringing a little more sunshine to this part of the world. That's what we tell ourselves anyhow.

With such a proud bunch, you might expect the recipes to come from wise aunts or grandmas. Not so. Only Luca and Simo stuck to regional fare of Liguria. Giulia and Eugenia snared ingredients from across the bel paese - speck and funky cheeses; Fra whipped up a pesto number, certainly not a Perugian speciality; Daniele went to the shores of Sardinia for a savory bottarga topping and Xtina headed north, almost to France, to source her topping. Me, I went local -- Mario's sausages. Michael went around and pilfered everybody's ingredients when they weren't looking.

And which pizza would emerge the victor from such a varied field? Which combo would be crowned pizza of the year, 2008?

It wasn't Xtina's asparagus/fontina valdoastana. What can I say. The people demanded change this year. Instead, it was a pizza rossa, the first time in four tourneys that the winner was "red" (politically, this is a rare bit of inspiring news for the Left.)

Here's the rundown in reverse order:
No. 9: Me. Yes, I came in last, falling from 2nd overall in 2005 to dead last. It was a sausage/pecorino romano/raisin trifecta. I firmly believe in this trinity, however. It will be back. Xtina gave me a 2.5 out of 10. grumble, grumble
No. 8: Francesca. Pesto/pomodorini/mozzarella di buffala/basilico. It was a sloppy entry into the oven, but was quite tasty once extricated. It's Italy. Looking good is as important as tasting good.
No. 7: Simone. pomodoro piccante/ salame piccante. I liked this one a lot. The rest of the field thought it was too piccante. Cowards.
No. 6: Xtina. Asparagus/fontina valdoastina. In another pizza bake-off, on neutral ground, this could have won it all. The asparagus, matched by the sharp cheese, was a real standout. But another year of Xtina's pizza rule appear to have sunk her chances from the beginning. Democracy speaks. Again.
No. 5: Michael. This pizza was a brand new category in the world of pizza. The name? Fantasia. (There'll be a Disney trademark dispute, no doubt). It had speck, asparagus, pomodorini and various cheeses arranged, Dada-esque, on his doughy canvas. It looked better than it tasted. But it's the kind of pizza you'd be proud to hang on your wall. Bravo, vicino.
No. 4: Giulia. Speck, provola fumicata. A nice combo, and just narrowly missed out in the top 3.

And the bronze medal goes to Luca. He created a pizzata, a type of double-decker pizza. The bottom layer is focaccia with stracchino. The thin top layer is pomodoro/mozzarella.

Silver goes to Eugenia with a radicchio/gorgonzola/mozzarella. Squisita!

And the winner?

Daniele. He blew away the field, outscoring everybody by 6 points with a bottarga/pomodorini/mozzarella masterpiece.

Tune in here to ISB. Later in the week I hope to have a short video up about the pizza festa.

Buon appetito!

Mobile journalists

2008-04-24T15:23:00.002+02:00

My journalism students at JCU have been working hard over the past few weeks, developing broadcast reports shot entirely with their mobile phones. Specifically, the Nokia N95. It's called "mobile journalism" or "mojo" for short. Check out their work here on our YouTube Channel.

A little help from their friends

2008-04-14T09:31:00.009+02:00

It was almost a year ago, at a cocktail party, when I heard the most incredible story about a project to restore an endangered bird species that, to put it kindly, hasn't evolved well. The Waldrapp ibis over the centuries has lost much of its motivation and its sense of direction, problematic if you are a migratory bird that needs to get to point A down south to wait out the winter and point B up north to breed.

The birds are one of the most precarious in the world. Just a few hundred survive in the wild, and none in Europe. To be sure, the birds haven't helped themselves. They are pokey flyers, have poor motivation and are tasty, evidently. They are true slackers. Still, the Waldrapp Team is heroically trying to revive their numbers. All of this perhaps raises the question: are some species simply not fit for survival in this cruel world?

Before you answer that, read my article in today's Guardian about a determined group of biologists attempts to teach them how to migrate, and, ultimately survive.

And, for more on the research team's efforts, click here.

Italian politics and TV: in vicious decline

2008-04-10T17:17:00.002+02:00

I don't often write about life in Italy for my Times column. Maybe every 6 months or so. Today, with the elections looming, I stuck to what was once the big trifecta in Italian life: TV, politics and Silvio Berlusconi. Even now, on the eve of his anticipated victory, it sounds quaint. Here's the column.

If it's April it must be time to elect a new government

2008-04-06T14:18:00.003+02:00

For the 62nd time since 1946 (yes, 62 years ago), Italians head to the polls next weekend to elect a new head of state, replacing the center-left government that collapsed earlier this year. The former mayor of Rome and media luvvy, Walter Veltroni, goes up against former PM and media tycoon Silvio Berlusconi in a race that few Italians seem to have the stomach for. My dispirited lefty friends debate whether or not to even vote while my right-leaning friends are suspicious of a Berlusconi bis accomplishing anything other than kick-backs to his friends and squashing more criminal investigations into his past.

The Economist, in what's becoming a regular "leader" article, once again weighs in, imploring Italians not to vote for Berlusconi. They're not too high on Veltroni, but, crucially, he's not Berlusconi. (Berlusconi isn't the only one getting the cold shoulder from The Economist edit board this week, mind you. It's time for Robert Mugabe to go too, they write. Europe's richest man and Africa's most craven. Nice company).

Meanwhile, Italy narrowly averted a headline writer's dream this week. A small party, the Christian Democracy Party, threatened to hold up next week's election in a legal dispute over the vaguely similar party symbol used by the much more prominent rival, Union of Christian and Centre Democrats Party. The DC verses the UDC. The head of the DC is named, and no, I am not making this up, Giuseppe Pizza. Good old Giuseppe withdrew his legal challenge a few days later, and now the election is on again, robbing us all of the following headline:

Pizza Party delays Italian election

(The Guardian came the closest. Anyone else want to take a stab?)

There's just no joking about Italian politics.

Dental adventures in the Eternal City

2008-04-04T17:53:00.003+02:00

I'm not an avid reader of the dental trades, but I'm fairly convinced that what happened here in Rome this week was a first for the profession. The local media is calling it la chronica del falso dentista.

On Tuesday, police were called to an apartment complex to investigate the sound of gunshots, telephoned in by a concerned neighbor. The carabinieri were directed to the apartment where an incoherent man, after much knocking, answered. Enter: the victim of the shooting. At first, he told police nothing was wrong, that it was merely an attempted robbery. They could go home. Suspecting more, the carabinieri started a grueling line of question that revealed:

1) the man they were questioning was bleeding right there in front of them.
2) The blood was from a gunshot wound.
3) He'd been shot in the leg.

Woah, now this is a different matter altogether. This is no attempted robbery, the carabinieri no doubt informed him. This is now attempted murder. Attempted murder of you!

After more lame protests from the bleeding man, he cracked. Yes, he was bleeding. And, yes, it's a gunshot wound.

No doubt impressed by their sleuthing, the carabinieri persisted with their line of questioning, the victim weakening under the strain. The man then recounted what happened:

His attacker, an irate man in his 50s with an excruciating toothache, a toothache apparently so bad it reduces you to thoughts of vigilante justice, approached the victim. He drew his revolver and began firing, right there in the apartment complex.

Ok, but why did he fire at you?

Here's where the confession comes in. The bleeding man had for years been running a dental practice. Except, he has no qualifications, he confessed. You see, our man spent years as a dental assistant. He watched intently, no doubt, filling after filling, handling the sucky straw thing while the dottore did the glamorous stuff: the drilling, the bonding, the scraping and cleaning. One day, looking into a mouth full of crooked teeth, he figured, eh, this ain't so tough. I could do this. So, he bought the reclining chair and the interrogation light and the drills and the sucky straw thing and opened up his own practice, and started working on his neighbor's teeth.

It was all going perfectly well until one patient opened fire.

The police eventually tracked down the gunman and charged him with attempted murder. The falso dentista recovered in the hospital and then was arrested too. For good measure, his ex-wife, son and nephew have also been charged for helping the man open up an illegal practice.

Another day. Another happy ending here in Rome.

Over on The Matthew Online...

2008-04-01T17:16:00.001+02:00

... the student newspaper I edit, one of my young ace reporters has a fine write-up on the latest Berlusconi gaffe. You can read it here.

Cross-town traffic

2008-03-31T00:03:00.004+02:00

As you know, I haven't posted here in ages. So, here's a quickie to tide you over.

I'm nicking this from Michael's blog. It's a photo from late February of morning traffic on the dirt road between our houses. Here's the full story.

I'm so glad I don't have to commute any more.

Seinfeld celeb sighting in Amandola!

2008-03-19T08:58:00.003+01:00

Here's one to ponder: If you were to go truffle hunting in the wilds of Le Marche -- Amandola, to be precise -- which Seinfeld character would you take along? Kramer? Hell no. Jerry, George, Elaine? Nehhhh.

It's a short list, indeed.

Ok, what about J. Peterman? Ah, now you're talking. The intrepid outdoor clothing designer would surely be the perfect companion as you slide down a mucky hillside into a dense forest following over-excited hounds (possibly sporting a wine-induced hangover).

Yes, J. Peterman himself was in Amandola this fall about the same time Eric, Michael and I , accompanied by local experts, went foraging through the woods in search of the elusive Tuber magnatum pico. That's white truffle to you and me. We came up empty, but were later rewarded with a memorable feast.

And J. Peterman. Well, he writes here:

I was waiting out in the cold and humid air for a couple of minutes when an oversized and scruffy white poodle with an expert pink nose came loping toward me ahead of the local truffle hunters. Soon we were off to look for all-but-impossible-to-find white truffles, known for their sharp, distinctive peppery flavor.

(You can almost imagine actor John O'Hurley narrating this to a completely bored Elaine)

Now some setting:

This time I'm in The Marches, the part of Italy due east of Florence. It's true that Piedmont, far to the north, is the best-known white truffle region in the world. But with more and more of the forests where these addictive tubers thrive turned into vineyards, the region is becoming more of a market for truffle buyers and sellers than a territory for hunters. I admit I'm a buyer when that's my only option. But I prefer the hunt.

and how'd he fare? Being J. Peterman, eureka!

She [the dog, Dora] finds two smaller ones before we call it a day. The nearby town is called Amandola, and a few hours later it's dinnertime at one of the village's trattorie, a fire raging in the corner. Soon, the plain cooked fettuccini we ordered will arrive and we'll transform it with a few delicate shavings from our afternoon hunt. There's a bottle of the local Sangiovese on the table between us. Dora's owner ordered the wine, saying it was simple enough to get out of the way and let the truffles be the star. As if anything tonight could upstage our hard-won treasure.

And what about Eric, Michael and I? Nuthin! We'll score some next year. Promesso

A special shout out to ISB reader, Tigers fan and fellow hunter Eric. He spotted the article yesterday while on his daily giro through the celebrity gossip pages.

This just in...

2008-03-19T08:48:00.003+01:00

Congratulations to author/journalist/ISB reader Jim Ledbetter appointed Editor this week of "Big Money", Slate's new business news site. More details here from Reuters' Ken Li. Slate picked a fine week to announce the launch of a business news site.

Don't want to work on Graziela's farm no more

2008-03-04T17:48:00.006+01:00

This past weekend we were in Amandola, the first time we'd been up there since the New Year. It was another example of Marchigiani propaganda at work: crystal clear blue skies (perfect for BBQing Mario's famous ribs), a Saturday night feast at the always reliable Da Priori in Monte San Martino and some fine local wine to top it all off. By my calculations we ate cow, pig, lamb and various critters from the sea, my idea of a perfect get-away from an otherwise crazy work schedule.

We (Xtina, Lara, Stefano, 6-year-old Davide and me) also paid a Sunday morning visit to Graziela's farm to say hello to the rabbits and chickens and roosters and cows and pigeons.

I'll tell the rest in pix. Graziela took us on a brief tour of the farm to see days-old rabbits (cradled in Stefano's palm at left) and weeks-old calves (posing for a picture here at right, giving us her more flattering side). Another one of her cows is pregnant, expecting around September.

We then went on a long walk to check out the latest progress on abandoned houses being rehabilitated for new homeowners. Sant'Ippolito has plenty of case abandonatte lining the hills around the house. Some even have dirt tracks leading up to them. It sometimes takes a bit of a hike to get anywhere near these properties, but the views are spectacular and always worth the effort. Here's a view (at left) of the Sibillini National Park, a perspective I've flashed up here before. But this time, with the blue skies and the snow-peaked tops, I couldn't resist snapping another one. And finally, a view of Casa Chiocciola from down the hill at Graziela's farm (the big picture at the top of this post).

Are Americans hostile to knowledge?

2008-02-15T16:03:00.003+01:00

The NY Times posited this question yesterday, stirring quite a buzz from readers. The article begins with the anecdote of Kellie Pickler, an "American Idol" contestant who wonders on a nationally televised quiz show whether Budapest is in France, whether Europe is a country and then seems incredulous when she's informed there is such a place as Hungary. "I've heard of Turkey," she spouts.

Ms. Pickler is hardly a spokeswoman for the U.S. education system, and yet there she was proudly displaying her ignorance for all the world to see.

To be sure, classifying Americans as thick and insular is the height of ignorance, as is judging America based on what you see on TV. If TV content were an accurate reflection of national character, Italy would be squarely at the bottom of the intellectual scale. But chances are the typical Italian would know where Budapest was. It's not in Turkey.

My first film

2008-02-08T21:21:00.000+01:00

I've been playing with iWeb over the past few weeks, a few minutes here, a few brief dinners there. Here's the result: a video compilation using snaps and videos pulled from my Nokia N95.

Warning: it's vacation propaganda. Lots of scenes of sunny skies and magnificent scenery. It may not be suitable for workplaces that require full productivity.

Enjoy!

Democracy speaks

2008-02-01T19:13:00.000+01:00

If Tuesday's Democratic Primary run-off in New Jersey comes down to a single vote, you can blame ten Italians, a Brit and yours truly. You see, my ballot, which hopefully arrived Stateside today, was a collaborative effort. I took a straw poll among friends over the past week; the candidate with the most votes, I informed them, would get "my vote". My choice would be worth 1/12th in the end, a worthy sacrifice, I figured, for a people living in a corner of the world that gets swept up in American foreign policy far too often. (That is a 1/12th vote it is even counted. I realize absentee ballots are only counted when it's close. I failed to mention this to them).

But if it is a close call I have full trust in the good people at Ocean County Board of Elections with whom I am on a first-name basis. (I cannot say enough good things about Ocean County Board of Elections. Really. They send me e-mail reminders and are quick to respond to even the most mundane question. Some of you may be rolling your eyes when our Prez talks about the importance of spreading democracy, but these fine people take it to heart.)

...so, who did I/we vote for?

John Edwards.

Kidding. Though he did receive a half-vote for him from Franco.

Here's how it went down:
By Tuesday night (the final night of the polls), turnout was pretty weak. We had set up a "virtual caucus" on a friend's blog and the responses were coming in slowly. No doubt, this bunch of intellectuals was in no mood for further democracy after the fall of the Prodi government last week. So, we took the polls to the constituents. Over a dinner at Lara & Stefano's, we collected two more votes. For Obama.

That swung the count in his favor, unsettling Xtina. She immediately started working the phones (mine and hers) from the dinner table. Xtina is stridently for Hillary and was trying to bring sympathists on side. Sensing unfairness, I sent out a series of SMS messages myself, votes I thought that would blunt Xtina's neo-Marxist, pro-Stiglitz, pro-Philip Roth sensibilities.
They came in one-by-one.

Michael: Bill Clinton. Close enough. That's a vote for Hillary.
Luca: Obama
Giovanni: Obama
Franco, being Roman, voted twice: Edwards and Obama. That's another for Obama.
Mauro: Obama
Manuel & Martina: Hillary & Hillary
Me: Hillary

The tally? six for Obama. five for Hillary. Xtina pulls out a ringer: her dad, Massimo.

Massimo, ever since I've known him, speaks to me about two subjects: life in Umbria and Hillary Clinton. As early as Easter, 2005 he wanted to know whether Condi had enough juice to derail Hillary. Or EE-lay-ree, as he says. I told him Condi has no chance to win the Republican Party nomination. Bah!, he replied with suspicion. Massimo is a loyal Christian Democrat. Hillary would get their party nomination easily, he seemed to be saying. She would probably even get her chance to run the country for 10 months.

His wife, Liliana, on the other hand, still grumbling about the break-up of the Papal States, uses her vote to cancel out Massimo. She is definitely a McCain woman.

So, as Xtina dialed home, I stood ready, blue helmet on, to prevent anything, let's say, fraudulent happening between Xtina and Massimo to put us in a difficult situation. I grabbed the phone once Massimo started speaking.

Massimo, what's your vote?

Kennedy, he started. Massimo has a habit of speaking in circles when he's asked to go on the record.

Kennedy?, I asked.

Ted Kennedy. That's important. He just endorsed Obama. That's big. I'm going with Obama.

Incredulous, I took down his vote and hung up the phone.

In the end, it was 7 for Obama, 5 for Hillary.

10 Italians, 1 Brit, me and Ted Kennedy have spoken.

No country for young men

2008-01-26T11:43:00.000+01:00

You leave the country for a few days, and what happens? The government collapses. It's moments like this when you really wonder why some world leaders would continue to make such a fuss about "spreading democracy". Romano Prodi served 20 months on the slimmest of margins, narrowly avoiding ouster last February. As the Guardian points out, 20 months is an admirable showing in post-war Italy, which has now had a staggering 61 governments in 60 years. If Italy were a stock it would have been delisted long ago, its shareholders in the red.

What happened this time? It all started with Prodi's justice minister Clemente Mastella pulling his support for Prodi last week in a juvenile protest. The protest? Magistrates arrested Mastella's wife on corruption charges and announced he too is under investigation. Mastella, a good Catholic, had no choice but to respond by pulling a Judas-like revolt, forcing a do-or-die vote of confidence vote for the Prodi government, which he of course lost. Let's recap here: the justice minister topples the government because an independent judiciary decides to investigate their boss (and his wife) for an ongoing corruption ring in the Naples area that is costing taxpayers a fortune. Does any of this make sense? Of course not. It's Italian politics.

Now, the Prodi government, which already was largely powerless to push through any meaningful reform, is no longer. Instead, we have political chaos just as the global economic picture is looking bleak. But Italy's wealthiest man, Silvio Berluconi is gleeful. He will no doubt be re-elected.

Ordinary citizens look at Italian politics with incredulity. All politicians all over the world are self-serving. But Italian politicians operate in their own world. They are answerable to no-one but each other. They go into power for one thing: to enrich their friends, family and lovers, and more and more these days, the Catholic Church. Where have you heard of such a political system before? Open your sixth-grade history text books. Yep, it's modern-day feudalism. You have a ruling elite consisting of old men with a disproportionate amount of wealth and power, a powerful church that dictates to them and a pitiful peasantry (with university degrees).

Of course feudalism ended in a moment of enlightenment just a few hours north of Rome. And today? Nope. Disaffection rules. The most sensible Italians are telling me they refuse to vote in the next election. Why should they?!, they snap. We deserve Berlusconi, Xtina tells me. At least he was transparent in his aim to pass laws designed solely to save his ass and assets from various criminal investigations. That's understandable. But what's the alternative?

Italy, a G8 member, has turned back the dial to a previous millennium -- or, if you think about it, a good 400 years further back in history than where the Taliban would like to set up shop. The country is losing its best minds increasingly for a life abroad where there are more opportunities and fewer Italian politicians. Unlike a millenium ago, the brain drain is robbing this country of its next Galileo, its next Leonardo, its next Michelangelo.

If modern-day Italians are lucky, the church/state hydra will push the country back even further, back in time to say the fourth century. Evidently, between 300 and 400 A.D. were good times in the Roman Empire, an era of prosperity and promise. A lot of Italians could live with that.

Football Americano, Americano

2008-01-21T18:12:00.000+01:00

I'm a bit groggy today. I stayed up til the blessed hour of 4:18 a.m. to watch i giganti, The NY Giants, win an overtime thriller last night/this morning against the Green Bay Packers. The NFL's muddle-headed policy of scheduling early evening games in the U.S. all but kills any potential to draw new fans in more distant time zones. Not wise when you are trying to cultivate an international following. Don't send us two grumbling teams to play in the mud in London. Just schedule some meaningful games at an hour where a greater percentage of the planet can follow along.

Case in point: a few weeks ago, for the Giants-Bucs game, Stefano and Luca joined me at a local pub around 8 p.m. Despite the foreignness of the game, they seemed fixed on the action. (Luca, by halftime, was asking me technical questions about the difference between NFL and rugby infractions. I made something up. All I know about the infractions in rugby is that you are to address the referee as "sir" or risk getting a few more yards tacked off against you.) After the game, energized by witnessing their first Giants victory, they wanted to know when the next one was. When I told them the kickoff would be 12:45 a.m., they simply responded "ciao. Tell us how it goes."

So how does a Giants fan in a strange land get his game day fix? The answer, as always: Rupert Murdoch. His Sky Italia pay TV service carries NFL games. Perfect, I thought. I'll splurge. I ordered a month of Sky and prepared to watch my Giganti play in frozen Wisconsin Monday morning. When I flipped on the channel I saw the normal Fox broadcast, but muted. Instead, we had two excitable Italians giving play-by-play from some studio somewhere. I grumbled. Call me a spoiled American, but I don't want to see NFL games dubbed into Italian. It's just not right. Xtina, who only gets excited about cartoons and political talk shows, brightened. It will be good for your vocabulary, she said.

Sacked by my polyglot wife.

But she was right in the end. Soon I was getting into the televised coverage, even if it felt as if these guys were calling the play-by-play of a completely different sport, or perhaps a gun battle in Fallujah. It certainly wasn't football - American or otherwise. They would get terribly excited anytime there was any type of ball movement whatsoever. Think John Madden. After a double espresso. Under heavy enemy fire. In tone, one-yard gains sounded like Hail Mary bombs. Down field passes were DOWN FIELD PASSES to BO-rrrrrrress. Long running plays were flowing with detail. Bradshaw's run went something like this:

Brad-SHOW prende la palla. (Bradshaw takes the ball)

Brad-SHOW cerche per blocchi. (Bradshaw looks for blocks)

Brad-SHOW cerche per LA LUCE. (Bradshaw looks for the light)

Brad-SHOW AVANZA! (Bradshaw advances)

then it gets interesting... The more jaded American announcer might skip a few yards on a long run, maybe counting off every ten. Not in Italy.

we then hear:

BRAD-SHOW. SULLA 40. SULLA 38. sulla 35. sulla 30. sulla 25. SULLA 20. SULLA 15.... and on until he scored, never once inhaling. The cigarette, no doubt, still glowing.

I was angry with the call, but I felt also as if it was the announcer who was truly robbed on the play. He recovered though. This man and his sidekick, wherever they were doing this play-by-play from (mysteriously, we never saw their faces), were professionals.

They powered on into the early morning hours. The last few minutes of the game was one crescendo after another. By the time Tynes lined up for the overtime field goal attempt, I was emotionally spent. I muted the TV, fearing the call of a winning field goal attempt would wake up the building and require me to explain myself at the next tennant's meeting. The kick sailed through the uprights. I checked my blood pressure, then my watch. 4:18 a.m.

pazzi giganti!, I thought. I have to do this again in two weeks.

New Yorker in the room

2008-01-20T17:08:00.000+01:00

Last night a few of us broke away from a wine tasting to catch a speech by The New Yorker's David Remnick, part of an ongoing Lezioni di Giornalismo series here in Rome. Never mind that none of us had tickets. The event sold out long before, and even my press credentials were proving useless with the organizers. So, we did the only sensible thing. The four of us - Mauro, Manuel, Niccola and I, all "professional" journalists -- sneaked in and inconspicuously took up an entire row in the center of the auditorium.

It was well worth the risk.

Remnick spoke about the history of The New Yorker, its philosophy, its colorful roster of editors and writers, plus regaled us with insights about the magazine. For instance, in the hours after the attacks on Sept. 11, Remnick, looking for guidance, went back in the archives to see how the previous editors covered the attack on Pearl Harbor. The magazine dedicated just a few lines to the event that sent the United States to war, squeezed into a story about a football game at the Polo Grounds. That was it. Just a few lines. Later, the magazine redeemed itself with courageous reporting on the beaches of Normandy, from Italy and an epic piece in 1946 on the aftermath of the Hiroshima bombing that took up the entire magazine. The article, at 31,000 words, broke new ground (you can read more about here) in investigative journalism. The New Yorker has always been about going "deep" on a topic, as Remnick says, and it will continue to do so in the Internet age.

Sadly for me, book-length reportage is an art that's not at all common outside of the Anglo Saxon media world. There are a variety of factors for this; time (the readers') and money (the publishers') is the biggest culprit. In a pip-squeak media market like Italy (but certainly not only Italy), the emphasis is on short, easily digestible stories and lots of images. You can flip through most weekend news magazines here between lunch and nap time. In some weeks, you can wring out all the meaningful stuff while sitting in the smallest room in the house.

The point that drew the most post-speech discussion from our group was the idea that there exists a publication that still strives for independence and balance. In other words, a publication that makes editorial decisions based on news value, not based on the owner's pet causes nor on shareholders' returns. Remnick says he has never once received a call from Conde Nast brass seeking to influence the upcoming story lineup. And, he's never received a call afterwards either. Mauro, sitting next to me, gasped.

A truly independent commercial media, one could easily argue, does not exist. That's not really true. I have written for plenty of American and European publications. The difference is that Americans try their best to operate with a wall between the business and editorial side of the publication. In Europe, that wall fell down a long time ago. It certainly doesn't exist in the flag-waving world of Italian media where captains of industry and politicians (the same people in many cases) have turned their publications into propaganda sheets to manipulate public opinion and sabotage rivals. What's lost in such a scenario is credibility.

The press cannot function without credibility. It's as simple as that. In a world of spinmeisters, propagandists and elected liars, to paraphrase Remnick, a credible press is the only thing separating democracy from a tyranny of special interests.

Remnick was cautious in his assessment of the blogosphere. It's biggest failing too is credibility. I agree with this entirely. But I do believe blogs have created a powerful forum too, one that is capable of holding companies and politicians accountable, oh, and the press too. Yes, and me too.

Natale a Roma

2007-12-24T14:34:00.000+01:00

Some more images of Xmas in Rome for those curious about how the holiday is celebrated here.

Above is the city's version of the Rockefeller Center Xmas tree, with a different backdrop, Il Colosseo.

As decreed in the Italian bible (page 45, I believe), it is tradition on the 24th of December to serve fish. The queues at the fish market were longer than usual this morning, but everybody was in a civil mood. No well-aimed elbows or sneers from the little old ladies. We're preparing a zuppa di pesce for this evening (details in the post below).

For the zuppa, you need proper tomatoes. And so it's on to the tomato stand where they sell the most expensive tomatoes in the EU - 6 euros/kg. But they're so damn tasty, you always go back for your weekly fix. This morning was no exception. (This photo taken 2 months ago)

Buon Natale, tutti. Merry Christmas, everybody.

Serpente and the Italian guide to Christmas gluttony

2007-12-23T14:34:00.000+01:00

What do Italians eat for Xmas?

Everything.

More specifically, it depends on the region. Here in Rome, the favored dish is Abbacchio alla Romana, a leg of lamb roasted in the oven with potatoes. In Bologna, it's a heaping plate of tortellini. In Naples, it would be capitone, or yellow eel (pictured opposite), served in a red sauce in a very lengthy dish. (I've never eaten capitone, but I believe the trick is to wait until it gets confused, trapping itself in a corner of the dining room. Then, everybody stabs at it with their tridents... Don't have a trident? Try a sturdy frying pan. Aim for the head.)

This year, we're having natale in Rome. We've decided to play around with the menu for the marathon of eating that begins some time tomorrow. First up, is a zuppa di pesce (fish stew) for the night of the 24th. The stew will include palombo (dog fish), calamari, prawns, triglia (red mullet) and sgombro (mackerel) in a tomato sauce.

For Christmas dinner, we are having a Perugian delicacy: roasted pigeon! And, for the 26th, roasted pheasant. Non vedo l'ora, as the Italians say. (Can't wait!) Meanwhile, the house is already filling up with Umbrian specialties - prosciutto and a type of soft pecorino cheese from Foligno, which we've greedily devoured, home-made cappelletti (to be served in brodo, a favorite of Francesca) and a mountain of cakes, pastries and biscuits.

Perugia is famous for its sweets. Chocolate, to be precise. But they have a fine tradition of biscuits and cakes too. For Christmas, they serve serpente, an almond sweet pastry shaped like a coiled snake. I'm looking at one sitting on my table.

Nevicata! (updated)

2007-12-19T22:30:00.001+01:00

Winter arrived with authority this weekend in Central Italy. Well, it did on the eastern side of the Apennines. (Here in Rome, it's still sandals-and-shorts weather. With scarf. And mittens).

Back to Amandola, here's a photo courtesy of Michael, who estimates a half-meter (foot-and-a-half) has fallen since Saturday. I'm grinning. I hope to get up there for New Year's to do a little skiing.

And, the next day: Bright sunny skies.

K2. Conquered. Filmed.

2007-12-17T20:00:00.000+01:00

For this post, I'm going to shut up and let somebody else do the talking. The entire NBC Sports K2 expedition is now online here. (Yep, that's the incredibly impossible gradient of the mountain pictured here).

You think your country is falling to pieces?

2007-12-13T15:46:00.000+01:00

Today's New York Times dedicates 4 pages to Italy's spiraling decline. Decades of soaring debt, ineffective government, stagnant competitiveness, and on and on have generated a type of malaise over the young people of this country. (What the Times refers to as "malessere"). They're angry. They want change. They want it now, if not sooner.

This story breaks little ground. Time wrote a cover story in 2006 about Italy's disaffected youth. The Economist was even more harsh in 2005. I too wrote a column about this topic a few months back and was flooded with emails and comments from Italians around the world. (One Italian asked me if I thought the UK would consider invading Italy. Not unless they get the OK from Washington, I'd say.)

Today's Times article does a brilliant job of capturing the tension and despair felt from north to south, the stuff I hear at dinner parties in Rome, walking along the streets of Perugia and read about every day. The best part of the NYT piece is the video they produce about Beppe Grillo. Classic stuff!

Bravi!

High altitude drama

2007-12-12T09:18:00.000+01:00

This Sunday (16 Dec) at 2 p.m. EST, NBC in the US will be broadcasting an hour-long program about Chris' successful summiting of K2. It's a nail-biting tale, one that involves scandal and death.

I was with Chris last month, shooting interviews here in Italy. The footage is incredible, the story even more gripping. Tune in. You won't be disappointed.

For those of you outside the U.S., I'm told NBC Sports will be broadcasting the show online. As of now, the place to see the *Web simulcast is: www.nbcsports.com/k2

*The site is not operational yet. In the meantime, check out this promo:

The Sopranos: after the finale

2007-12-06T19:59:00.000+01:00

Last night, the glorious six-season run of The Sopranos (or Soprani, as Xtina calls it) came to a subdued end here in Rome. It was just the two of us, the last of our DVD sets, and some mixed feelings. At the close of the final diner scene, Xtina stood up and said, "Pfft, I'm going to bed", eloquently summing up a recurring Italian criticism of the most misunderstood American TV import to ever reach il bel paese.

Not fair, I later pointed out. These are complex characters, in a demanding world called Jersey. There's no neat Hollywood ending here. Tony Soprano is a character plucked from the battlefields of Homer, racked with the doubts of MacBeth, as Journey's "Don't stop believing" plays in the background.

E poi?, she asked. What's next? How will these characters live on after The Sopranos?

The Soprano's legacy? Tough one. After much thought, I say, The Sopranos characters will live on, in roles the Italians can finally understand.

Here's my Fall 2008 TV lineup here in Italy:

1. Tony Sirico (Paulie "Walnuts" Gaultieri):
Takes over the role of Don Matteo (Father Matthew), the crime-fighting priest from Gubbio, one of Rai's top-rated shows. With his trademark shark-fin-sideburns and white loafers, Don "Paulie" solves crimes in this splendid Umbrian hilltown, that, despite its designation as an EU cultural heritage site, is plagued week after week by nefarious two-bit crooks. Each episode, Don "Paulie" overcomes his phobia of germs to solve complex capers. The final scene each week climaxes with a humorous misunderstanding between Don "Paulie" and the bumbling, but lovable, Carabinieri officers, usually over Paulie's shoes.

2. Edie Falco (Carmela) & Federico Castelluccio (Furio)
Falco plays Suora (Sister) Maria Elisabetta Grazia Angela, a crime-fighting nun from Benevento in a made-for-TV movie on Berlusconi's Canale 5, airing opposite Don "Paulie". To spice things up, Sister Maria Elisabetta Grazie Angela, or Suora "MEGA", has a dark secret. Her nemesis is a Napolitano cigarette smuggler played by Federico Castelluccio (Furio Giunta) with whom she may or may not have deeper feelings for. After a series of twists and turns, accompanied by an emotive score, she has a chance to put the sly smuggler away for good, but reconsiders only after he promises, in a tight profile shot that accentuates her chin and his nose, that he'll go legit. Alas, he goes back on his word (there's a larger metaphor here about the worthiness of Italian men, the critics insist, but the show's producers deny it), and he leaves Benevento for the coast. On Easter Sunday he secretly returns though, leaving a wad of cash in the offertory basket. Suora MEGA looks to the sky and smiles.

3. Dominic Chianese (Uncle "giu" Junior Soprano)
Plays senator-for-life on Telecom Italia's La 7. The government is particularly fragile. The left and right are deadlocked on everything, from troops in Afghanistan to funding for Alitalia. The paralysis is creating unrest on the streets. Each week, the wise and practical old senator builds consensus on both sides of the aisles, defeating young idealogues and the protected interests alike with a rousing speech on the floor of the Senate. Each week, the unkempt Communists are foiled and the sun shines on Rome.

4. Steven R. Schirripa (Bobby Bacala)
(Also on Telecom Italia's La 7) The pride of Italy, the Azzurri, is in trouble again. The national soccer squad is under investigation for match-fixing (an act that does not involve phone taps conducted by Telecom Italia's security team), blood-doping, tax evasion and strong-arming its way into the sale of counterfit Adidas products in the Pugliesi port city of Bari. The Italian national team faces disqualification from international competition, FIFA rules, unless they completely overhaul the front office and remove half the starters and the coach from the roster. Desperate, CONI, the Italian sports federation, turns to Coach Bacala, an unlikely choice indeed. Bacala is a butcher (macellaio) from Bologna and former anti-trust chief during the Berlusconi administration. Now that the Left is in power, Bacala is out of work, out of shape, but not out of inspiration. He accepts the offer and teaches his inexperienced squad how to be winners. They finish with a surprising third place finish in the European Cup, losing a 2-1 heartbreaker to the cheating Croatians. Bacala emerges as the big winner. Impressed with his masterful coaching, Senator "Junior" asks Bacala to come back to Rome and mediate a labor dispute with Alitalia. Bacala accepts. In last act as coach, he picks up his telefonino and calls a macellaio from Testaccio. Send a case of your best sausages to the union chief, he says. Senator "Giu" responds, "you still got it, my boy. Still got it."

5. Robert Iler (AJ Soprano)
Iler is asked to reprise his role entirely for Italian audiences on MTV Italia. Iler plays an Italian nearing 30, still living with mom and dad, spending the majority of his waking life in front of the TV and grousing about the fact there are no opportunities in Italy for guys like him. Every time his weary parents suggest he look for an entry-level job or call that nice girl whom they always see at church (and when are you going back to church, Mister!?), he testily responds, "how can I go to work or to church if I cannot afford to put gas in the car?!" Mom hands him a twenty. He spends it on 19-euro haircut. It draws the highest ratings ever among the 18-30 demo, but is canceled due to lack of advertiser interest.

Stay tuned.

My failed music career

2007-12-05T17:54:00.000+01:00

It was 17 years ago that I, a dirt poor college freshman, took a part-time job at a local Sam Goody music store in the mall. Never mind that I was clueless about any genre of music that did not include Jethro Tull and Blues Traveler; I had a car, a pulse and I walked upright. Plus, I was too poor to refuse the Friday night shift. I was hired on the spot, earning something like $6.30-an-hour. I was handed a Sam Goody "hello, my name is..." badge and set loose on customers. My career in the music industry was underway.

Mercifully, it lasted just a few months. I was terrible, maybe the worst salesman Sam Goody ever hired. I had never even heard of Coltrane or Miles Davis, and don't even think of asking me anything about Brahms or Handel. Whenever somebody would ask if we had something, I would mumble "yes" then lead them around the store in concentric circles hoping one of us would spot something vaguely familiar along the way. Most of the time I'd lose the customer along the way. Every once in a while they'd walk out the door, never to return again during my shift.

My manager, fresh out of prison (or so it seemed to us), had little patience for me. He would station me further and further away from the music and the customers. After a while, I was required to stand outside the door and hand circulars and other propaganda to customers as they ventured into the land of overpriced CDs. I recall customers back then, starved for choice, would think nothing of paying between $12 and $15 for a new Mariah Carey or Pearl Jam CD. This truly was the heyday of the industry.

I left the job around Christmas time, 1990. Despite its insistence on hiring clueless, unmotivated dolts like me to help sell product, the music industry went on to have a solid decade of ever-increasing sales. I finished my degree, got a job in a newsroom paying $10.65-an-hour, and rarely gave any thought to my short stint in the biz. Until this week. It was the inspiration for my latest column.

Sunday morning wine tips

2007-12-02T11:28:00.000+01:00

It's Sunday morning and I am procrastinating. I am behind on a series of deadlines, but basta that for the moment. I am distracted by the new edition of "I vini d'italia 2008", the annual wine guide from L'espresso.

I'll just rattle off a few of their conclusions:

Best value: A Collestefano 2006 Verdicchio di Matelica, costing about 8 euros, but scoring an impressive 18.5/20.

The decadent splurge: Verona-based Giuseppe Quintarelli's Amarone della Valpolicella Classico 1998 will set you back about 280 euros. Scoring a 19.5/20.
The canny buyer, however, might opt for Mastroberardino's 2001 Taurasi Riserva Radici (22-26 euros), down Avellino way. Also scoring 19.5/20.

When I get off deadline, I'll spill a few of my own more populist views, picked up from a few hours poking around Sensofwine the other night.

A wine worth trying

2007-11-22T12:42:00.000+01:00

Firstly, Happy Thanksgiving everybody. Buon Ringraziamento!

I use ISB from time to time as a handy notebook, making mention of some nice wines I've had so I can remember and access them later, and maybe pass on a tip or two.

Last night, Xtina and I dined at a fine restaurant in our new 'hood L'Acino Brillo, dining on a generous gift certificate from my brother Chris and his wife Melinda who were in town last week. L'Acino Brillo has a spectacular wine list, and so we decided to splurge there. We decided on a Lagrein, a flavorful grape variety indigenous to the German-speaking Alto Adige region. It's one of my favorites.

We chose the Lagrein Riserva Abtei, 2004, from Muri-Gries, which is a monastery outside Bolzano. Che fantastico! Incredibly smooth, a little spicy and a powerful perfume. Here's what the makers have to say about it:

This wine features dark ruby shades and a deep flavour of ripe cherries, berries and plums. It sets free agreeable spicy chocolate and coffee flavour notes resprectively. It has a juicy, fleshy and extremely elegant structure with a concentrated outstanding tannic body and velvet-like roundness. Besides, its pleasant taste does not fade away soon.

I concur.

If you can find it in your hood, grab a bottle.

How big is your bird?

2007-11-21T17:36:00.001+01:00

In certain countries, those five words will earn you a fat lip. But here in Italy it's a perfectly reasonable conversation starter. It's a question I've asked more than a few times this week. You see, I'm on turkey (tacchino) duty.

A friend has been gracious enough to host Thanksgiving dinner at his place in the center of town on Friday night. I offered to buy the bird while he's out of town. We went over the preparations on the phone just as he was catching a train north. I took down the following details:

They'll be eight or so of us, he informed. We'll need a big bird.

I agreed.

We did some calculations and arrived at a nice round number: 10-12 kg (or, 22 to 26.4 pounds). With eight of us, that will mean anywhere from 2.8-3.3 pounds per person.

Perfect, I said. I'm on it.

To source anything bloody, I usually head straight to the market in Testaccio where our favorite fish monger, butcher, veg guy and my candidate for the Nobel Peace prize, the tomato guy, have their stalls. This week, however, my motorino has been out of service, and so I ventured down the street on foot to the neighborhood butcher.

When I mentioned tacchino his eyes lit up. Sure, we can get you a tacchino, he said. How big? They'll be eight of us, I said. Before he could jump in and do the calculation, I informed him: 12 kilos!

He glanced at his partner, and said, sure we can get you a tacchino!

How much?, I ventured.

They run between 6 and 7 euros per kilo. So, probably 70-80 euros.

Can't be, I protested. It's just a turkey. How could it be so pricey?

He didn't like where this was going. To bolster his credentials, he told me he has a lot of American clientele, employees of the UN's food program, or FAO. They always order turkeys from him, he said, pointing to a calendar on the wall with scratch marks scribbled on the Nov. 22 box. I was starting to get that "acchiappa svizzeri" feeling. Whenever I hear the word "FAO" (pronounced "FOW!"), I get a little unnerved. These people live tax-free. To my mind, they overpay for everything. Of course they'd pay 80 euros for a bird, and then have a good laugh about it over dinner.

Hearing the word "FAO," I tried gracefully to back out of the deal. I told him I'd get back to him after checking around. I called Xtina, who, no turkey expert, said 6-7 euros per kg seemed reasonable. You pay 15 euros for a nice cut of veal, she reasoned. It's just a turkey, I responded, the second time in 10 minutes. Not convinced, I called my mother-in-law. She too is no turkey expert. She tried to steer me towards rabbit. You won't be able to find a 10 kilo-rabbit though, she responded, before bursting into hysterics.

I have learned enough to know that when your sweet will-do-anything-for-you mother-in-law starts to bust your chops, it's time to reassess the situation.

Just then Xtina pulled out our squat cookbook, "La Cucina Italiana" to ease my puzzlement. Every turkey recipe I could find in the book called for 4 kg of turkey, and each said it serves 12 people. Half convinced, I then fired off a few emails asking, how big is your bird?

The New Yorkers were shocked. 10 kilos!, Jim exclaimed. Do you have an oven that big? (He's cooking for 10 and bought a 15-pounder.) Adam is preparing a similar feast. He gave me a helpful formula: it's usually one pound per person. My mom concurred.

Armed with this info, I still wanted a second, erm, sixth opinion. I headed to my regular butcher in Testaccio (my moto is back on the road) this morning with Xtina. When we arrived, he had a nice sized bird in the window. "5.50 euros/kg", read a large plastic price fork stabbed into its belly.

How big is that tacchino?, I asked. No, not a tacchino, he informed. It's a tacchina. A she. Do you know the difference? No idea, I confessed. The female is more tender, he said, not nearly as bulky as the males. You can plop her right in the oven, no need to tenderize her.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But will it feed eight of us?

Eight? Of course!

She's 7 kg and she's sitting in my fridge right now. Set me back 38 euros. The hard part, thankfully, is over.

Buon ringraziamento, everybody!

One for the vino file/phile

2007-11-21T11:11:00.000+01:00

Dedicated readers of this blog will probably recall my occasional reference to two little-known grapes from Central Italy that have been creating a bit of a murmur among the vino conoscenti: pecorino (bianco) and lacrima di morro d'alba (rosso/rosato).

I wrote an article about the rise of little-heralded Italian grapes such as these for a fine local publication here in town, Wanted in Rome. Both wines would be a nice compliment to a proper Thanksgiving meal, if you were serving rabbit or sea bass. Now,that would be a nice tradition. Think I'll start that holiday myself.

The lacrima di morro d'alba ripening on the vine this summer under unrelenting sun.

Vecchio uomo inverno

2007-11-19T17:20:00.000+01:00

We've had a blast of winter here in the bel paese this week. Over the weekend, the mountains around Rome were white-capped. Further east, up Amandola way (pictured here), there was the first serious snowfall of the season.

Michael snapped these fotos this morning from the field next to our houses. Two weeks ago these slopes were gold, red and brown. Now, it's just white. Che belle! Bravo, Michael.

(BTW... my editors are not publishing my truffles story until next autumn. But you can get a sort of preview if you check out Michael's version on his blog. I wonder what Michael pays per-word.)

Perugia, a tabloid tale

2007-11-12T23:24:00.000+01:00

Is Perugia the Ibiza of Italy, as the Corriere della Sera reports? I've never seen any evidence of that. These days, the Etruscan wonder is splashed across the pages of British tabloids, discussed on chat shows and her bones are picked clean by bloggers (not this blogger.)Locals wonder if normality will ever return...

I've been quiet on the topic of the grisly murder that occurred in Perugia earlier this month. It's shaken many of the Perugini we know. Eric wrote this piece over the weekend that tries to sum up the impact the spotlight has had on the city. Some of the names may be familiar to you.

Olive amandolesi!

2007-11-07T15:33:00.000+01:00

I have an odd attachment to my trees, particularly the olive trees. Xtina often says I love the trees more than her. This is simply not true. I love her and the trees equally. Most days.

Last year, for the first time, the olive trees finally produced, though the yield was pretty poor. This year, I can happily report, both trees gave us a large basket-full of olive goodness. The smaller of the two trees produces the hefty olive ascolane. The second, larger tree (pictured below) produced Italian black olives.

Update: A few weeks later now, and I'm trying the first batch. My mother-in-law has prepared them with orange skins and a bit of salt. They're a bit pruny, with a lightly bitter after-taste, but very nice! Next year: oil!

On the trail of Tuber magnatum pico

2007-11-07T14:59:00.000+01:00

Last weekend was a rare treat. I went hunting with my neighbor Michael and a journalist friend from Rome Eric, searching for the precious tuber magnatum pico, or white truffle in the hills below my house in Amandola. A year ago, I learned these pungent aphrodisiacs (or so some claim) can be found in certain wooded sections in the valley around the house, and so I organized a giro with local tartufaii Alberto Mandozzi and Marcello Bianchi. We were hoping to find one or two under an oak or birch tree. Finding one, it seemed, would be the only way we could afford this delicacy this year. Why's that?

Well, I paid last year 30 euros for a 30-gram piece. This year, an equivalent piece could be had for between 150 and 180 euros; an incredibly dry spring and always-high demand have sent prices soaring. As a result, I bought the cheaper, and not nearly as good, black truffle. Set me back 17 euros. As Xtina said again this year, "once you go white, you just can't go back."

How'd we do? We didn't find any, but we were invited to a decadent meal hosted by the local truffle hunters association in Amandola, of which Alberto is president. It was a meal that will not be forgotten: a seven-course marathon, four of which included a healthy helping of white truffle shavings. (Pictured below is la fonduta, a Piemontese soup of several types of cheese coated in white truffles.) At this year's price, the meal would have set anybody back a few hundred euros. Thankfully, it was a BYOT affair. We ate what the association managed to unearth this year. Che fantastico!

...meanwhile from the other side of the planet

2007-10-26T10:14:00.000+02:00

While I've been doing the glamorous movie thing, Xtina has been on the other side of the world on another mission for her NGO, this time in South Africa. She's been back and forth between JoBurg, Port Elizabeth, Pretoria and beyond, usually in the most desperately poor neighborhoods.

She sent me this email update that I thought I'd share with you:

You have to imagine the poorest place you have ever been to, a desert dotted with little laminate shacks, no outdoor illumination, nothing. You drive along the main road in total darkness and suddenly you see this huge construction, temple-like, a piece of Vegas in the middle of nowhere. Lights, guards, 5 stars hotel, lounges, a vast green park (outside there is a very dry land), and slot machines, hundreds. The Sisters told me that the whites that come here look only for one thing. Guess what. I think this was the most outrageous contrast I have ever seen in my life. Probably people here are used to it.

This morning (wake up at 6) we went to another mission in the poorest village...they have a clinic, well organised with many girls that study and volunteer as home care assistants, especially for AIDS patients. Very nice girls, they walk for kms to get to their patients. Then they have nursery and pre-school. Tons of kids screaming my ears off. They don't have enough brick classrooms, the youngest (2-4) stay in containers...so hot...

They took me to visit a couple of patients, one woman with polio in a wheel chair...she was so happy that we brought her a new one...and the family with AIDS. The woman was very proud to show me her wedding dress...she did it herself...they have nothing else, four walls and nothing inside, bare rooms with some linens but at least they have gardens in the back where they grow vegs. They live off the government grant, 80 euros a month.

The thing that shocks me the most is that there are no men around. The women do all the work, in the gardens that the sisters give to the women to grow vegs I saw 2 pregnant women carrying water, ploughing the land...no men. They don't feel responsible at all, they wander around, play football and many of them steal as much as they can during the night. Thieves broke in here several times and stole all the computers...

I don't feel too sad, I explained to the girls today that even if they don't see it they have a lot. They have a community, a network of people, they have their land, they have the opportunity to study..I wouldn't exchange this with a struggling life in the city...I don't know if I was very convincing.

Red carpet treatment

2007-10-26T09:35:00.000+02:00

A special "red carpet" complimenti! to nostro Franco this morning. I attended last night his Rome Film Fest screening of Zero, a jarring 9-11 documentary. A packed cinema in Rome's Campo dei Fiori was the setting. Franco, the co-director, has been all over the news with the film in the past few days. On Tuesday, he strutted down the red carpet, accompanied by the screams of adoring fans no doubt.

I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical initially of the public's appetite for yet another conspiratorial 9-11 documentary, but this one is well worth seeing. It's amazing how the natural inclination of Americans is to just shut that day out, and not seriously consider all the incongruencies of that attack. I met and interviewed the father of a man who was killed in one of the towers that morning last night. He's spent every day going over the details, and he's convinced we've all been lied to. Before you groan, do yourself a favor and find this film.

And thanks, Franco, for bringing it to the big screen.

Check out the site for more details.

Buona fortuna, amico!

Are Italian lawmakers planning to gag bloggers?

2007-10-24T19:34:00.000+02:00

That's the very real concern around here. Well, from where I sit at least. A new d(r)aft law requiring all bloggers and users of social networks to register with the state has already passed one legislative hurdle. In the fresh light of day, it is being reconsidered in a slightly weaker version, but the "anti-blogger" law as it is being called is still alive and well. I wrote about the implications in my latest Times column, dubbed "A geriatric assault on Italy's bloggers." (I had nothing to do with the headline, but I think it's apt).

UPDATE: Apols for those who clicked on the link and went nowhere. I wish I could say it was the Italian censors forwarding you into a "404" black hole, but not so. Anyhow, the link is corrected. What I want to point your attention to is the number of angry young Italians who have responded to the story. 68 so far! I really despair at times for the youth of this country. They are completely ignored by the ruling class. Read their comments, and you'll see.

Vandals strike the Trevi Fountain

2007-10-21T18:35:00.000+02:00

Who is the Ftm Azione futurista 2007, and what is their problem with the Trevi Fountain? In a baffling protest, the waters of the famed fountain turned blood red on Friday afternoon when a vandal dumped a jug of red paint into the waters. Within minutes the whole fountain was red, threatening to do serious damage, ANSA reports, to this incredible baroque masterpiece.

Corriere Della Sera has even more images where you can see a bit more clearly the vandal in action.

He simply departed from the scene, exiting though a sea of tourists. What was his motive? It's unclear, but he left behind leaflets that spouted out something incoherent about unsettling "grey bourgeois society."

The leaflet said this group aimed to battle against "everything and everyone with a spirit of healthy violence" and to turn this "grey bourgeois society into a triumph of colour".

Today though ANSA is reporting they have identified the vandal. He's a 54-year-old and he was helped by two or three others. The initial press links between the group and the Italian art movement Futurism appears to be dismissed.

Marinetti and Balla would have never stood for such an act!

An hour to kill?

2007-10-16T20:03:00.000+02:00

Then you must do yourself a favor and download (for free over the next few days), "This American Life's" latest gem, about high-security inmates' portrayal of Act V of Hamlet. You'll never think of Hamlet, Claudius, Horatio, et al again after you hear convicted killers interpret these roles.

Dateline: Garbatella. Yep, we're in

2007-10-06T19:01:00.001+02:00

Ok, I've been in for a few days now; Xtina even longer. It's been several weeks delayed, and we still haven't managed to rid ourselves of a Romanian crew of workers, but we can officially say that the offices of Il Sette Bello are up and running in the new location. Please note, *reader mail should be sent directly to the embassy in Rome. Your embassy, not mine.

* - if it's a bottle of wine, contact me directly.

So, where is Garbatella exactly? It's on the other side (the Colosseo side) of the river, on a hill overlooking St. Paul's, a magnificent basilica that mercifully gets a tiny fraction of the pilgrims that usually converge on St. Peter's. Garbatella was the first community in Mussolini's grand urban plan, il Duce's idea in the '20s to extend Rome beyond the ancient walls and give everybody a bit of breathing room.

Mussolini's imprint is still visible today. Many of the buildings are adorned with an "E.F" for "epoca fascista" followed by a IV or V or some other Roman numeral, meaning built in 1926 or '27. (That's 1922 plus 4 or 5 for those of you scoring from home.) These days, Garbatella has flipped to the left, or so it appears from all the hammer and sickle graffiti in evidence. But the locals still like their Mussolini-inspired houses. And, there's a great teatro in the area that we've been known to check out over the years that has some funky avant garde productions.

Here's a funky Flickr montage, capturing the 'hoods more colorful parts.

And what about today? Garbatella was in the local press this week with Il Messaggero asking is "Garbatella like Notting Hill"? Turns out, no, not at all!

Locals got a bit feisty when a film crew from Working Title, the studio that produced "Notting Hill," tried to pay everyone to move their cars. They wanted a car-free street in order to film (or "gira nuda," as the Italians say) a scene with Sienna Miller (fully clothed, evidently) walking through the 'hood.

If I see Sienna Miller out my window (nuda o no) with a film crew trailing her, I'll let you know.

Still undecided about 2008?

2007-09-29T00:52:00.000+02:00

Still undecided about next November? Take this quiz to see which candidate you are closest to ideologically.