“Like a cross between The DaVinci Code and Life of Brian . . .” — The New York Times

Strange as it seems to my friends in the local Italian club, I am a Protestant. My parents met when my father crashed a Presbyterian church dance. He, a pure-blooded Italian of 14, met my mother, a half-English, half-German girl of 12, and they never looked back. His parents were less than thrilled at first, but they loved my mother and so that was that. I was raised first in the Presbyterian tradition and then later, as a teenager, in the Methodist tradition, safely away from the Catholic world of relics and reliquaries. No spleen of St. Whozit for me.

My early trips to Italy, where one inevitably visits many, many chiesi each day before noon, were a bit uncomfortable. I’d stand in some magnificent duomo, marveling at the marble and the frescoes and the paintings and the starry vaulted ceilings and then, wham — it would hit me — I’m staring at a glass case with a waxen saint lying in state. Or at an ornate box that is proudly displaying the liver or wristbone of some poor martyred true believer. I would flip through the guidebook or my dictionary to make sure that what I thought the object was was really what it was. Inevitably, it was. Body parts. And bodies. O mio Dio!

What is in here??? Do I want to know?

On a recent trip to New York City, I stopped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Madison Avenue. It was a quick walk-through, to be sure, since we had to make a theatre curtain, but as I walked around the periphery, I noticed a wrought-iron-enclosed glass case with the note: RELIC OF ST. THERESE on it. I never found out what they had in there, and I don’t care; I practically ran out.

So I was a little intrigued (and nervous, if I’m honest) about diving into David Farley’s book, An Irreverent Curiosity, in which he recounts a tale of living in a small, odd town outside of Rome for a year while undertaking a most unusual quest: to find the whereabouts of a most unusual relic — the foreskin of Jesus Christ — which had mysteriously disappeared from the local church in 1983. Or was it 1986? Did the Vatican steal it? Or is it all a hoax? There’s a lot to this mystery.

For those of you not familiar with David Farley, he is a journalist who teaches writing at New York University. He lives in the city with his wife, the writer Jessie Sholl, and their dog, Abraham Lincoln. His writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Condé Nast Traveler and Slate, among others. But this journey to Italy has made him something more than a mere journalist and travel writer in my book — it has launched him into the realm of picaresque hero. A modern-day Don Quixote, fighting the forces of secrecy, ennui, the Vatican, the local priests, history, myth, the wack-o residents of the town and a few other forces I’m sure I’m missing. And it’s a great ride.

I’m not going to tell you what happens, but I will give you enough to hopefully whet your appetite for this laugh-

Read this book!

out-loud tale of intrigue and lunacy.

First, there’s the very concept of the foreskin’s salvation (so to speak) and survival for over 2,000 years. Shall we even go there? Good, let’s not. Then, if we buy into the first concept,  there’s the historical spin on the story — which includes angels and Charlemagne and Constantine and countless popes and priests and Crusaders and on and on, winding up in a church in this strange little town outside of Rome.

Then there’s the story of why churches (nay, entire villages) wanted relics on site. It’s simple, really. Relics granted wishes, caused miracles, were givers of good fortune and restored health. Maybe most important, they caused believers to make pilgrimages to see them, thereby adding much-needed revenues to the village inns, hostelries and churches.

Trying to explain his unconventional quest to a guard/ticket salesman outside of the Sancta Sanctorum in the Vatican, David says, “It was the Sack of Rome in 1527 and a soldier stole the relic from here and also the jewel box in which it was contained . . . And then . . . the solider arrived in a village that’s called Calcata. It’s forty-five kilometers from Rome. And he was put into a jail. Thirty years later, they found the relic and put it in the church . . .”

And so you need to know about the village that this church is in. Today, Calcata is a haven for artists and architects and bohemians and other sorts of frichettoni — what the Italians call “freaks.” Tie dye abounds. A woman (“la strega”) lives in a cave with crows. Another walks through town with her black cat on a leash. But it wasn’t always so. The “old” Calcata was moved up the hill in 1969 to form Calcata Nuova (David tells the Byzantine story about how an earthquake in Sicily in 1935 caused this migration), and the residents followed. The frichettoni arrived that same year in lower Calcata (the “old” city) to drop out of mainstream life in Rome, no doubt (it was 1969, after all), and they are still there. And they both help and hinder David in his quest, and therein lies the crux of this surreal tale.

I highly recommend An Irreverent Curiosity. Pick it up if you have a hankering to know more about church history, miracles or the whole idea of reliquaries. Pick it up if you’re a history buff. Pick it up if you’ve ever had the notion to pack up and live in an Italian town for an extended period of time. Pick it up if you enjoy a good conspiracy tale—and a good laugh. Pick it up, by all means, if you’re just a little irreverent yourself.

Thanks, David, for your unique blend of well-researched history, wit and wisdom. Most of all, thanks for taking up the mantle (I couldn’t resist) of the search for, as you call it, “The Father of All Foreskins.”

Buon viaggio!

Where the heck is Bevagna? — Tim Jenkins, responding to my text that we had arrived

Millstone in the light, Bevagna

Four of us were being driven from Rome’s Fiumico airport towards what would be our home away from home for a week in Cannara, just outside of Assisi, in Umbria. We were tired, and it was only 9:30 in the morning, and we were trying to be civil to each other, despite the long flight over and the fact that none of us had gotten very much sleep. Our sweet driver, Aldo, had piled our luggage into the back of his SUV-taxi and was carefully negotiating us around all the twists and turns required to get us out of the airport and onto the highway.

After a while, I smiled when I saw the sign on the A1 for Abruzzo. It made me realize that I would be coming back again in a scant six months, taking that very turn off the road to head to yet another adventure. Never had I had back-to-back trips to Italy like this. Life was good.

But we passed it by in favor of the signs to Assisi. It would be a two-hour drive to the agriturismo, La Fattoria del Gelso, so we settled in to admire the scenery and get to know each other a little. Two of the gals were friends, having met on a prior trip. One flew in from southern California and the other, from Memphis. The third lived in New York City, and then there was me, a native New Yorker now living in Virginia. We were all about the same age (anything over 50 strikes me as being in the same demographic group these days) and seemed very compatible. The week would bear that out; we became fast friends.

Aldo pulled off the secondary road we’d been driving on for a while and made the turn towards Cannara. Winding around what had recently been fields of sunflowers, the famous Cannara onions and other agricultural products, we saw one of those amazing Italian sites: a cemetery, protected by poplar trees and fronted by a huge stone structure with a formidable gate. We would go later in the week, and be awe-struck by the elaborate crypts and mausoleums and the loving care shown by the survivors of these tight-knit families.

Aldo made a quick left turn just past the cemetery and drove us down a stand of cypress trees for about 1/4 mile to our villa. It was beautiful. A stone farmhouse originally built in the 1700s and recently refurbished to be an 8-bedroom, 8-bath sight for sore, tired eyes. The owners, Bill and Suzy Menard — Americans from Maryland (more on them in a later post) — were mighty lucky to have found this place, with its good farmland, welcome swimming pool and close proximity to the best Umbria has to offer. The problem was, it was too early to get into our rooms.

We were about to head off to the village of Cannara on foot, when Marco, a prince of a guy who helps run the place when Bill and Suzy aren’t there, suggested instead that Aldo take us into the nearby town of Bevagna. He said that Cannara would be pretty much closed down at this time of day and that it didn’t offer too many options for lunch — which we were in desperate need of. So we piled our suitcases in the living room and climbed back into the taxi for our adventure in Bevagna.

A very, very old fountain

The historic little town of Bevagna sits in the province of Perugia in the central part of Umbria. Both it and Cannara are on the flood plain of the Topino River (remember Topo Gigio, kids? Topino means little mouse). Bevagna, population approximately 3,000, was originally an Etruscan settlement and then a Roman outpost called Mevania, and the Roman walls and mosaics were evident all around town. We entered through the Porto Foligno, the town’s main entrance, which leads to the central square, Piazza Silvestri. There are three churches in Bevagna, including the 13^th century church of San Francesco (he’s pretty big around here) which includes a stone (on the wall, protected by a grate) that is said to be the one St. Francis stood upon when he preached to the birds.

Bevagna, it turns out, is in the middle of white truffle territory and is also an enthusiastic purveyor of the region’s tasty Montefalco Rosso wines. As it was getting on towards lunch time, we walked around town to find a suitable spot. We found one, not yet open, that looked incredible and, as we later learned, is one of the premier foodie destinations in the region. Redibis (which means “I shall return” in Latin) is part of the boutique hotel L’Orto Degli Angeli and many of the dishes offered at Redibis are taken from the 100-year-old recipes of the current owner’s great grandmother, Caterina. How often do you get to enjoy fine dining in a building that is 20 centuries old? How often do you get to experience classical Umbrian recipes interpreted by a young, hip, accomplished chef? How many times do you get to stay in an historic hotel in an historic town — and even attend cooking classes? Stop thinking and, if you’re anywhere near Bevagna on your next trip to Umbria, go. I know I will.

Me and Simone

With Redibis closed, we went off to find Aldo’s suggestion — La Delizie del Borgo, a small, friendly looking place right on Piazza Garibaldi. We arrived around 11:45 and were told we were “un troppo presto” – a little too early — but were advised to make a reservation and to come back in 45 minutes, which we did. We took time to walk around the town, going into churches and climbing up and down the very up-and-down streets, taking pictures. When we returned at 12:30, they were ready for us. The owner, Simone, escorted us to a table and before long, he learned that we were staying at Bill and Suzy’s place, which made all the difference. Suddenly we were no longer a bunch of silly americani who ate way too early — we were friends. He told us that he’d be coming to both New York and Washington, D.C. in a few weeks for some cooking adventures with the Menards; we exchanged cards and told him to give us a call when he arrived.

Turns out we ordered Simone’s favorite red wine, a Montefalco Rosso 2007, and he offered to bring out some of

Le Delizie del Borgo

the local specialties for us rather than have us order from the menu. We soon learned that Umbria is not only the “green heart” of Italy, but it is also Italy’s breadbasket. We ate the local Torta di Testa and all kinds of other white and whole grain breads slathered with chicken liver pate, olive tapenades, olive oil and garlic. There were plates of cheese and salami and even shaved white truffles. At one point, Simone brought to our table a small baking dish covered with a damp white napkin. When he pulled back the napkin, he revealed a bounty of fresh white truffles, worth I can’t imagine how much. He made us smell the cloth and the truffles, each one of us, because they are as precious as gold. Never has mustiness smelled so rich! For dessert, he offered us cantucci (mini biscotti cookies), which we dipped into small glasses of the local Sagrantino Passito di Montefalco, a sweet wine rather like Vin Santo. And before we left, Simone gave us a bag of rich nut and fruit cookies that we shared with the rest of the group on our last night.

It was quite a first day. What began as a jet-lagged slog to an unknown village ended, like so many Italian adventures do, with new friends, a new outlook and a full tummy. By now we were all excited to meet the rest of the group, so when Aldo returned promptly when he said he would, we climbed back into the van and drove back to Cannara, already armed with a fresh new story to tell.

Buon viaggio!

One of the essential skills for a traveler is the ability to make a rather extravagant fool of oneself. — John Flinn

What’s the first thing you do when you wake up in Italy on the first day of your vacation? The choices are clear: from where we are, we can go to any of the great Shakespearean cities — Padova, Verona, Mantova — or we can take a longer trip to romantic Venice or even drive up to the lakes. Yes, the choices are many, and the consensus comes quickly: Screw culture, art and architecture! We want to see the Ferraris! And so we sped off, that first day, eight of us in two cars, driving the hour or so west, towards Maranello.

The new red shoes

First stop? The Ferrari Store, of course. Not exactly where you buy the car itself, but just about everything else that could possibly carry that “prancing horse” logo. There were shirts and jackets and children’s clothes; journals and watches and beverage holders of all kinds; there were fancy shoes and skis and even model cars. As I was choosing from among a half dozen spiral bound notebooks, I looked up to see my husband in the shoe department. Now, Tim is not a souvenir buyer and he always looks for a bargain. So what the heck was he doing asking for help in the Ferrari Store shoe department? (Definitely not the place to find a bargain!) I quickly picked out a journal and went over to see what he was doing. And then I saw them: a gorgeous pair of Ferrari-red leather sneakers. On his feet. Made by Puma, these were real beauties. And I knew he had to have them. The one thing I’ve learned about Tim after all these years is that, aside from pottery and the occasional 200-year-old chair, the one thing he really has no resistance against is good-looking shoes. So the very first souvenir of our trip was bought by the person least likely to buy a souvenir. We were off to a good start.

After about an hour, we all decided we’d bought everything that we were going to

A bevy of Ferraris

buy, and went off in search of The Ferrari Gallery. Now, this place surprised even me. All that red. All those shiny sports cars — antique ones, late model ones, displayed both on the ground and running up walls. You could touch them, look into them, read all about them. I thought we’d spend half an hour there and move on. I was wrong. Even the most girlie-girl among us was enthralled. And there was much to be enthralled by: along with the dozens of classic red Ferraris were silver Maseratis and one special baby blue Alfa Romeo that was to die for. We looked a little, then had lunch in La Caffetteria and then went back and looked some more.

The beautiful Alfa Romeo

About 20 minutes south of Mantova (Mantua), Maranello has a lot to offer. The main destination is, of course, The Ferrari Gallery, which lays out the legend of the Prancing Horse Team. It’s open every day from 9:30 – 6:00 p.m. and tickets are required. In the Piazza Libertà near town hall you’ll find the monument to Enzo Ferrari which was put there in 1998 by his son, Pietro, on the occasion of the 100^th anniversary of his father’s birth. And speaking of monuments, there’s also a “Prancing Horse” statue near the Via Grizzaga roundabout, which has stood there since 2003 in celebration of Ferrari’s victory in the Formula 1 (F1) World Championship that year. Other attractions include the Galleria del Vento (Wind Tunnel) designed by Renzo Piano to simulate the real-life experience of the F1 cars (no visitors allowed); the well-used Enzo Ferrari Auditorium which, during race week, opens to all the fans who want to attend the free showing of the F1 race; the Villa Rangoni Machiavelli Park and the Madonna del Corso Cultural Centre. And while Maranello is most noted for being the “City of Ferrari,” it is also famous for its excellent Emilian cuisine. A worthy day trip, by anyone’s calculations.

Did we make fools of ourselves in Maranello? Probably. But we had a ball. Best of

Making a fool of myself, happily

all, while we thought we were doing something especially for the “guys,” it turns out we were all equally won over by the sleek, winning machines and the story of Enzo Ferrari and the legacy he created.

Buon viaggio!

Salem, Massachusetts: Tough on crime for 300 years. — Our friend, Rev. Steve Silver

Ellen's handiwork

It happens early every October in Salem. First, Ellen Talkowsky and her able crew tie dozens of dried corn stalks to all the light posts downtown. Orange ribbons, of course. Then the banners go up along Essex Street and the pedestrian mall. Then there’s a certain anticipation in the air, both good and bad. Here they come . . . the haunted houses that stay up for a month, the fried dough and sausage stands, the tarot readers and other assorted psychics, and the tourists. Tens of thousands of them every weekend, culminating in 100,000+ on Halloween night itself. Salem is still trying to get used to this.

Salem’s Haunted Happenings began as the brainchild of one Bob Cahill, a Salem resident and state representative in the mid-1970s. He (with the help of a few neighborhood kids) started by scaring the bejeesus out of people at a new attraction in town, the Witch Dungeon Museum. Around 1982, Cahill finally got to meet with the Salem Chamber of Commerce and “Haunted Happenings” was institutionalized. It has grown every year and is now one of the most important “events” in town.

As a ten-year resident of Salem, I can tell you that this success is met with mixed

Beautiful Bott's Court

emotions by the locals. Yes, it’s great for revenues and for showing off the city to tourists. But it also impacts the downtown neighborhoods negatively in terms of parking, noise and garbage. More importantly, the “witch” business has tended to overshadow the “real” history of this special community — the maritime history, the importance of Salem as a trader in luxury goods, the literary history of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the intellectual and artistic history of the Essex Institute and the Peabody Museum, the critical contributions of Nathaniel Bowditch, whose navigational books are still on every naval ship in the world, and the incredible housing stock that survives in countless neighborhoods around town. And did you know that Alexander Graham Bell made the first phone call here? Or that the Lyceum Restaurant (where the call was made) was the site of an original lyceum, attracting many of the world’s most well-known speakers? Well, the list goes on, right up to modern times — Salem is also the home town of one Jack Welch, former chairman/CEO of General Electric. Not bad.

Along Essex Street

So when the residents here are confronted with nothing but tourists dressed up in witch and ghoul costumes for the better part of a month, they have to grin and bear it. After all, if you dig deep enough into the Salem Witch Trials, you will see that they had very little to do with actual witchcraft. And that nobody was burned. Probably hundreds of books and videos are for sale around Salem dealing with the subject — Bob Cahill has written several of them. Try to find a reliable account — from the Peabody Essex Museum, for example— if you want to read about it.

The Great Kearney Pumpkin

This year, the Haunted Happenings Parade launched the season on October 7 and there’s no stopping it. Every day there’s something to do — witch history, pirate history, haunted houses, theatrical events, psychic fairs, and so on. Here are a few of my favorites:

• Salem Witch House — home of Judge Jonathan Corwin of the Witch Trials
• Salem Witch Museum — Salem’s most visited museum
• Peabody Essex Museum — with roots back to 1799
• Phillips House — the only house open to the public on historic Chestnut Street
• Witch Trials Memorial — in a very moving park setting
• The Witch Trial Trail — by Jim McAllister, Salem’s official historian
• The House of the Seven Gables — Hawthorne’s inspiration
• Salem Maritime National Historic Site — go on board the Friendship & the Fame
• Salem Ferry — Ride from Boston to Salem in style

Dolci at Adriatic Restaurant

There’s still time to go. Get a taste of New England fall and the madness that is Salem in October. It’s wonderful, really. And the restaurants and shops that have sprung up since we left five years ago are astonishing. It’s a special place year-round that goes a little crazy for a few weeks every year. It’s allowed. It’s lived through more than most places and has forgotten more history than most cities ever knew. There. I’ve said it. I love Salem. Go see it!

Buon viaggo!

If you have the choice of going to Alaska or reading about Alaska, read about it. — Annie Dillard

No offense to Alaska, but that was the reminder we got at last week’s James River Writers Writing Show event on research. All of which is to say that whether we’re writing about travel or reading about travel, we’ve got to do the homework. And that sometimes the reading is better than the travel itself. And now, thanks to America’s über-librarian, Nancy Pearl, we have the resources to read right at our fingertips.

You probably recognize Ms. Pearl’s name from NPR’s Morning Edition program, in which she recommends books and talks about the adventure of reading. She was the person responsible for the internationally-acclaimed program, If All of Seattle Read the Same Book. She’s written several helpful and well-researched books: Book Lust and More Book Lust, two volumes of thematic book lists to help answer the question, “What to read next?” There’s also Book Crush, which does the same thing for young adult readers and has a companion journal volume so that kids and teens can write about their favorite books and stay connected with the stories and characters long after the last page has been turned. All good stuff.

Until now, we travel writers and armchair travelers had to search to  find stories for our background research or escape reading vis-à-vis  the places we wanted to go. But no more. Sasquatch Books has just  published Ms. Pearl’s extremely useful and broadly scoped Book Lust  To Go: Recommended Reading for Travelers, Vagabonds, and  Dreamers.  In it, she provides titles and authors of what she considers  to be the best of both fiction and non-fiction literature concerning  place and the idea vs. the reality of travel. Specific countries (Holland,  Nigeria, Turkey), cities (Boston, Hong Kong, Leningrad) or types of  travel challenges (train travel, crossing oceans in tiny unmotorized  boats, walking in unpredictable places) are all covered in this 300-  page treasure trove. I believe it’s a must-have for anybody who’s  curious about travel or the art of travel writing.

Of course, I picked it up to see what she recommended for the Italian  traveler/travel writer, and I wasn’t disappointed. Moreover, I was  delighted to see that I had read many of the volumes she recommends and am also delighted to learn that I have many more to read. Some of my favorites of Ms. Pearl’s recommendations for La Bella Italia are:

Parma:            Playing with Pizza (John Grisham) & The Charterhouse of Parma (Stendhal)

Rome:              The Seasons of Rome: A Journal (Paul Hoffman)

Sicily:              The Leopard (Giuseppe di Lampedusa) & Sicilian Odyssey (Francine Prose)

Venice:            Venice Observed (Mary McCarthy)

Verona:            Anything by Tim Parks!

But Ms. Pearl takes us farther afield, as well, recommending books about Wales, Finland, Zambia, the Galapagos, Guernsey, Afghanistan and Wyoming, among other locations. She also touches on travel to imaginary places and traveler’s tales in verse. And in the section on Vietnam, I was gratified to see one of my favorite authors, Tim O’Brien, included with three of his titles, most especially The Things They Carried.

Pick up Book Lust To Go and do some armchair traveling yourself. Even better, use it to do some deep reading in advance of your next trip!

Buon viaggio!

All Southerners are required to have a layover in Atlanta on their way to     either Heaven or Hell. — Conventional wisdom at SIBA

We just got back from SIBA — the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance trade show, held in Daytona Beach, FL this year. It was a great show. Great  Little Books, LLC had a nice presence there and we met tons of terrific people. The bad joke is that two days later, people are still trickling back to their homes and home book stores . . . all having to go through Atlanta during a night or two of bad weather. It took us more than nine hours to fly from Daytona to Richmond (VA) and, although we had a good time, we could have been somewhere a lot more interesting than Florida and not taken as long to get home!

I’d been through Daytona Beach years ago on a family vacation. My parents had a soft spot for the town, since they lived there right after my dad got out of the Navy in 1945; he finished his tour in Daytona. Mom waxed poetic about being able to drive the car on the beach. And looking back, she always laughed at how often they had to eat lobster, since lobsters were still considered something of a junk fish at that time and they were not living high on the hog on Dad’s service salary. Too bad; pass the lemon and butter, please.

Me at the booth

Anyway, here I was, with Tim and three boxes of books, eager to set up our exhibit booth and get on to the business of attending some workshops on Friday and then talk to booksellers on Saturday and Sunday. Daytona Beach is a quiet town in September. Our cab driver said that the economy was being hit hard: real estate market, job market — everything. And with the exception of a few race weeks (when the population of the town doubles, to 400,000) and the annual Spring Break chaos, the city did not seem to be doing very well. And in September, the tourist level was way down and the only business usually came from a few conventions. This week, that would be SIBA.

We checked into our hotel, the Plaza Resort & Spa, on North Atlantic Avenue, unpacked and

Memories

immediately went out on the beach to discover where we were and where we could find lunch. The wind was howling, there was intermittent rain and it was hot. Felt like Bermuda. But this was not Bermuda. Bermuda would not have the amazing Sling Shot ride or a huge Ferris Wheel planted near one of its beaches. Nor would it have the bevy of amusement rides or a tacky-but-popular thatched tiki bar that was actually called The Tiki Bar. We found a place called the Ocean Deck and went in. Good views of the water (some people swimming in the ocean, despite the pretty fair-sized jellyfish) and a typical beach menu. We had lunch and talked to a friendly and knowledgeable time-share person named Nicole who happened to be sitting at the next table. It’s amazing what you can learn when you open up to people. My fish and chips were good and Tim’s grilled ahi tuna over greens was very good. We hope Nicole passed her SCUBA test!

A classic!

On the way back to the hotel, we strolled along North Ocean Avenue and ran into a most amazing place: Stamie’s Smart Beach Wear. What was the attraction? How about a 19-foot-long Jantzen diving girl sign over the door? Created out of fiberglass, this diving girl is one of six made in 1959 and it has been the trademark of Stamie’s since 1965. Jantzen — the iconic brand worn by every major star of the silver screen, including Esther Williams, Elizabeth Taylor, Ginger Rogers and Marilyn Monroe — turned 100 this year and long ago lived up to its slogan, “The suit that changed bathing to swimming.” It was a real pleasure to talk to the daughter of the original owners of Stamie’s, a Jantzen Swimwear destination in Daytona for more than 50 years. While we were there, her mother called to check on sales — she’s 96 years old. That’s what I call dedication. Stamie’s is a real treasure, and if you get to Daytona, do not miss it!

Aside from the Ocean Deck, the other restaurants that we tried were all along Seabreeze Blvd., adjacent to the hotel. This is a block filled with clubs and it must look like one of the hotter circles of hell during busy season. We were lucky: they were opening just as we were going back to the hotel.

One night we ate in Sapporo, with its stupefying Floating Sushi bar. You sit at the bar and there’s a stainless steel moat in front of you with small wooden boats tied together with wire. A selection of sushi, vegetables, fruit or dessert is placed atop each one and the flotilla makes a continuous loop around the moat. Each plate of food is color coded and you pay according to how many plates of which color you have stacked up at the end of the night. Wild.

The next two nights found us at the wonderful Lime Restaurant, Chef Matt Rosa’s Caribbean/

A little Lime light

American/Tapas delight. Tim had the best calamari (grilled, not fried) he’s ever eaten and the grilled salmon atop spinach salad was out of this world. And, let’s face it, you gotta love a restaurant that features a good selection of rums, Cockspur and Gosling’s Black Seal among them. To top off the evening, the Tres Leches cake was incredible, all those different milk products lending their flavors and moistness to the cake. Olé!

But the most amazing thing about Seabreeze Blvd. is a small art gallery located near Lime. Called Aberrant Art, this is the brainchild of one Barry Kite, a collage artist/poet/actor originally from Chicago, whose pieces hang in a variety of museums and private collections, including that of guitarist Ron Wood. I’m at a loss to describe his art, other than to say that it combines social and political parody via the “re-positioning” of historical art pieces and contemporary imagery. The Chicago Sun-Times calls it, “comical, irreverent, blasphemous marriages of fine art and, often, campy pop icons.”

Some of the images are PG and funny: think Seurat’s “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte.”  Then picture a parking lot filled with black and white Volkswagen Beetles, separate the characters in the Seurat painting and call it “Sunday Afternoon Looking for the Car.” Other images are either very racy or just much more disturbing, and need to be seen to be appreciated for the thought-provoking pieces they are. This is not for everyone, but if you bring your appreciation for art and your suspicions of pop culture and politics, you’ll probably be fine.

So what about the book show? You never know how these things go. I hope our books sell like crazy. We certainly brought them to the attention of lots of booksellers who seemed to be interested. It’s our mission: to bring great little books to the people who want them. We’ve got four now, and if you go to our website, you’ll find them. I learned more about the wonderful world of Tweeting and may have found, as a blogger, a bookstore here in Virginia to “get in bed with,” as the show’s campaign says. We shall see.

My most favorite discovery at the show? A little book by Lane Smith (author of The Stinky Cheese Man) called It’s A Book. Read it if you know someone who’s getting caught up in the electronic book craze. My least favorite moment of the show? A breakfast at which an audience member, who said she was a Christian, publicly berated a speaker for “taking the Lord’s name in vain too many times” in his novel. She said this after noisily tearing pages out of his book during his speech.

These are some crazy days, but we find grounding and meaning in the words we read and write, the places we go, the people we meet and the memories we carry with us. Have a good week. See something wonderful, then write about it.

Buon viaggio!

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.  — George Eliot

It’s finally here — the other side of Labor Day. That means that autumn can’t be far  behind. Since I was a little girl, autumn has been my favorite season. Cooler weather,  back to school, groups starting up again — scouts, orchestra, literary magazine. Even  now, there is always a sense of new beginnings in the fall. Lately I’ve been watching  the geese practicing their “V” formations, which they’ll use for real in a few weeks as  they migrate farther south. The garden is winding down and we bring in a small  bowl of tomatoes each morning, knowing that it will soon be our last. The roses —  which have stayed ridiculously long this year — are getting brown, as are the echinacea daisies and sweet hydrangeas.

I love fall so much that when Tim and I decided to get married, I asked him if we could wait to do it in the fall. And so on October 5, 1991 we tied the knot in beautiful Burlington, Vermont; our reception was at the Boathouse on Lake Champlain. Gorgeous fall colors, crisp fall air . . . we couldn’t have asked for a better day.

A few weeks before the wedding, however, it occurred to us that in all of our (my) careful long-distance planning (we had moved to Boston back in May, but still wanted a fall Vermont wedding) we had forgotten to plan a honeymoon. So we did a little scrambling and decided to explore some of our brand new state on our honeymoon — Nantucket, to be exact.

Nantucket in the fall is a treasure. The crowds have gone, the temps are cooler and the colors are magical. There’s a little extra energy in the water (and in the air) and everybody seems calmer once “high season” has passed. You can easily get into restaurants and, if you go before Columbus Day, most of the shops and galleries are still open.

We stayed in the then-nearly-new Nantucket Inn, out by the airport (remember the TV show Wings?!). We got a great deal on one of the cottages with a fireplace, with several of our meals included. We could swim in the pool and relax in the hot tub and still find time to explore the island, its restaurants and shops, and we did. We had a grand time at 21 Federal — I still remember the amazing pumpkin soup served in its own little pumpkin — and enjoyed The Brotherhood of Thieves for good burgers and beer a few days later. We brought our bicycles and enjoyed Nantucket’s many bicycle paths. And it was along these very paths that we almost got divorced.

Edible?

You see, Tim loves to discover new things. Places, people, museums, beaches . . . and mushrooms. October is mushroom season in Nantucket. I did not know this, or I might have chosen a less risky destination. Like a mall. But as we pedaled around the island together, we found myriad trails with all kinds of mushrooms by the side of the road. Big fat brown ones; beautiful spotted red ones; ugly black ones; tall high-stemmed psilocybes (which I was sure were hallucinogenic); creepy puffballs; little white buttons, and so on. The problem was, Tim wanted to eat them. All of them. He told me that the odds of our finding a poisonous one were very slim. Somehow, that wasn’t good enough for me.

Before too long, I took the lead on the biking and drove us straight over to a bookstore, where I quickly bought a

copy of Simon & Schuster’s Guide to Mushrooms. Five hundred and twelve pages of color plates were interesting but not very informative, when push came to shove. Almost every ‘shroom we plucked came with the warning, “Edibility is uncertain.” That was all I needed to hear. And, since we had been married less than a week and had not yet thought about doing a will, it was going to have to be good enough for Tim, too. He was not happy and, I suspect, tempted fate by trying a few when I was out of range.

I wish I could show you the photos we took of our  enormous and incredible harvest, which we proudly posed on a table outside our cottage. Alas, they were taken with a film camera and that album is still packed away  somewhere, even after living here in Richmond for nearly five years. Instead, I’m  sharing photos of The Mushrooms & Flora of September 2010, taken in our  backyard  and along the walking path that I tread every day with our dog, Maxine. I  still have  no idea what any of them are and whether they’re edible or not, and I’m not  about to  find out. I’m happy just to look at them and know that October, my favorite month, is not far behind.

Then summer fades and passes and October comes.  We’ll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure. —  Thomas Wolfe

Buon viaggio!

Remember what Bilbo used to say: It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. — J.R.R. Tolkein

Once we went out the door and ended up on the Piazza delle Erbe in Mantova (Mantua). It was raining and I had on

Ristoranti in Piazza delle Erbe

crop pants and rubber sandals and I was fighting the hydroplaning with every step and we had parked clear across the city from where we wanted to be, but never mind. Mantova is still a special place. The Gonzagas thought so in the 14th century, and made it one of Italy’s true artistic hubs. Reubens, Donatello and Pisanello owe much of their success to this shrewd family. The Roman poet Virgil supposedly hails from Mantova. And, also before the Gonzagas, the struggles between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines happened on Mantovan soil. I’m not much of a history buff, so you’ll have to look that one up. I only know that these names are very present in modern day Mantova, in museums and street signs and such.

Shakespeare was here, too, in his plays, at least. Remember that Romeo is exiled to Mantova after killing Tybalt in Romeo and Juilet? And the schoolmaster from The Taming of the Shrew is from Mantova. Finally, Verdi’s masterpiece, Rigoletto, is set in this city.

Mantova is in the region of Lombardy, in the north, and is surrounded by three man-made lakes (boringly named Superiore, di Mezzo and Inferiore) that receive their waters from the beautiful Mincio.  The mists from these lakes can create quite an atmosphere — romantic or melancholy, depending on your disposition — and there is much to see within the compact centro storico of the city.

Palazzo Ducale in the rain

On that fateful, rainy day when we parked on the wrong side of the city, we headed immediately for the Palazzo Ducale, the massive building that houses the entire history of the Gonzagas, Mantova’s ruling family from the 14^th to the 18^th centuries. Their military skills and habit of marrying into other wealthy and important families brought them fame, power and the respect of the finest artists of the day. The Palazzo, actually comprising a number of different buildings, is not beautiful in the ordinary sense, but its 30,000+ square feet of artifacts, frescoes, tapestries, staircases and unusual rooms make it worth seeing. Don’t miss the Galleria degli Specchi (Hall of Mirrors) and Appartamento dei Nani (Apartment of the Dwarves), not to be confused with the Sala dei Gigante (Room of the Giants) over at the Gonzaga’s Palazzo Te, which also houses the city’s Museo Civico with its coins and medallions and other artifacts of the family’s wealth and power.

Of course, there’s a church to see: the Sant’Andrea Basilica, the polar opposite of the usual big-city Italian cathedral. In this case, a Renaissance façade fronts a very simple 15^th-century church, the results of which are startling to the eye. The crypt has a reliquary (of course) that allegedly contains the blood of Christ, brought to Mantova by Longinus, the Roman soldier who pierced Christ’s side on the cross. If you happen to be in town on the feast day (March 18, for San’Anselmo) you can see it paraded through town. And you’ll be charmed by the Rotunda di San Lorenzo, a small church in the round that dates from the 11^th century. (And we think Jamestown is old . . .)

Rotunda di San Lorenzo

There’s a lot going on in Mantova. Since 1997, Mantova has hosted five days of readings, meetings with writers, shows and concerts during its September Festivaletteratura, the most important literary event in Europe. Writers from around the world are invited to come and speak and read and partake in the festivities. The third weekend of July features a jazz festival. And the Piazza delle Erbe is the scene of a major food market, Mondays through Saturdays from 8 am to 1 p.m. On Thursday mornings, you’ll find an expanded market that includes clothing, housewares and even more kinds of food and goodies.

Nifty restaurant walls

As an Italian movie buff, I have always wanted the opportunity to say to some young, handsome signore, “Ciao, Marcello.” So very Sofia Loren, eh? And I got my chance in Mantova. After the Palazzo Ducale (and after drying out a bit in the lavatory) we decided that it was time for lunch. So we headed back to the Piazza delle Erbe (square of the herbs) to find a suitable place. We found it. Ristorante Pizzera Osteria delle Erbe was a find. A small, narrow restaurant on the square, under the porticos, with an outside caffe (not in use on this particular day) and a welcome inside. There was a huge window that opened up to the outside, but we chose a table in the back among the artily stuccoed brick walls and copper cooking artifacts. The wines warmed us up right away and attitudes adjusted for the better. The food was perfect: inexpensive, fresh and local. Homemade papardelle with sage and butter sauce, tortellini stuffed with pumpkin, local fish, and risotto. This area has been famous for its risotto since the 1500s. The truffle risotto and funghi risotto are my absolute favorites.

Ciao, Marcello!

And Marcello? He was our waiter. A handsome, delightful young man who spoke very good English (although he said he was embarrassed by it, he shouldn’t be) and who seemed to be enjoying us as much as we were enjoying him. Throughout most of Europe, being a waiter is an honorable profession, unlike in the U.S,, where it is often a holding place for something “better.” But here, service is a time-honored profession and often results in ownership of the establishment if you stick with it long enough. Marcello, however, had a bigger dream. He wanted to be a waiter, but in America. San Francisco, to be exact. Oh, how we tried to talk him out of it! Now, San Francisco is a great city, but the whole waiter thing would have been a massive disappointment to him. Several months later, we learned that he had changed his mind and was going to stay in his native Italy. Disaster averted!

Anyway, we lingered for a long time at the restaurant, enjoying caffe and dolci, taking pictures, drying out, but then it was time to go. Marcello walked us out and I finally got to say my line. Too softly, at first, and then I blurted it out in my best carefree Italian heroine voice, Ciao, Marcello! And ciao, Mantova. A presto!

Buon viaggio!

I can’t write five words but that I change seven. — Dorothy Parker

The William Cabell House, aka The Porches

In the spirit of Virginia Woolf, who was a strong advocate for writing women to have “a room of one’s own,” I recently applied for a stay at a nearby writers’ retreat.  Last Thursday I arrived at The Porches after an hour and a half on the road from Richmond, Virginia. Located in Norwood, The Porches (one of the Cabell houses in Nelson County) was built in 1854 and offers a warm welcome, clean rooms and all the comforts of home for writers in need of peace and quiet. What is doesn’t offer is all the stresses of home. Thank you, Trudy Hale, for renovating this lovely old farmhouse and opening it up to writers back in 2006. An inspired idea.

On the trip over, the skies were threatening. We’d been experiencing late afternoon thunder bumpers and dramatic rains this week; I hoped they wouldn’t interfere with my all-too-short (four day) writers retreat.

Road signs I saw along the way:

Barn on the way

• Voted the Best Public Storage on the Planet!

• Google doesn’t have all the answers (on a church)

• Going Out of Business Sale. Today!

On Hummingbirds

Have you ever heard the sound of a dozen hummingbirds attacking a small red sugar-water  feeder? Stop thinking sweet and romantic, folks. It’s terrifying. One or two at the feeder . . . cute. But a dozen is a gang and you know how gangs behave. Territorial disputes abound. There are winners and losers. And these miniature monsters are very loud in battle. Twenty four furiously beating wings create an ominous, unearthly sound. And they fly around and at anything they think might get in their way. Like you. I’ve been buzz-bombed into the house twice now. I may have to rethink this bird business.

On Beauty

My own little writing space

I washed my hair today for the first time in three days. But we are supposed to be quiet here, so I don’t want to use the hairdryer I brought and then get yelled at. These being serious writers, I have heard no noise since arriving. Not a peep. So now my hair looks ridiculous, like Little Lulu’s, but with flippy bangs, too.

In light of this new-found naturalness, I have decided to be bold and only apply a little blush to my cheeks and, for heaven’s sake, mascara only on the upper lashes. I feel absolutely bohemian.

On Wildlife

Besides the militaristic hummingbirds, there is a lot of other wildlife here. I discovered the first of it in my shower stall at 10:30 the first night. I was wearing nothing on my feet, which always somehow makes it worse. And these things always seem more dramatic in the dark, don’t they?

Anyway, I was going to the sink for my nightly ablutions when I saw it: a bevy of beating legs attached to a 5-inch long black millipede, its rear, bow-legged pincers swinging wildly, like a caboose off its track. It was in the shower, behind the glass door, but this provided little comfort, knowing that I’d have to use very same shower in the morning. And besides, how would I ever get to sleep with this creature wriggling a mere 30 feet away?

At first I thought I could wish it away if only I did what I came to do. So I quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth. But I couldn’t go near the toilet, which was next to the shower. So, in a state of supreme bladder alertness, I realized that it was him or me. One of us would not make it through the night. I hoped it was him.

I looked around for something to kill it with. There was nothing in this very spare bathroom that would double as a poker. So I carefully reached into the shower, opening the door only a crack, found the faucet and blasted the thing with hot water. It flinched and ran around wildly, which was absolutely not my intention. The way these things move just repulses me. Besides, I realized that a lack of water was probably what brought him into the house, anyway, so this was like manna from heaven.

What was Plan B? There was no way I was going to pick the thing up and fling it into the toilet. It was HUGE, people, and extremely gross. I was beside myself. And then I saw it. My weapon of choice, on the floor behind the toilet— a green plastic bottle of Lime Away. I picked it up and, carefully opening the shower door again, blasted the thing with about a cup of toxic soup. It was not happy and soon did not have that smirk on its little bug face that it had when it was being drenched with water. It knew I was serious this time. I sprayed like a lunatic until the thing stopped moving.

When I thought it was safe, I lowered myself onto the toilet and did what I came to do, never taking my eyes off this polypodded devil. I flushed. It stopped. I opened the shower door to assess the damage and, to my horror, it moved again. (This scene was right out of one of my most terrifying theatrical experiences, Wait Until Dark. I didn’t need this right now.) I leapt back, grabbed the bottle and sprayed again, wildly, until I could spray no more. It looked still. I turned off the light and left, hoping to catch at least a few minutes of sleep.

The next morning (4 a.m. to be exact) when my bladder was at it again, I thought about going back into the bathroom to see if he was dead, had moved on, or had called in reinforcements through the drain. But there was that darkness thing again. So I waited until first light, and then slowly crept in.

My friends, do you know what Lime Away does to millipedes? It turns them red. And shrinks them in half. And makes them very, very dead. But I still had to lift the thing out of the shower and there was still nothing with which to do that. After a few minutes of feeling extremely sorry for myself, I wadded up some toilet paper, prayed that I wouldn’t feel anything, and lifted him up and into the toilet with lightning speed. I flushed. It was over. I rinsed the shower down well, not knowing what Lime Away might do to me, and took a victory shower. I had won this round.

Since then, I have killed a dozen assorted spiders and three stink bugs, seen two different varieties of lizard on the

Maizie, hard at work

porch, heard about a previous tenant’s encounter with a black snake, made friends with the dog, Maizie, who I think I would fire at this point, and ignored the dead baby bird that is resting (feet and beak up to the skies) just under my window. Oh, and I saw a deer  by the barn. We encountered each other when I walked around to the side of the house; it made a startled noise, like the sound of two wood blocks clapping. Who knew?  Maizie sleeps on the porch, missing it all, dreaming of belly rubs.

On Food

I don’t have to think much about meal planning here. There are microwaves for reheating and electric tea kettles on every floor. There is a full, well-equipped kitchen downstairs with three refrigerators, a small stove, a sink, a dish and cutlery cupboard and a cabinet with staples put out by Trudy and previous guests, consisting of tea, coffee, olive oil, vinegar, sugar, honey and so forth.

Here is what I brought with me:

• One package of low fat white cheddar flavored corn cakes
• A six pack of low sodium V8 juice
• An eight pack of Starbucks VIA coffee (extra bold Italian Roast flavor — I’m insane)
• 24 Mini Moos for the coffee; I should have brought 48
• A jar of organic crunchy peanut butter (exactly how big is one serving?)
• A bag of Cracker Barrel Extra Sharp Cheese Sticks, made with 2% milk
• An eight pack of Musselman’s Raspberry Acai applesauce, no sugar added
• A six pack of Kashi TLC Cherry Dark Chocolate Chewy Granola Bars
• A box of Kashi Heart to Heart Oat Flakes & Blueberry Clusters cereal
• Four Horizon Organic Reduced Fat Milk boxes for the cereal
• One bottle of Bella Sera Pinot Grigio

I could have used more wine.

On Writing

Art in the garden

But I came to write. The distractions are few, given that there’s no cell phone service and only intermittent wireless, provided by satellite. I guess dial-up was this slow, but that seems a long time ago. Anyway . . . I tell myself that I came to write, not to check my Facebook page or play Solitaire. There is a TV and some CDs and a piano downstairs, but nobody has gone near them. So we read and we write. Once in a while we go outside for air, one by one, or emerge from our rooms to gather up things for a meal.

There are only five of us here, and each has her own room. There is someone from Baltimore, who is writing about midwifery. Another from Ohio, writing her grandmother’s story. A gal from Kentucky is writing a novel. And the last one to arrive is from Charlottesville for a few days, to put the finishing touches on a young adult fantasy piece that she needs to get to an agent in a few weeks. We are all so different, and yet we have this common need to put one word in front of another and hope that it is good. We are different ages and races; we have lived in wildly different places (from Ghana and Haiti to San Diego and New York). Yet we are somehow the same in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. And we have each found that we can breathe here a little easier than we can at home, with nothing to do but read and write and think and take some simple nourishment.

Miraculously, I started writing on the very first day, outlining the piece about Verona that I am working on for Dream of Italy, Kathy McCabe’s wonderful bi-monthly love letter to the country that I am so in love with myself. It is a gift to have no outside distractions, but of course we give ourselves plenty of those, even without technology. Is Tim okay? Is he eating? Is he remembering to feed and walk Maxine? Does he notice that I’m gone? What if he doesn’t? These absurd questions roll around in my head enough so that I have to make an effort to keep them away. I laugh. It is hard to do what you need to do sometimes. I thank him silently for understanding. And then I write some more.

On Recommending

If you have a serious writing project that you can articulate to Trudy in an e-mail, by all means, apply for a residency at The Porches. She rents most typically by the week, but from time to time there are openings for short-term visitors like me. Bring your writing group here  — she loves that. She also hosts writing weekends here with guest facilitators from time to time. So check out her website and give yourself a break from your daily, interruptive routine — and come to write and be in this glorious part of the world. It’s affordable and exactly what you need. Just don’t forget the Lime Away . . .

Buon viaggio!

If we had to say what writing is, we would define it essentially as an act of courage. — Cynthia Ozick

My mother’s mother, Ida, stood about four foot eleven inches tall  and wore a size 3 and a  half shoe. The entire time that I knew her  (some 25 years) she wore variations of the classic  “little old lady”  shoe – chunky heeled, high vamp tie shoes that were  distinguished as  “Everyday” (plain white, navy or black leather)  and “Dressy” (black leather shoes with a velvet  vamp and decorative  little  holes). For many years, we drove from our house in Massapequa,  New York into New York City to the Dr. Scholl’s store on  34^th Street. Grandma would get her  foot measured professionally (did we think it had grown since last year?) and then view the  new  selections and pick out what she wanted. They had to be special  ordered, of course, so there was a return trip back to pick them up. All in all, this was a very expensive proposition for a very middle class working family. But hey, Grandma needed shoes, right?

Progress came when Dr. Scholl’s opened a store in the suburbs. Hempstead was still a haul, but not the teeth-shattering, anxiety provoking trip that going into Manhattan was for my family. One year, maybe 1963 or 1964, when Mom and I were on the “return trip” to pick up what Grandma had ordered, we stopped for a few minutes at a bookstore. I was about 14 years old, already an experienced angst-ridden young poet, and was scouring the shelves for something suitably shocking to get my mother to buy for me (these were the days of $1.00 a week allowances, so I couldn’t buy much for myself).

Anyway, Mom was getting impatient, standing in the front of the  store and waiting for me to come out of the stacks. Then I found  it: 100 Selected Poems,  by e.e. cummings. Originally published  in 1923, this was the first Evergreen Edition, from 1959, and it  bore a price tag of $1.75. I still have my copy, unglued cover and  all. I flipped through its pages and was very pleased with my  choice. Here was a book that, by its very publication, told me that  it was all right to break the rules. Lower case letters. Lines that  stretched across and up and down the page. No discernable  rhyme scheme. This would do nicely.

Of course, I had a passing acquaintance with cummings already, and had adopted his lower cases in some of my own poetry (as did most teen-aged girls at that time). But here (as was required in my household) was proof that this was legitimate. And that poetry itself could be lovely and nonsensical and horrifying — all in the same line.

I brought the book up to the cash register and my mother met me. She saw the little purple-covered book and rolled her eyes. But then something happened. The man behind the cash register looked at the book too, and then at me, and then back at the book. “You dig cummings, eh?” he said. My heart stopped. No one — not even my teachers, who knew I was an aspiring writer — had ever asked me what I “dug” before. I nodded feebly, trying to look as cool and grown-up as I possibly could, no mean feat for a chubby, introverted teenager whose idea of a good time was to actually get to listen to an entire side of the latest Peter, Paul and Mary album in peace. “Let’s see how much you know,” he went on. I was doomed. Then my mother got interested, clearly enjoying this.

He opened the book and began reading, “Buffalo Bill’s defunct . . .” and when he got to the line, “. . . and what I want to know is . . .” he stopped. Cold. And he looked at me. And my mother glared at me. And for a split second the world came to an end. And then, out of nowhere known to me, came these words from my mouth: “how do you like your blueeyed boy, Mister Death?” The clerk smiled and handed me the book. My mother was gobsmacked. I said thank you to the man and walked out the door, ahead of her, trembling, but trying to remain calm. I had been tested by a total stranger and passed. I knew something. I had all I could do not to cry as I made my way out into the sunshine.

Years later, I still ask myself where the hell that line came from. Sure, I had heard the poem before but I was not (and still am not) a memorizer. Somehow, that line of poetry stuck in my head, even at that early age. Even before I knew that I really would make my life among words. Even before I began to fill my rooms with books in earnest.

This is powerful stuff, poetry. So tell me: What poems do you remember? What lines still startle you? Keep you awake at night? Provide comfort in difficult situations? Make you smile? Beg to be shared? I’d love to know. Words are a kind of journey. Please take us with you.

Buon viaggio!