La Casella. The Box.

Today is the day. After three weeks in my condo (of which I have been in town for only six days total) I have time to open the box. I wanted to wait until I could really enjoy it. This box was the one that was most important. If the moving truck had randomly caught fire on the way to Wisconsin, this is the box I would have told them to save. It is only a few inches deep and the length of my arm, but what it holds are the tokens of my happiest days.

I pull the tape.

Dov’é il ponte? Che ore sono? My Italian phrase book is first, with all my notations. A sheet of notebook paper that was clearly touched, scribbled on, folded and refolded falls out. All of my train station notes from the entire trip.

Spezia to Riomag leave SMN 6:08 a.m.

arrive 10:08 a.m.

9:13 to CAMUCIA

14:34 from CAMUCIA to MPUL arrive 15:24 (3:30)

MPULCIA to FLSMN 18:03 arrive 20:39

Vicchio 13:24 arrive 14:20. Call Danny’s cell.

Next is my Lonely Planet Florence guide. It looks nearly new, barring my comments inside. I did the No.1 thing to do—the Uffizi gallery. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. My God is she glorious. Textbooks don’t do her justice…. But I missed No. 2. Climbing Brunelleschi’s dome. Il Duomo. No worries. In April I will climb the 463 steps.

I pull out a silver box of my mother’s that she was going to throw out until I told her I remember playing with it as a young girl. Instead of holding my mother’s jewelry, it now contains my remaining Euros I never converted back to dollars. I want to be prepared in case I decide to spontaneously fly back one day. Like I nearly did this year for the Fourth of July. I had the ticket selected. All I had to do was click and I would have been on my way….

And then there they are. My three black Moleskine notebooks. Probably the most precious items I possess. Every thought and every moment I jotted down on the same type of notebook Hemingway used.

“June 28^th, 2010 4:30 a.m. EST—I never knew something this big could take off the ground. My seatmate is a lovely young woman—petite and ever so European. She’s headed for Paris to complete her art history research project….”

“I am in love with this place. It is true: you can love to things equivalently and wholly. Cinque Terre reflects the other half of me. The part that likes things simple. Gas stove, no television. Relying on people for entertainment. I am drawn to the city of Florence because of its vibrancy, but I am equally drawn to Cinque because of its solitude. In neither place do I feel lonely, but nor do I feel truly complete. I yearn for Florence while in Cinque. I desire Cinque when in Florence. It is perfect.”

“Ivo is an interesting man. I’ve found my thesis.”

Trinkets from the Galleria dell’Accademia. David, David, David. The one man I will love forever and wholly because he will never disappoint me. My “Dress Me Up” David magnets (they were too cute/funny to pass up), bookmark featuring only David’s backside (It is just as beautiful as the front but gets significantly less attention. Unfortunate.).  

Sea glass from the beach in Cinque Terre. The printed bag from my pearl earrings I bought on the Ponte Vecchio. A glass tray from the famous Venetian island of Murano.

Every item has a memory attached to it, has the power to transport me back. Only eight more months. My 24^th birthday will be spent in la terra della mia vita. And that is the only thing I could wish for. 

É Quello che é: It is what it is.

So how do the local Florentines feel about the cast of Jersey Shore arriving in their city?


In a recent conversation:


Danny: I met Alessandro last week at the Red Garter
Me: Aww! Did you have fun?
Danny: Yes, I went with a couple of friends
Me: Meet some new Americans?
Danny: Yes lots of them. [The place], it's full. Especially now that the jerseyf***ingshore is in town.
Me: My apologies. They are horrible.
Danny: Yes. Yes they are.


With that out of the way...


This is the first time, in a long time, that I have felt connected to Italy. Walking down State Street in Madison, Wisconsin, there are little cafés with umbrellas. Just like those of the trattoria I would enjoy my Monday night dinners in. The street is so alive. Bars, restaurants, and theaters are separated by apartment entrances. The front doors aren't as dramatically beautiful as the palazzo doorways, but they are similar enough that ghost images of the Via degli Serragli enter my mind.

The warmth, the humidity. I wouldn't be surprised if the Arno river is behind a building, lazily meandering past the city, lending its unwelcome moisture to the night air. 

I haven't enjoyed people-watching since leaving Florence, and finally I have found a city full of interesting people. Florence's gypsies are Madison's hobos; friendly, disheveled, harmless, but too clever to trust. The thin, model-like residents of Italy have been replaced with active, toned men and women. Though sense of style is lacking, Madison's citizens make up for it with their "Mid-Western Friendly" personalities. Walking from Paul's Club (my new haunt that features an indoor oak tree), there are couples holding hands, laughing and speaking in such hushed tones that I can almost pretend I'm back on Florence's streets. Friends chat together at outside tables, nursing drinks and sharing stories. Everyone has their group, but people still smile at one another, aware that they are all connected to each other through the perfectly clear night.

There is a gelateria in this town. They serve pistacchio gelato, almost as perfect as Gelateria Carraia. My office restaurant (the word cafeteria doesn't do the place justice) serves Nutella, cioccolato, espresso, frutta di bosco... (the list goes on) gelato Monday, Wednesday and Friday for $1. Just like the 1 Euro servings. A heavenly treat that takes me back to last summer.

Italy calls me. Every day. But for now I will enjoy the little tastes. The reminders of the glorious place my soul calls home. Because it is what it is--é quello che é. There is no way for me to get there any faster than I am managing right now. I will have a casa there soon enough. For now, I will enjoy my gelato, remember the bella vita of my dream land, and take advantage of all the amazing opportunities coming my way. Because a lush and full life is what la dolce vita is all about.

4. p.m. Florence Time. June 28th, 2010

With my drive to Madison and my new adult life only a week away, I wanted to take the time to relive the approach to Florence onboard the itty-bitty cigarbox of a plane. As I will be driving to Madison I won't have the opportunity to chronicle the trip in the same way--writing and driving would probably end poorly. 
Read and remember. This made me even more excited for my return home. 

___________________________

From the air, the forests of Germany press in on the sides of Frankfurt's airport--unlike any metropolitan airport I've ever seen. Perfectly square fields in varying colors of green are laid out neatly in the cleared areas. Neighborhoods are equally regimented for maximum space efficiency. A river runs south--the same direction this cigar plane is headed. The strip of water is wide and even, the banks a uniform width. It seems that Nature has opted for precision and evenness in the German landscape, something I've never seen before. 
***
Just flew over the Alps. Gorgeous unlike anything I've ever seen. The lakes at their base are vast. My years of map research makes it easy to distinguish Bellagio, the town of Como clinging to the edge of the water under the shadow of the mountains.

Then the landscape flattens out. Spotted with what looks like farm plots and arrow-straight glints of railroad tracks. The Po River comes into view, slicing a blue streak across the otherwise evergreen and rich brown land below. Ripples of earth begin hinting of hills and valleys, a prelude to the famous Tuscany. 


And there is Parma, grown around the river's edge. Nearby forests cover the tops of Romagna's Alpan Alps. 

And finally, finally, Tuscany. The plane descends.

There is the Arno, the dividing feature of Florence, moving lazily under the Ponte Vecchio. The Duomo is visible for a moment--its immense terracotta colored dome my personal beacon. Come see. Come taste. Come live. I'm here. Sono qui.

Straying North of the Italian Border

In this post I venture away from my Italian home to revisit my German roots. The following entry is a long awaited update to my 'Over the Border' post back on July 19th, 2010.  I wrote a proper entry and submitted the article (if you want to call it that) the the 20th Armored Division's Dispatch magazine. The Dispatch is sent to all the surviving members of the 20th, as well as their relatives. My piece was published in April's edition. 


Hope you enjoy--and I promise to return to my sun-filled, dreams-are-reality Italian posts as soon as I am inspired again. Shouldn't take long. 


Dachau Through the Eyes of a Liberator’s Granddaughter

By Kaitlin Walter

The early morning air is cool and damp. Dew coats the crushed gravel path. My group of forty college students is silent except for the crunching of our feet. The quiet, meditative peace here contrasts with the vibrant city less than two minutes away. Forty thousand Germans call the modern city of Dachau home. It looks much like the other suburbs of Munich with its well-tended gardens, clean streets, and postcard perfect houses covered in climbing roses. Walking through the hushed forest, it is hard to believe I am walking toward one of the most evil remnants of Nazi-controlled Germany.

André, our guide, leads us to a courtyard where he explains the rise of Hitler, the start of WWII, and Dachau’s role in achieving the Nazi’s goals. André’s words float over me. I know the broad history of WWII. I know the detailed history of Dachau. That war and this place are woven into my family. My grandfather, Adolph William Walter III, was here at Dachau’s downfall. I am the first of my family to see the camp since its liberation.

Soon, we are headed toward the site, and I begin to feel the prick of tears in my eyes. Granddad walked this way. My mind tries to imagine the sounds, the smells, and the sights he and the 20^th Armored Division experienced. What my imagination conjures is horrible enough, but I know the reality was worse. Granddad and his friends were in their twenties when they liberated Dachau; I am here in my early twenties to see their accomplishments.

The gate comes into view, the words “ARBEIT MACHT FREI” glaring down at us. An e-mail from Granddad before my arrival told me what to look for:

“We liberated Dachau on April 29, 1945. Look for the large bronze plate by the main gate. It names our divisions TGE liberator of the main camp. My 412th armored field artillery battalion took down the gates!!! 2nd Lt. Green 's tank did the honors.”

When I look to my right, I see the plaque, dedicated to the 20^th Armored Division. Reading the inscription, an overwhelming feeling of pride and love for my grandfather and his fellow soldiers hits me. I walk toward the plaque and touch the raised text with fingers damp from my tears. My closest friends know about Dachau’s significance for me, and let me absorb the moment.

I enter the camp through the gate, overlooking a massive courtyard. There are two reconstructed barracks buildings, with a long stretch of land beyond. Everything is a shade of white, black, or grey, with the exception of the bright green trees lining the path. They look out of place.

We head into the barracks and see the sleeping quarters, the bathrooms, the sink areas. Exhibit signs share quotes from prisoners about the living conditions and display pictures of prisoners’ everyday lives. Looking out one of the few windows, I see the concrete slabs of the former barracks. Rows and rows of them, reaching so far into the distance I can barely see the end.

A long walk takes us past the slabs, each marked with a number. A small bouquet of flowers rests next to No. 9. At the rear of the camp, multiple religious memorials have been constructed: the Mortal Agony of Christ Chapel, Protestant Church of Reconciliation, a Jewish Memorial, and the Russian-Orthodox Chapel. Each is hauntingly beautiful, an oasis of redemption and reflection away from the images of hatred and death.

André leads us to the crematorium and the gas chamber that was never used thanks to the liberators’ arrival. There is little lighting, making our shadows faint and indistinct in this building of death.

Afterward, I walk along a wooded path that shelters marble memorials. One says ‘Never Forget,’ another is the ‘Grave of Thousands Unknown’. A little further I pass by the execution wall, covered with little indentations from bullets. It is strange to engage with modern memorials of love and forgiveness, only to face another remnant of Dachau’s horrific past.

We end the day at the maintenance building that once housed the shunt room, prisoner baths, and other general functions. The entire history and typical operations and experiences endured here are outlined through black and white photographs, testimonies, and a twenty-minute film.

As my group heads back toward the gates to leave, I have my friend Eliza take a picture of me by the 20th’s plaque. Never before have I felt so aware of the blood running through my veins; I share my lineage with a man who not only is brave beyond measure, but who is also full of love, compassion, patience, and advice. I am deeply honored and thankful to be tied to such an incredible group of men, and promise I will never forget.

Epilogue

After the morning visit to Dachau, my group returned to Munich to enjoy other Bavarian experiences. We visited all of Munich’s beer gardens over the course of three days (where I ate more sauerkraut and sausage than I have in my entire life). During a biking tour of the city, we visited Nymphenburg Palace and the Englischer Garten where I had the chance to swim in the Eisbach (the fast moving ‘Ice Stream’ that brings water down from the mountains). Before leaving for Munich, Granddad told me in an e-mail: “At Munich take your photo in front of the Haufbrau house, a little to the right of the entrance and you will have a third generation comparison photo.” I took his directions one step further: my friends and I purchased authentic Bavarian dirndls and lederhosen and wore them to the Hofbrauhaus for dinner. I took my picture looking every bit of my German heritage. And now, I officially have a costume for Halloween for the rest of my life. Everywhere I went, I carried my grandfather’s memories with me and wondered, Did the 20th drive this way? Did they see these same buildings? Was Granddad ever here? Those thoughts made every moment in Germany dear to my heart. 

La Cucina: The Italian Kitchen

I have two distinct memories of Italian kitchens--well, technically three. My first experience with Italian kitchens was with Ivo in Cinque Terre. He didn't have one, as his home was under renovation/construction. Therefore my second experience is really my first, when I took the train to Vicchio and visited Danny's parents' house. 

This is what a kitchen should be, I thought to myself as Danny put a pot of water on the stove. Under the Tuscan Sun had placed unrealistic, idyllic expectations in my head—of hanging herbs, generations-old pots, wooden cutting boards and bowls of vegetables ready to be turned into a elegantly simple meal. 


Danny’s kitchen—well, his mama’s kitchen—was missing some of the tangible elements, but the result was still authentic and lovely. No abundance of stainless steel, designer cabinets, or high-tech machinery. Dishes stacked neatly in the cupboards, a few glasses in the sink. The refrigerator has the week’s grocery list posted in the midst of a sizable collection of magnets from tourist destinations. A petite television tuned to “Rai Uno” provides background noise to boiling water and Toby the dog’s whining from the patio. 


Danny’s sickeningly gorgeous sister bounces in, spews Italian sentences in a singsong voice, acknowledges me with a smile and a squeeze of the shoulder, then departs as suddenly as she appeared.

Watching Danny cook is a pleasure. He sets no timers, measures nothing, and traverses the kitchen like he has been cooking all his life. He most likely has studied the art since infancy, learning through osmosis as he watched his mother or grandmother, unaware of the skills he was acquiring. 


He translates the television program for me—something about the Love Parade in Germany. I offer to help, but I am told to stay put. An American offering to help an Italian in the kitchen? Perhaps a ridiculous notion. Pasta and pesto is served in abundance, and slices of fresh tomato with a dash of salt acts as the salad. This meal is where I learn to appreciate acqua frizzante, the club soda-esque water Europeans are so fond of. I tell Danny that we don’t serve frizzante in the States, which sparks a conversation about common foods and dining customs (with many exclamations of "Madonna..." for commentary). Time passes easily as Danny and I talk and laugh and eat, continuing our intercultural education under the soft breeze of an electric fan. 


***


Fast forward four weeks to another kitchen in the Florentine suburb of Scandicci. Alessandro (an only child with a gourmet organic chef for a father) invites me and a few friends out to his home to make authentic tiramisu. From scratch. And we are to participate. Alessandro drives us to the super market first to pick up ingredients and some items for lunch (can't cook hungry). 

Restocking. 

Alessandro's kitchen is similar to Danny's. Clean, efficient. A cabinet full of spices. Sparkling white tile countertops. An Italian stovetop coffee maker. It is the kitchen of an Italian chef and I come to the realization that it is not the style of the kitchen but the efficiency and the skill of the cook that makes the food. Seems obvious, but I think Americans forget that a Sub Zero refrigerator or a gourmet kitchen-grade gas stove is not going to make their food taste any better. 


Alessandro's mother and father greet us. Neither speaks fluent English, but they appear thrilled to have quattro americane (four american females) in their home. Lunch is served on the patio. Pasta, pasta pasta. Fresh melone e prosciutto. Alessandro's father's homemade organic tomato sauce. Ample portions and ample laughter. 

In Alessandro's kitchen.

We help clear the table and begin setting up the tiramisu ingredients in the kitchen. Alessandro patiently explains the process, telling us what makes a perfect tiramisu. Lady fingers are a must, as is a very robust coffee or espresso to soak the cookies in. Real mascarpone blended with egg yolks into a whipped fluffy mixture is the key, so do not settle for any cheap alternatives or pre-made mix. 


We set up six containers, perfect for individual servings (enough for Alessandro's parents to have one). We dip the lady fingers in the coffee, layer Alessandro's perfectly whipped egg yolks and mascarpone in between, and leave our creations to set overnight in the fridge. 


The next day, Alessandro brings our creations to the Gould. He almost didn't bring them--it is the best batch he has ever tasted and was tempted to tell us they turned out poorly. 


We all take a bite at the same time. The flavors and textures are indescribable. I am convinced my first tiramisu experience will never be beat. At least, not until I find myself in an Italian kitchen once again. 

B.O.B. needs to visit Fiesole so he can stop wishing on airplanes

Twilight quickly faded to a clear, dark night as Danny smoked his cigarette and I sipped on a deliciously strong whiskey sour from a martini glass (I must have looked like a martini glass kind of person, even though a short tumbler would have been fine with me). Fiesole has already managed to charm me, providing plenty of people watching, drinks, and conversazione. Lovey-dovey couples and groups of well-dressed gentlemen sit at tables outside on the patio, enjoying the cool night breeze afforded by being this high above the valley. 

Fiesole. I had missed the chance to see the town on my first day in Florence, as I was too enchanted by the bustle and beauty of the city to want to leave it so soon. I saw Fiesole from the banks of the Arno almost every day, a blurry haze on the upper rim of the valley—the ‘Beverly Hills of Florence’. Go figure an ancient Etruscan village would become a retreat for the wealthy, where their country villas and estates would be situated with unbelievable views of Firenze and the surrounding hills.

We finish our drinks, say goodbye to a friend of Danny’s, and meander along the street. The area is spacious and open; a stark contrast to the narrow, crowded streets of Florence. Danny and I are able to walk side by side without a Florentine or group of tourists getting in the way. Store windows are brightly lit, enticing shoppers to return in the morning to buy gorgeous dresses, pottery, and furniture. Expensive of course, much like Venice and Capri (I'll have to come back when I have a job.). We head directly for a steep incline, and I am thankful that I have been walking everywhere for over a month.

“You didn’t tell me we were going hiking tonight,” I joke.

“You didn’t ask,” Danny says. “It is worth it. Trust me.”

The ground levels out, and I take a few deep breaths—not nearly as strenuous as I had feared. To my left is a narrow, rectangular park. Through the trees I can barely see the benches with couples engaging in the typical Italian displays of public affection. Rather than interrupting, Danny and I follow the stone wall upward a little further. Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spill into the night from a restaurant (with a menu that doesn’t follow my budgeting guidelines).

Danny reaches for my hand, bringing my attention to my left again.

“Oh,” I say. That is the best I can do.

All of Florence is below me, lit in shades of gold. The Arno glitters enticingly, flowing lazily under the bridges. The city, larger and louder than life when I am walking through it, looks tiny and still. Tranquil, even. The Duomo, ever the icon of Florence, is the size of my thumb.

“This is unbelievable,” I say, smiling. He knows it, of course. He’s been here before (a few times with girls, he admits), and knew I would like it. I send a little message of thanks up to God/the gods/karma for my good fortune tonight.

I sit down on the stone wall next to Danny. He lights another cigarette. He lets me look for a while in companionable silence. Then he rests his hand on my shoulder and points to the sky.

Shooting stars. Stelle cadenti.

****

Albicocca--The Fruit of Florence

The produce aisle. Just between you and me, I adore the produce aisle. Orange carrots, deep purple eggplants, pale green celery—this place is as much a feast for my eyes as its offerings will be for my stomach. I touch everything, enjoying the textures and weight in my hands. Walking through the fruits, I stop at a bin labeled ‘APRICOTS’. I run my fingers over them. ‘Almost as soft as I remember,’ I think to myself.  

-------

The Hotel Kraft’s rooftop oasis, complete with trees, pool, and a patio with views of the Duomo, is the setting for today’s pranzo (lunch). The early afternoon sunlight filters through the rooftop garden’s trees. Sitting at one of the wrought iron tables, Danny is almost across from me, a little to the right. Both of us are wrapped in the fluffy white towels provided by the hotel, I am interested to see what Danny has brought in the paper sack. He pulls out a handful of palm-sized fruits, yellow-gold like everything else in this city.

‘It is an albicocca,’ he says to me as he passes me the fruit. ‘Do you like them?’

‘I’ve never had one,’ I tell him. I turn the slightly fuzzy fruit in my hand, recognizing the color and shape from my many grocery trips in the U.S. ‘In English it is called an apricot.’

I don’t know why I have never eaten an apricot. In America I tend to reach for apples or berries as a snack. I wash my face with an apricot scrub, but have never considered eating one. Danny’s surprise at my confession makes me eager to eliminate this void in my diet.

Utterly delightful is all I can think as I bite into the fruit. I eat it slowly, enjoying the subtle sweetness. My face must have shown my approval—Danny smiles at me as he reaches for his second.

‘Albicocca, you said?’

‘Si.’

I add the word to my ever growing ‘Favorite Italian Words Ever’ list. Grapes may be the stereotypical fruit of Italy, but as I begin eating my second albicocca, I think apricots are most like Florence. It has all the features. It is the same color as Tuscan sunlight. Smooth and soft like the divine leather goods of San Lorenzo. Satisfying in taste, but not so overpowering in flavor that you tire of it. Not too big, not too small; a maneuverable size. And after just one experience, you are left with a seed that grows into a desire to have another go. It satiates all of your senses, exceeds all of your expectations, and leaves you pining for more.

-------

Back from my reverie, I select one out of the basket and place my Florentine fruit in the cart. More than one, and I may not be able to stop myself from heading to the airport.