Zest for Life and Lot's of Hand-gesturing

San Bernadino pass, not to be confused
with the street in Newport Heights

Two weeks ago the Family von Heynitz and I headed south across the Alps to enjoy some vacation time, taking the same route as great medieval German kings seeking to bring the rich and proud Italian city-states into line with the rest of the Holy Roman Empire. So I, like a middle-aged woman attempting to reclaim her mojo (yes I have seen the movie) headed to Tuscany. Our adventure began early on a Friday morning, pulling sandy-eyed babies out of bed in an act of revenge for all the inopportune times they'd woken us up; heading to a lovely Schwäbisch town to stay with a college friend of Wolfram's on the first leg of our Italian expedition. Swabia is a region of southwestern Germany, existing across the border of Baden-Württemberg and Bayern (Bavaria), with a dialect that, according to Germans, is arguably less comprehensible than the Bayersich that is spoken in the countryside surrounding Munich (where I did my third year of college). Thankfully, our hosts spoke Hochdeutsch (High-German) and were as delightful as they were well educated. This is also one of the most prosperous regions of Germany, for example, the town had an unemployment rate of less than 3%, which statically speaking means the population is fully employed. 

Sunset on our first night in Borgo Casalvento,
with Dutch neighbors in foreground.

The next day we saw five countries in one day: Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Lichtenstein, and Italy. For those who are curious, Lichtenstein is a country that is a few miles across, and has served as a tax-haven for Germans as well as other Europeans for a long time; a Cayman Islands of the Alps. I always wondered how such a tiny country could have endured for so long, until I saw it; Lichtenstein has a few Alpine villages surrounding a small city with an impressive old fortress above it that serves as it's capital, all sitting on some of the most defensible ground I have ever seen. 

And then came Italy, strikingly similar to California in several ways. First, the landscape, second, the aggressive driving, third, the fashion consciousness, and finally, no one seems to work. You walk around a town at ten in the morning and people seem to be just then filing into work begrudgingly before taking a two hour lunch break. Despite the lax work schedule, it sounds like someone is getting chewed-out whenever you walk into any business there. Italy is the kind of place where you can great a great espresso in a gas station and you can't really get a bad meal anywhere. 

Soon to be known as Palazzo d' Kalanzo

Italy is full of beautiful, svelte young women with olive skin and pouty expressions on their faces, along with four-and-half-foot-tall grandma's in coke-bottle glasses who spend their days swooning over the "bambinos"--the change seems to happen overnight. Young Italian men often come in a skinny-jeans wearing type that is more concerned with what the other guys are wearing rather than the girls, juxtaposed with the self-assured jolly older Italian man. The aging process is more apparent, with the creepy Berlusconi style man in between. Italy is a country where the Prime Minister can be brought up on several counts of having sex with underage prostitutes, but not be impeached because he is probably the most productive and successful leader they've had in decades (Italy has had something like 18 constitutions since WWII). Nonetheless, Italians are overall friendly, wonderful people who know how to live life well and I had a chance to enjoy some of this good life. Surprisingly few Italians speak English however, which I admit was a proud assumption on my part. The towns are also full of fat little dogs that are very pushy and seem to have no problem blocking traffic. While there I had my own little friend/enemy, a skinny cat who I caught once digging through our garbage (which I had to then clean up), and who tried to sneak into our apartment so many times that I named him Mr. Kitty. 

The elusive Mr. Kitty

We stayed in a rental apartment in a renovated farmhouse on what appeared to be an old olive farm, judging by all the old olive tress. It was on a mountain in an area known as Baco, above the town of Cantagrillo, near the walled medieval city of Pistoia, less than an hour west of Firenze (Florence) by car. Our first week we found ourselves to be the only non-Dutch family staying there. As part of our package we rented mountain bikes but soon found that our location was so charmingly remote as to make anything more than a short journey more strenuous than enjoyable. I discovered this for us on one of the first days, when, after a hair-raising flight down the mountain to Cantagrillo lasting a little more than five minutes, I then endured a 40-minute Bataan Death March-esque trip back up the mountain, riding less than a quarter of the way up, in which I discovered that I am woefully out of shape and in need of a gym membership. A lot of people do bicycle tours of Tuscany, which seems idiotic to me considering that it is a very hilly region where most of the towns and cities worth seeing are placed on defensible ground. Perhaps these tourists want to be able to brag to their friends back home that they were the only people to lose weight while visiting Italy. 

A gate of San Gimignano

The first week of our visit included trips to the walled cities of Lucca, known for it's elegant palazzo and cathedral, San Gimignano (don't ask me how to pronounce it), known for it's many medieval towers and fresco-covered church, Volterra, known for it's breath-taking, windswept view, and Pistoia, which I found to be a much overlooked destination. This is partially due to the fact that I had a chance to enjoy some of the nightlife there. After a walk around the beautifully-lit city-center, I tried a couple of bars, eventually landing at one which not only had an English-speaking bar tender, but one who was headed to California for a two-month research project. After trying a couple of local wines I asked him to call me a cab to head home around 12:30, he refused, saying that the scene was just really getting good, and that I should stay and let him give me a lift home. A cute Basque bartender then made me a stiff Mojito. A couple hours later I found myself making stops with him at the apartments of two of his friends, allowing me the opportunity to mix with some of the locals in a more natural, non-touristy setting. Good luck in San Francisco Alessio!

A tree miraculously growing from
the stone of a tower in Lucca

Even reading a menu in Italian makes you wish that you could speak the language, and thankfully you can kind of fake your way through Italian, at least enough to order a meal or get some prosciutto at the butcher, if you already know a little Spanish, or took three years of Latin in high school. People there tend to express themselves with intense hand-gesturing and miming, making them potentially great players of charades if they were able to hold their tongues.  

Italian bird hunters Davido McHoné and
Bobito Milikenangelo overlooking Cantagrillo

Next week I will publish part two of the Italian adventure, with visits to Sienna, Florence, and Bologna. See you then, and sorry for the long wait since my last blog!