Posted on by Amy

Old Country Idyll: A Day in Grezzano

Grezzano is an old place. Not as old as some Italian villages, those claiming Roman or Etruscan foundations for instance, but getting up there in centuries. The parish church dates to 1086, established by the then-ruling Guidi family.

Intervening time has brought changes to this village, naturally—a rusty mailbox and a plexiglass-sheltered bus stop, an unassuming commercial concern called La Bottega—yet strip away these traces of modernity and what’s left is a 1,000-year-old cluster of farm houses, fields, and memories.

Every evening, weather permitting, Grezzano’s elderly gather in the piazza to people-watch and exchange information, mulling over topics they seem never to tire of: the weather and the harvest, husbandry and heart medications. Who among their silver-haired set ails this week. Children they’ve watched grow up here and move away, seeking opportunities and conveniences Grezzano can never provide. Grandchildren, the mention of whose names causes dull eyes to glisten. A little before the dinner hour they begin to stir, to cautiously straighten up time-crooked spines, test their footing. The women linking arms for mutual support, the men relying on walking canes, they say their farewells and head back to their respective homes, the houses they were born in.

The old people of Grezzano remember World War II, and not from books or oral accounts, but first hand—true memories, deeply personal and, given their quickness of recall, still very immediate. They talk openly about the war years. The horrors and senselessness of that time notwithstanding, it remains a crucial reference point for them. And they understand—they must—the value of the living testimony they possess; that what they impart with a few spoken words is worth more than all the scribbles in all the books in my study. Some remember, in the days leading up to the Liberation of this part of Tuscany, a local partisan’s shooting of a German officer while he drank his morning coffee, right here in La Bottega’s courtyard; and how consequently some of Grezzano’s men were rounded up and held captive for three days while the Germans considered reprisal options. (Ultimately, no retaliation came for that shooting, and the prisoners were released—extraordinary under the circumstances). They remember air raids and taking cover in the woods during close-by battles. They heard the explosions as the bridges of Grezzano were blown up, a common tactic of retreating German forces as the Allies advanced northward.

They were young then, some very young indeed. They survived, but not without tremendous loss and suffering. In the years since, what’s come to pass in Grezzano must seem at once remarkable and banal to them: bridges rebuilt, forests planted, vineyards abandoned, shops closed, condos constructed, roads paved. And a populace dwindling; the post-war years population of 1,300 people is today around 500. It’s a demographic anecdote Italy knows well: places like Grezzano pepper the boot from ruffle to heel, towns whose population grows smaller, older, with each passing year. What will happen to Grezzano when these people are gone? What of the memories, the crumbling stone walls in need of repair? I suppose I know the answer. I just don’t like to think about it.

*****

My nightly commute from Florence is riddled with whimsical musings, mini-epiphanies that burst impishly on the scene then steal away just as quickly. Forty minutes staring out a train window can do that. Lately, those meddling thoughts have been along these lines: as the train progresses fitfully towards my home, what recedes behind me is a mirage, a mere shadow of the country I live in. I leave behind the suffocating piazzas and tired and arrive at what is, for me, the real Italy: Grezzano, where time has been neither kind nor cruel, does not quite stand still yet is in no hurry either. She’s not unlike an old woman, Grezzano, one whose pace has slowed but whose mind remains ever-quick, draped in a verdant shawl that shields against the elements and conceals an unsuspected vigor, a fortitude that comes with age. This is my Grezzano.

Morning. Driving will give you more freedom and flexibility to explore Grezzano and environs, but it’s not absolutely necessary. With a bit of planning, a bus-train-walking combo is viable. Where you can, stop often to have a look around, get your bearings. You’re a bit off the map up here in the Mugello, land of wild boar hunters, surreal green landscapes and sudden summer storms; and while it’s true you’re only an hour from Florence, that hour has carried you far from the stuff of the 21st century. You’re going to need provisions. Make a stop at Bar & Pizzeria Valeri in neighbor town Luco di Mugello, where proprietors Massimo and Stefania will gladly make you sandwiches to go (schiacciata con prosciutto crudo e pecorino—always a sure thing!). Grab some drinks and you’re set for the short trek to Grezzano, but not before exploring some local sites just across the street.

The Church of Saint Peter and its courtyard form part of a larger complex known as the Ex-Convent of Saint Peter of Luco di Mugello, which at the end of the 11th century became the seat of the first female Camaldolese monastic order. During Lorenzo de’ Medici’s time, sending female children here for instruction was a respectable (and fashionable) choice among Florentine nobles. Together, the nuns and the girls entrusted to them came to be known as the Countesses of Luco, on account of the young wards’ aristocratic status. The convent is currently closed to the public, though in recent years it was a hospital (my former sister-in-law was born there), and lately there’s talk of converting the structure into a hotel. Inside the church is a copy of Andrea del Sarto’s Pietà di Luco, an altarpiece commissioned by Abbess Caterina di Tedaldo della Casa in 1523 while del Sarto took refuge in Luco from plague-ridden Florence. The original lives in The Uffizi.

the cloister of Luco’s now-abandonded convent; photo © ilfilo.net

Exiting the courtyard through the vaulted portico, find the diminutive, Renaissance jewel of a chapel to your left on the corner, Santa Maria a Ripa. Constructed in 1583 at the request of Luco’s nuns, it was intended as a wedding chapel, one removed from the church of Saint Peter and the convent itself—thereby separating the rites of marriage from the rigorously chaste life of the cloistered “countesses.” If the door is open, step inside and observe the hexagonal structure and blue and yellow stained-glass eyelets in the dome. A quaint Marian legend associated with this church accounts for its epithet, la Divina Pastora, or holy shepherdess: a young girl, while tending her flock of sheep in a nearby field, wept for her and her family’s hunger, the larder at home being always bare. A woman appeared and took pity on her, telling her to go home and look in the larder. Finding it full of bread, the amazed shepherdess told her parents about the lady she’d met in the field, and the episode was declared a visitation by the Virgin Mary.

Now on to Grezzano, less than five minutes more by car, by foot about 25 minutes. After you get settled, stroll around Grezzano’s piazza, christened in 2009 Largo Rolando Lonari. Grezzano’s hometown hero, Lonari was a local boy who during WWII joined a partisan brigade based at Monte Giovi as a messenger. Captured, tortured and shot by Germans, 19-year-old Lonari was buried in Fiesole until years later when, at his family’s request, he was exhumed and laid to rest in Grezzano’s cemetery. Take a moment here to look around and imagine Grezzano in eras past. The bridge has been in place, in one form or other, for centuries. The area now comprising the bus stop, parking lot and children’s playground was once a vineyard. The paved street passing through the piazza was a much narrower dirt road. Spot the two roads leading away from the piazza. Take the hard left towards upper Grezzano, the Faini mill, and the Casa d’Erci museum.

About five minutes into your walk you’ll pass a roadside tabernacle, site of daily acts of homage in the form of fresh cut flowers and lit votives. A few more minutes on and you’ll see a sign on the left that reads Antico Mulino Faini. This fully operational flour mill dates to the 15th century, and since the late 1700s has been run by the Faini family—a familiar surname in Grezzano and Luco—who in 2001 opened the mill as a museum. Inside you can see the tools of ancient flour-making, including the original working turbine and millstones. The Faini mill has very limited public opening hours, Sundays 3pm to 7pm in summer, so if you find yourself in Grezzano on any other day, still take a few minutes to approach the mill structure and have a look at the photos on display in the yard.

Continue following signs for the Casa d’Erci, a museum and didactic center dedicated to the “old peasant ways”of this area. A popular field trip destination in spring, Casa d’Erci is part working farm, part open air museum, and a good spot for getting to know local agrarian history, industries such as charcoal-making and apiculture. The main structure’s rooms include a granary, a threshing area, a smithy and a cobbler shop, as well as the more intimate rooms of a typical peasant home: kitchen, laundry room, cantina, documents archive, a play room, and a space for religious observance. Don’t miss the animal trapping and pest-control room. Here you’ll see some rather ingenious non-weaponry methods of animal-hunting; forbidden by landlords from traditional game hunting on their lands, peasants relied on alternatives like cages and birdlime traps. Before leaving the main structure, stop at the  fountain in the little courtyard for some of the purest water you’ve ever tasted.

Lunchtime. Time to take out your sandwiches and make use of the Casa d’Erci picnic area, free of charge and empty of tourists, so unless you come on a field trip day (unlikely in full summer), you’ll have this cool green niche all to yourself. After your picnic, the walking trail that rings the picnic area makes for a perfect digestive stroll and will introduce you to Mugello flora. Afternoons, the hours when Grezzano shows her age, you could pass doing nothing at all. Residents are inside resting, and around 5pm will reappear refreshed and ready to recommence their various activities. You could take a nap here on the grass, read, and enjoy the shade. Or you could head back to Largo Lonari for a coffee at La Bottega. But since you’re here, if you’ve got the energy, I suggest you take a hike.

Fill up your water bottle back at the fountain, check your camera’s batteries and study the trail map located near the museum entrance—and you’re ready for this three-hour trek back into history. Head for the stretch called the Linea Gotica trail, named for the German line of defense that in post-Armistice Italy ran from Pesaro to the Carrara/Massa area north of Pisa, the Gothic Line. Synonymous with intense battles and partisan activity, the Gothic Line cut right through the mountains north of Grezzano where, in September 1944, the U.S. 5th Army, 85th Infantry Division broke through the Line after two days of fierce fighting with Wehrmacht infantry. The trail takes you into the heart of the fighting area at Mount Altuzzo, one of the mountains forming the Giogo Pass.

map of the Gothic Line; the red dot is Grezzano

Back in the town, just across the bridge and to your right is the Church of Saint Stephen, Grezzano’s millenium-old parish church. Inside, a ciborium in pietra serena and a ceramic tabernacle are worth a look, but the true showpiece of this Romanesque structure is the outdoor mosaic above the entry. Like Saint Peter’s in Luco, the Church of Saint Stephen was home for a while to another Renaissance artwork destined, after a chance journey through various unintended hands, for the Uffizi: Rosso Fiorentino’s Madonna with Four Saints. Across the street is the Villino Le Scuole, Grezzano’s elementary school back when there were more children living here, now a private residence.

Dinner. A general-store-like enterprise by day, evenings and Sundays an eating establishment of some Tuscan renown, La Bottega is the closest Grezzano comes to “society”. It’s also where the insistent hunger you’ve developed on this day of exploring and hiking is about to be thoroughly satisfied, thanks to the talents of husband and wife owners Giancarlo and Enrica. Try Enrica’s homemade tortelli mugellani (potato-stuffed pasta), anything with porcini mushrooms, a bistecca fiorentina, or one of Giancarlo’s pizzas.

A restaurant and pizzeria since 1981, La Bottega’s history goes back more than a century. In the late 1800s, one of Giancarlo’s male ancestors married a local woman, whose family operated a general store just outside Grezzano proper. As her dowry, the young bride brought her family’s commercial licence to the match, and the newlyweds moved the shop to its current location in the piazza (check out the old photograph of the bride hanging near the pizza oven). For much of the 20th century, La Bottega was not a restaurant at all but a place to buy coal—coal-making being an established livelihood here in Grezzano—yet its location in the remote Mugello hills meant it offered refuge as well, a place for hunters and peasants to gather and rest. Hunters sometimes brought their kill. A small baker’s shop was next door. In time, La Bottega became a place to put bread and meat together, to pick up supplies, and to socialise. It remains much the same today, despite many notable transformations since that era.

After dinner. There’s nothing to do in Grezzano at night. You could take a digestif at one of La Bottega’s outside tables or call it a day and say goodnight to Grezzano. But if you’re at all tempted to stay longer in the area, there’ll be plenty to do come the dawn. The Mugello Circuit, Europe’s largest racing track (MotoGP, Ferrari Challenge) is just 10 minutes away. For the daring, the Aeroclub Volovelistico del Mugello offers 30-minute glider tours of the Mugello valley and can arrange English-speaking pilots. If you’ve caught the war history bug as I have, then don’t miss the Gotica Toscana research center and war museum in Ponzalla, housing a fascinating collection of Gothic Line battle weapons, soldier gear, and other wartime paraphernalia. In Scarperia, a medieval town founded by the Florentine Republic in the early 1300s, explore the old city center’s artisan knife-makers, a craft practiced here for generations.

*****

As happens many a night, tonight I came upon the old-timers club on my early evening walk. I’ve made a routine of passing by the piazza at this hour to eavesdrop, to glean the general sense of their chats before filling in the blanks with my history-book-stoked imagination. Sometimes I linger, trying by force of will to make my presence unobtrusive, yet knowing this can never be given the foreignness I wear like a mask, all the more evident in a town of this size. I was tempted to approach them, and while I’m sure they’d have gladly spoken to me, tonight it didn’t seem right. They have much to discuss these days: a bus driver was killed in a freakish accident in Grezzano recently, right here at our bridge; weather-wise, this month has been uncommonly rainy, altogether un-May-like, the effects of which will prove either ruinous or favorable, depending on one’s perspective, and one’s crop; and the recent earthquakes have put all Italians on edge, and will make for lively conversational fodder for weeks to come. So I kept on walking, pausing only the seconds required to say good evening.

On the way home I saw my favorite paesana, an old woman I am irrationally fond of considering I know nothing about her, save what my eyes and hearsay tell me. The grooves in her skin tell me she’s at least 85, probably closer to 90, years old. An abundance of silky white hair and her habit of walking the length of town—sporting heavy boots to cross icy roads in winter; in warmer weather, short woolen socks and bright pink sneakers—suggest robustness, independence, good genes. Her clear eyes convey acuity, her near-toothless smile that she is a peasant woman through-and-through, with no time or tolerance for vanity. I’ve been told it is she who makes the hundreds of hand-stuffed tortelli when Grezzano hosts the sagra del tortello, and her banter with those she meets in passing tells me she has always called Grezzano home. In her I see something of the manner in which I hope to grow into an old woman. Lucid, strong, at peace with her humble slice of the world. Come to think of it, that’s as probable a destiny as any I can imagine for myself. And as welcome.

a postcard of Saint Stephen’s Church in Grezzano, courtesy of Antiche Cartoline del Mugello (Facebook)

Posted on by Amy

The Provence Problem

August 2012 – Our final hours in Provence, and we’re spending them at the supermarchet. Having made peace with our French supermarket obsession, we park and head to the entrance like giddy children let loose in a grown-up candy store.

No turnoff sign for Templar chapels or Roman ruins will ever entice us so much as a billboard for our favorite chain supermarket, we now realize—the liberating effects of this epiphany discernable in our carefree yet purposeful gait. Just through the turnstiles, we part ways without so much as a glance at one another: he makes straight for the fromage de chèvre; I follow my nose to what is possibly my favorite spot in all of France: the aisles of pâtès, sauces, and espices.

I run my fingers over textured packaging, study labels and inspect seals, getting my bearings before the daunting selection. Really, how does one choose among six brands of black olive tapenade? Most expensive? Fanciest label? Simplicity of ingredients, surely? The wannabe gastronome in me is frustrated, and not for the first time do I sincerely regret my poor French language skills in the face of such crucial decisions. Very close to sweeping entire shelf-fuls of glass jars into my basket, I remember my list. Hastily written on the short drive from our chambre d’hote, it serves not so much to remind me of the items I seek—I could recite them in my sleep, frankly—but to keep me in check.  Without the list, I’d be hugging cheese wheels and fighting wine bottles for leg space the entire six-hour drive home to northeast Tuscany.

An hour later we regroup at our tacit rendezvous, the wall of heady pink temptation that is the vin rosé section. Before choosing wine, however, we must evaluate the contents of our respective baskets, considering our pocket books—we are at the end of an eight-day sojourn in the south of France, after all—as well as sheer volume. A glance at his basket tells me he’s exaggerated the chevrè and skimped on Roquefort. Looking closer, I see he’s not forgotten, bless him, my beloved cancoillotte de Franche-Comté à l’ail, a spreadable cow’s milk cheese made with garlic, silky when warmed and wonderful as a dip for crudités—but only two containers? He reminds me of our ice chest’s limited capacity. I curse our decision to not bring a back-up. “Didn’t we see ice chests on display near the entrance?” I ask. “Let’s just buy another.” Reason is slipping away from me, and only the coaxing reminder Provence will always be here restores my self-control. I forfeit a kilo of crème fraîche for three additional tubs of the tangy, viscous, manna-from-cheese-heaven stuff. We can now turn our attention to the wine. Another full hour passes before we get to the checkout line.

Rationing our culinary cache begins as soon as we reach the car, my mental red pen scratching loved-ones’ names off my souvenir list with startling ease. Hasty repacking and a firm shove is needed to force the ice chest closed, while crammed into every spare inch of car space is a tin, sachet, or bottle of some kind. The lot in its entirety—from lavender honey and herbes de Provence to Côte du Rhône wines, Alpine Crème de Violettes and Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, too many pâtès to count—represents a hefty portion of our vacation budget. If we get pulled over, my husband jokes as we head towards the highway, we’ve got plenty of booty for bribing a French policeman. I chuckle with him, but it’s a duplicitous gesture. I’d go to jail before relinquishing a single item.

The problem with Provence is its proximity. It’s always there, just a half-day’s drive from home. Occasionally my thoughts wander in that direction. Noticing my store of French foodstuffs running down, I take to sulking about my kitchen, begrudging my own backyard herbs their Tuscan extraction. We can just go, I think. Just get in the car and go. Irrational calculations follow—one day of driving, 50 euro in fuel, another 50 in highway tolls, maybe a night in a cheap hotel—and we could be back at the supermarchet come Saturday afternoon! One weekend. A few hundred euros. Doable. Not all extravagant. Not crazy.

Then reality returns with its host of accompaniments. Deadlines and day jobs. Doctor’s appointments. Dishes to wash. The demands of our ever-portlier feline charges. So no Saturday jaunt to the French market, not this weekend at least. I open a jar of moutarde de Dijon and peer inside. As I mull over the possibilities, wondering how best to utilize what little remains, recipes begin to flicker in my head like strobe lighting. I grab a spoon and carefully scrape the jar’s insides. Perhaps at the bottom I’ll find my muse.

pictured: one of many problematic Provençal picnics

Posted on by Amy

‘The Peaceful Invasion’: Us, Them, and Those In Between

Luigi Barzini’s The Italians opens with a chapter on Italy’s foreign visitors, from the pragmatics who land knowing precisely what to do and see, to the types rather easily, or willingly, derailed by the seductive charms of il bel paese.

Many types exist in between: students, artists, runaways, American nouveau riche in search of a guilt-free decadent lifestyle, in their minds unobjectionable only in Europe. Of the “vast majority of tourists, the millions driven by some unknown urge,” Barzini is frighteningly astute in his appraisals, perhaps mildly offensive at times, though never truly unkind; the “experienced” foreigners, on the other hand, those “who know why they come to Italy and what Italy is,” receive gentler treatment, but also less page space and insight. It is the crude novice, not the veteran Italophile, who provides the behavioral stuff worthy of examination.

A charming and self-assured introduction to a complicated subject, chapter one of The Italians is full of colorful, spot-on descriptions that still hold true today—it was published in 1964—never truer, in fact, than from May to September, months when disarmingly light-eyed souls sporting practical shoes and the unmistakable air of essere in vacanza arrive in even the remote Mugello countryside (my former home). It’s a localized invasion of sorts, in a region many Northern Europeans prefer to the Chianti, our sun being just as Tuscan, our goods and services less dear. For these few months, foreign-plated campers driven by Dutch, German and English traverse our green hills and dot our horizons; blond heads and faces tinged pink with wine and sun frequent our grocery stores and fill up our train cars; and brow-furrowing dialogue floats out of SUV windows at our gas stations. On any given summer day, tow-headed children can be seen splashing in agriturismo pools, blissfully ignored by their uber-relaxed, poolside parents.

Despite the heightened havoc they bring—they travel a lot, the barbarians!—I quite enjoy this breed of invader. Maybe because they are so at ease here, so unlike the dazed, desperately-seeking-David tourists who daily block my path to work in town. Maybe because often I eavesdrop on these linguistically-close folks and can relate: their comments on the great food, the ubiquitous rude waitresses, the horrific road quality, and so on, make me grin and shake my head in empathy.  In these moments I am, albeit very fleetingly, slightly less of a stranger in a strange land. It’s them, not us, right? our eyes say when they happen to meet. They do things oddly here, don’t they? I like watching them have their hedonic, casual way with Italy. And I am always somewhat envious watching them leave for their respective homelands, back to their cheaper and faster everything.

Often I feel more bonded with these short-term invaders than with the people among whom I’ve been living all these years. Our shared status as outsiders, together with our common cultural background, is a powerful pull, believe me, that even now as I write this influences my sympathies and judgments.

Take this couple seated near me on the train, probably retired, and certainly Northern given their once-blond hair turned a silken white no Italian has ever seen on dear old nonno.  They have already caught the attention of my fellow Italian commuters with their appearance and behavior. Now they are pulling sandwiches out of their travel pack, and I, in turn, am poised to defend them (well, in my mind at least) from the doubtful Italians looking on. Sandwiches? At this hour? These foreigners! they are thinking, I’d bet my life on it. Then they, the Italians, quickly dismiss that which is not worth comprehending, and return to their crosswords and cell phones. Italians have been living with invaders since the dawn of their history, after all. They know a foreign threat from mere folly.

I, who have lived with Italians for several years, see the couple differently. To me, their sandwich-eating is quaintly practical, while Italians consider it out of place.  Their mode of dress is too shabby for the Italian public, yet I appreciate the way their choice of clothes privileges comfort while maintaining hints of personal taste, those “garishly-coloured clothes” and “barbaric sandals” Barzini notes. (Italians don’t mean to be snobby; it’s in their makeup to view everything first and foremost in aesthetic terms. Something to do with being brought up among all that art). The woman wears her non-descript persona with ease, and I know the Italian women nearby suffer to see, and are confounded by, the way she has made peace with her pale, varicosed legs, the way the Italian sun has brought out an unappealing patchiness to her makeup-free complexion. Yet she smiles. She is intoxicated by Italy and (hopefully) unaware of the collective sizing up she will be subject to throughout this day. If she possesses even half of the cool confidence she exudes to my eye, however, she’ll hardly take notice.

You see, one of the thornier aspects of trying to make your home in another country is that you cannot shed the social and cultural layers that make you who you are, that formed and are still forming your beliefs. You can try to adapt to the country’s norms, marry one of its own, observe its holidays and ride its trains daily, but you will never fully take on its world view.  In great and small matters alike, the moments in which I realize this most clearly are those like the one described above, when trying to see others through Italian eyes.

Back to Barzini. Although “The Peaceful Invasion” seems a strictly one-sided assessment, much of its genius derives from what Barzini reveals about Italians, too, via his examinations of others.  Understand how we (Italians) view them (foreigners), and you (reader) learn about both groups, surely the rationale for opening a book that is in essence a treatise on the Italian character with a chapter dedicated to foreigners. But could Barzini, writing almost fifty years ago, have known that one day people like me would be reading his descriptions of people like them–and would feel such a division of loyalties? That his observations would enlighten, yes, but also affirm the inevitability of us and them to an altogether unpeaceful effect? Especially for those of us inhabiting the murky in-between.