Everyone...dive into the pool!

Hmmm, trunks or no trunks?!

It is summer and it is hot.

And the heat reminds me of a day trip we took to Paestum, Italy.

Paestum is south of Naples…actually south of Salerno in the Campania region of Italy—close to where the “laces of the boot start to meet the top of the foot.”

Traveling there from Amalfi was a bit of an adventure. We started off in a boat to Salerno, a walk from the piers to the train station, and then took the train south.

Stepping off the train at the depot for the ancient site of Paestum was a little like stepping into the shot of a “spaghetti western.” The dilapidated depot with its salmon-colored stucco chipping off was empty and locked. The overgrown weeds made it feel as if the train left you in a no man’s land.

There was no traffic on the road that ran in front of the depot and as I looked for signs of traffic—of life beyond the tracks—I could envision Clint Eastwood stepping into view down the road’s horizon. The image of his poncho-draped body rippling in the rising heat from the pavement would be underscored with the famous theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly… “duh, duh, duh, duh, duuuh…wah, wah, waaaah.” If it hadn’t been for the fact that a couple of other tourists had stepped off the train with us, I would have believed that we had gotten off in completely the wrong place.

There was a long road that intersected with “Clint’s road” and while Richard, our friend Chris, and I stopped to get our bearings, the other 3 tourists headed down the intersecting road.

“Well, I guess we should just follow them,” I said, and, like lemmings, we followed the leaders down the middle of the road, which was bordered by tall Italian cypress, and divided two fields that had been freshly plowed under.

As our leaders marched ahead, obviously keen on being the first to arrive at whatever lay at the road’s end. We slowed our pace—mostly due to the heat and the breeze, which provided as much relief as a hairdryer in a sauna. Occasionally, a Smart car would appear from nowhere and whizz past us, giving us hope that we were indeed walking toward someplace inhabited with life or, given the fact that it was a Smart car, maybe a family of clowns would spill out of its tiny interior at the road’s end.

Finally we arrived at the ancient site of Paestum, which dates back to the 7^th century BC, to discover, right before our eyes, the ruins of the ancient Greek Temple to Hera.  Stupefacente! –Amazing! Most archeological sites that I have seen are holes in the ground only displaying unearthed building foundations—nothing of any structural significance.

But here, rising out of the field was a temple…THE Temple of Hera. Massive columns, lined in repeating rows supported the roof pediments. Wow! For everyone who “must see” Pompeii with all of its history, and international marketing, I would suggest that you visit Paestum and really have your socks blown off. Though you can no longer walk inside the temples…yes there are actually four temples (Poseidon, Athena, and two for Hera)…you can certainly get close enough to appreciate their overpowering size.

Forget Clint Eastwood, the long road, and the heat. Here was something worth traversing the planet to see. Granted there are other sites just as impressive in Italy, but on that day, given that our approach to Paestum had been less than glamorous, the sights here were incredible.

There is a museum at Paestum, which houses many of the site’s unearthed treasures. Large slabs of ancient tomb walls show scenes of day life and one of the most famous is “the Tomb of the Diver.” It is a simple fresco painting showing a man diving from a tower—his image painted mid-dive… simple, ancient, and beautiful. Other fresco paintings depicted scenes that one usually expects to find—dining scenes, musicians playing lutes, warriors and triumphs of war. Still, pretty incredible for being in a field.      

We spent hours walking around the site, touring the museum, and enjoying this well-preserved piece of Greece in Italy. We hiked back down the long road toward the depot, expecting there to never be a returning train. In a strange way I had hoped that we, too, might have been caught in this timeless place—maybe even seeing Clint walk off into the sunset. But alas, our train arrived on schedule, and though we missed the boat from Salerno back to Amalfi, the bus ride back proved to be the most harrowing experience of the day. Give me gladiators, lions, Hell—the entire Greek army, but please don’t make me take the bus along the Amalfi coast!

The temples were Good, the heat was Bad, and the bus ride was definitely Ugly~

“Duh, duh, duh, duh, duuuh…wah, wah, waaaah!”

A presto,

Mark

Photos:

1. The Tomb of the Diver

2. Temple of Hera

3. Tempe of Athena

4. Column outside Temple of Athena

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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A boy named Sue...

You never have to go into the sun to turn red~

With the dog days of summer quickly approaching, the heat has me thinking about the beach and, with it being high travel season in Italy, I am sure Italy’s beaches are packed with the touring throngs.

I spent five days in the small coastal town of Amalfi once and the view from the hotel room over the bay could not have been more stunning.

Before I take any trip, I spend months surfing the web for the most idyllic places to stay and visit…and part of their beauty always involved price—a bargain price. There are bargains out there, if you search long enough.

Once such bargain was the Hotel Aurora. It took me countless e-mails back and forth with the hotel’s booking agent, Andrea, to reserve the rooms I wanted. I would write to her in my elementary Italian and she would respond in a very proper British English—with all of the gracious overtones of exceedingly polite conversation. There was nothing Standard American about her English.

For months we corresponded back on forth trying to insure that the rooms I booked would have terraces overlooking the bay and that they would be right next to each other, since Richard and I were traveling with friends, adjoining terraces were a must. I thanked her for her continued vigilance about contacting me first, before anyone else on the waiting list, should a vacancy open up. We joked about the unending throngs of tourists and I tried to be as charming as I could with my Italian—making sure to use all of the correct feminine word endings. I wanted to be as polite and formal with her as she was in her writing to me. After weeks of touching base and daily emails, by the end, I felt that Andrea and I had developed a relationship…a friendship…as basic as it was. I was excited to meet her and she responded in kind. It is in moments like these that I am quite proud of the fact that I can speak some Italian. And sometimes I catch myself gloating to Richard about how I have charmed another Italian with my fundamental knowledge of their native tongue. He congratulates me, but I can see that, in his mind, he is rolling his eyes at me.

We arrived at the Hotel Aurora hot, tired, and exhausted from the harrowing journey by private car from Salerno to Amalfi. If you have ever heard of traffic on the Amalfi Coast being terrifying—it is no joke. The narrow, cliff-side roads twist with breakneck angles, while being packed with motorized vehicles of all sizes—cars, motorcycles, small Italian three-wheeled utility trucks (envision an enclosed motorized wheelbarrow), and enormous tour buses. At times, traffic stops so people can pull their side-view mirrors in against the sides of the car or bus—there is that little clearance. There are literally only inches, and sometimes less than inches, between the passing lanes of traffic.

We approached the hotel counter, pleased to have survived the drive, and I very proudly said to the balding, middle-aged man behind the counter, “Buona sera, il mio nome è Mark Leslie e ho una prenotazione. Anche, è Andrea qui? Lei vorrei conoscere.” (“Good evening, my name is Mark Leslie and I have a reservation. Also, is Andrea here? I would like to meet her.”)

The man behind the desk looked oddly at me. I thought, “OK, my Italian isn’t perfect but he should be able to get the gist of what I said. I mean I know I am close.” Here my arrogance, much like my gloating to Richard, started to take over.

“È possibile? È Andrea qui?” I asked.

Again the man looked at me plainly before smiling and saying, “Sono Andrea.” (“I am Andrea.”)

Ugh! Andrea was a man! I am such a fool. For months I had been charming, practically flirting, with the woman “Andrea.” I knew my attempted Italian would endear her to me—and get me the rooms I wanted. That is what gloating and arrogance gets me—every time—my foot in my mouth! I completely forgot that in Italian the feminine name is “Andria” (“Ahn-dree-ah”) and the masculine name is “Andrea” (“ahn-dray-ah”). I was looking at his Italian name the whole time and thinking it was the feminine “Andrea” for the masculine “Andre.”

I turned three shades of red. For months I had been calling the man behind the counter “her”—I knew our rooms were going to be the broom closets in the basement.

Luckily, Andrea is accustomed to silly American tourists and took pity on me. We were given the terraced rooms with adjoining balconies as promised—with the most wonderful views of the bay.

Our five days there were glorious and Andrea was the most gracious concierge the entire time. One morning on our way to breakfast on the bougainvillea-covered loge, I stopped and apologized to Andrea for the entire feminine/masculine mistake. He was forgiving, though despite my attempts at making him laugh it off, he never did crack a smile.

I hope to return to the Hotel Amalfi again and, this time, Andrea will know that I remember “him.”

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

The Photos:

(1) The mosaic tiled map that is embedded in the wall above the main gate into Amalfi.

(2) The town of Amalfi viewed from the bay.

(3) The view from our balcony. Thank-you Andrea!

(4) Boats moored at night outside the Hotel Aurora.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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This little piggy went to market~

…and there will be no “wee, wee, weeing” all the way home!

 

It is summer and, besides the HEAT, that can only mean one thing—farmers’s markets! Italy is famous for it’s farmers’s markets that, on any given Saturday, fill every piazza from Venice to Sicily. 

 

When I lived in Viterbo, Italy, I only went to the Saturday morning market once. It was all right. I know you expect me to say that everything in Italy is “amazing” or “unbelievable” and “not to be missed.” But like everywhere, not everything is the best.

 

My favorite market to go to, and one of the most famous in Italy, is the market in the piazza Campo dei Fiori (Field of Flowers) in Rome. There has been a market here for hundreds of years, if not thousands, and when we were there this past November, I could see why.

 

Rows of tented fruits and vegetables, bucket after bucket of flowers, spices, and oils, along with vans with glass cases displaying cheese, meat, and bread. Tables with books, knickknacks, rugs, stacks of boxed athletic shoes, racks of clothing, pots and pans…you can find a little bit of everything here.

 

Most of the items are no different than what you might find at your local farmers’s market here, well, I guess we have a distinction between a flea market and a farmers’s market. One implies food and the other implies no food. In Italy, the Saturday market always has both. There is something exotic about walking through a market like this in a foreign country. In America, when someone says to you, “Hey, check out these shoes!” “Come on, you need to see my books,” or “Buy some sausages to take home tonight,” there is something irritating about their hawking; however, in a foreign tongue, how interesting all of those pleas become. Maybe they are enticing you to trade your cow for some magic beans, or if by not understanding the salesman pitch, you bought that urn and polished it too hard, encouraging a hot, tantalizing Italian genie to appear ready to grant you a wish and blink it into reality.

 

My favorite woman at il Campo this past year was an elderly lady, wrapped in a furry sweater, with a hot pink scarf tied around her neck. Very fashionable, I thought. She seemed very sophisticated working her cheese wagon—well, van. She would give customers an inviting smile, assist as best she could the non-Italian speaking tourists, and toss her head back and laugh when humored by a fellow Italian.

 

She was the type of person that I was glad I couldn’t really understand her. It was far more fun to create some imagined truth about her—an aristocrat down on her fortunes after being swindled by a dashing, tall, and dark-eyed stranger at the casino, or maybe she was incognito and hiding from her years as an international spy. Hmmm, international secrets traded at night and fresh mozzarella sliced and wrapped during the day. In my imagination she led a very incredible life. And I am going to keep it that way.

 

I hope this summer you visit your local flea and farmers’s markets. And when some woman in a t-shirt is trying to sell you her used Holly Hobbies, imagine not understanding a word and believing that inside Holly there might just be some microfilm of the secret plans to the newest Russian weapon of mass destruction…okay, maybe that is too James Bond.

 

“Goldfinger…he’s the man…the man with the golden touch…” “Si, signore, 250 grami della mozzarella. Un momento~” 

 

It could happen.

 

Ciao, ciao, ciao,

Mark 

 

The photos: The market in the Campo dei Fiori, Rome, Italy.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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Where's the beef?

Discovering the Italian sandwich~

 

Recently a friend e-mailed me asking for a “big, fat, greasy, wet, sloppy, Italian Beef Sandwich recipe.” Sadly, I had to tell him that the only place I have ever eaten something like that is in Chicago—and never in Italy. That isn’t to say that something like that doesn’t exist in Italy; I have just never seen it.

 

But his question did put me in the mood for un panino—a sandwich. In America, paninis have become all the rage and I have even seen them offered at convenient stores. Mamma mia! Actually, my first panino was at a convenient store, of sorts, at one of the autostrada (freeway) exits in Italy. However, this convenient store is leaps and bounds ahead of any convenient store in America

 

Autogrill offers a wide array of food, beverages, children’s games, wine, candy, and just about everything else you might find at an interstate truck stop here in America, except that almost all of the food items would be considered gourmet by American standards. Local percorino, Parmigiano-Reggiano, gorgonzola, asiago, and a host of incredible Italian cheeses fill the case next to rows and rows of salamis varying in color, size, and texture. The selection of Italian wine is vast—both in region, vintage, and price. The counter bar is packed with standing Italians enjoying their shots of espresso. There are no to-go or “venti”-sized cups bearing a green label. Here your shot comes in a small ceramic cup with saucer and a tiny spoon to stir in your sugar—and no twists of lemon. I have yet to see un caffè—a coffee—served in Italy with a twist of lemon—maybe I haven’t been to that part of Italy yet.

 

Next to the counter bar is a glass case containing stacks of panini. Some have only cheese, others offer meat and cheese, and one of my favorites is fresh mozzarella, sliced tomato, and arugula. Once ordered and paid for, the panino is placed between the two heated sides of the panini grill, toasted, and pressed down. Crunchy and hot, this Italian sandwich is wrapped in a piece of parchment paper for you hold and eat as you go about the rest of your shopping business.

 

Every time we are in Italy, we have to stop and eat at Autogrill as we drive out of Rome headed north toward Lazio or Tuscany. It might be due to the fact that we are usually completely exhausted from the flight that the sandwiches, coffee, chocolate, and drinks taste so good.  I have yet to find a panino in America as good as those from the roadside Autogrill.

 

Sorry that it isn’t “big, fat, greasy, wet, sloppy” but here is my version of a panino:

 

Marinate 4 (1¼ pounds) beef chuck boneless steaks (sometimes called “breakfast steaks” which are a little thicker than “sandwich steaks”) in a plastic re-sealable bag with 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, the zest and juice of one lemon, a ½ tablespoon Kosher salt and a ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper. Seal the bag and work all of the ingredients together, making sure that the marinade covers the steaks. Let marinate at room temperature for about 20 minutes.

 

Heat a medium skillet over medium-high heat. When hot, add 1 tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil and, using with a fork, remove the steaks from the marinade and place into the heated oil. Discard the marinade and the plastic bag.

 

Sauté the steaks in the oil until they start to brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Turn the steaks over and cook the second side for another minute before adding a splash (a couple of tablespoons or a ¼ cup) of red wine to the skillet. Lower the heat and cook until the wine has reduced by half, about another 3 minutes. The steaks should be a nice medium-rare at this point. (Cook longer if you like your meat more well-done.) Remove the skillet from the heat and place the steaks on a plate to rest. Reserve the sauce that remains in the skillet.

 

While the steaks rest and cool, slice, on angle, 8 slices from a rustic Italian bread (either a boule, a long loaf, or a ciabatta). Freshly grate 4 tablespoons Parmigiano-Reggiano, Grana Padano, or Pecorino Romano cheese into a bowl and set aside.

 

Once the steaks have cooled for 10 to 15 minutes (letting them cool to room temperature is even better), place on a cutting board and slice each steak on the bias (on angle) into ¼-inch to ½-inch thick slices. Each sliced steak will make one sandwich.

 

To assemble: Drizzle a slice of bread with a little of the pan juices. Next, layer one steak worth of sliced meat onto the bread. Sprinkle some of the grated cheese over the meat. Top this with some fresh arugula, followed by a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of kosher salt and a grind of black pepper. Top with a second slice of bread. Repeat the process to make 4 sandwiches. Cut each panino in half and serve.

 

If you truly want to make this a panino, place the prepared sandwiches into a panini maker and toast until the bread is a golden brown and has grill marks on it.

 

Don’t have a panini maker? Don’t worry, I don’t either. Heat a dry skillet over medium heat and, as if making a grilled cheese sandwich, place the panino into the hot, dry pan. Using a spatula, press down on the panino until it is toasted and dark brown on one side. Flip it over and, pressing down again, toast the second side. Repeat with the other sandwiches. Panini are best when hot and pressed thin.

 

Sorry about the no “big, fat, greasy, wet, sloppy” but if you truly desire that—head to Chicago where they make the best Italian beef this side of…hmmm, I was going to say Sicily, but I think it is truer to say…this side of Chicago!

 

Buon appetito!

Mark

 

The photos: my version of a panino.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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This ain't no rabbit food...

and Mr. McGregor isn't going to run me off~

For the longest time, I always wondered why Europeans had their salad course AFTER their main/meat course. In America, we eat our salad course first, almost as an appetizer. I am not sure why there is a cultural difference, but it has always made me want to ask the question, “Does it really matter where the salad falls during the course of the meal?”

 

The answer is—YES!

 

While I was living with the family in Italy, regardless of how we started the meal or what the main course was, we always finished every meal with a salad, followed by fresh fruit. And I discovered the reason why—after a meal, your palate becomes overwhelmed with rich sauces, exotic spices, and meats glistening in their juices (fat). If you follow all of that with fresh, crisp greens (my favorite being arugula), simply dressed with olive oil and some type of acid, like lemon juice or balsamic vinegar, you palate gets refreshed.

 

My first night in Viterbo with the family was a whirlwind. I had been up for 33 hours and, between flights and trains, I was exhilarated and exhausted. The food was home cooked, the conversation was all in Italian, and I was starving. I ate my fair share and, after the main course, out came a bowl of lettuce. I really wasn’t in the mood for salad at this point. To my American palate, my meal was over. All that remained was dessert. But I decided that “when in Rome,” or as close to Rome as I was, I would have the salad.

 

It was fantastic! Nothing complicated—no grated cheddar, thick sliced red onion, chopped iceberg lettuce drowning in a creamy, mayonnaise-y glob of dressing. It was a bowl of simple mixed greens accompanied by a salad set of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt, and black pepper mill. I placed some greens on my salad plate, drizzled over some olive oil, added a couple dashes of balsamic vinegar, a pinch of sea salt, and a twist of the mill. Done.

 

After my first bite, it hit me. Wow! The acid of the vinegar, the crispness of the lettuces, the hint of salt and the spice of pepper cleared my palate. It revived my taste buds, which had been subdued by all of the food before. Truly, it didn’t really hit me until I was served the fruit course next. The sliced cantaloupe was so sweet, so juicy, so incredible tasting—it had everything to do with the salad course clearing my palate. Again, WOW!!!

 

That is how I learned the importance of the salad course coming after the entrée and before dessert. The salad cleared my palate; the fruit paved the way for the dessert. Brilliant. I was again refreshed, ready for dessert, coffee, and an after-dinner drink, too.

 

While I was in Minneapolis last weekend (remember the birthday party where I served the roasted cauliflower—read the comments from the previous post and you’ll see how successful the recipe was for someone else), I went with another friend to a shop where they sold olive oils from around the world and flavored balsamic vinegars.

 

Vinaigrette is set up as a taste-testing store where you take a small piece of bread, fill a tiny cup with a sample of an olive oil, a flavored balsamic or wine vinegar, or a combination of the oils and vinegars, and using the bread taste the sample. Here large metal samovars held an Italian, Greek, Egyptian, Californian, Syrian, and Tunisian olive oil to sample from. Behind were more samovars offering olive oils and balsamic vinegars infused with various fruit flavors, spices, and even chocolate. It was fun to mix a porcini mushroom-infused olive oil with a Cabernet wine vinegar or the chili pepper-infused olive oil with the chocolate balsamic vinegar. Richard, one of the owners, was very helpful and it was fun to spend a good 45 minutes there sampling all there was. We even talked about a possible book event there. You should check out their website and, should you happen to order anything, please tell them where you received your information.

 

The visit there reminded my taste buds of the importance of a well-dressed and well-placed salad during the course of the meal. I hope you try to vary up your salad schedule, too, and see what it does to your palate.

 

Buon Appetitto!

Mark

 

Photos:

(1) My favorite kind of salad: Arugula dressed with olive oil, balsamic vinegar (this time pear-infused thanks to Richard at Vinaigrette), grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper.

(2) My purchases from Vinaigrette in Minneapolis: Balsamic vinegars infused with: pear, raspberry, fig, and chocolate; and a bottle of their Italian extra virgin olive oil, naturally my favorite.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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"You don't send me flowers"...well, cauliflowers~

Let’s take a break from Siena and talk food~

 

I spent this past weekend in Minneapolis visiting some dear friends—one of which was celebrating a birthday by having a little get-together at her house.

 

Recently I have been on a cauliflower kick and when I was asked to make a pasta dish for the party, I thought of roasted cauliflower with penne pasta. This is a dish very similar to one that Nonna made—she sautéed her cauliflower—but I like the idea of roasting this underused vegetable. Italians like to serve their vegetables with a bit of spicy heat, especially bitter greens, and, though it isn’t green, using red pepper flakes is a great way to add a little “som’in, som’in” to the often bland flavor of cauliflower.

 

I made this dish several weeks ago using spinach penne and it turned out wonderful. I am a little dubious of my success this past weekend. I think I could have used a little more salt once I added the pasta to the “sauce.” Everyone said they enjoyed it, but I wonder if they’ll invite me to cook again. You win some and, sometimes, well, not so much.

 

Here is the recipe for the successful version I made several weeks ago. I hope you are successful, too.

 

Roasted Cauliflower with Penne Pasta

 

To roast the cauliflower:

2 heads of cauliflower

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, maybe a little more

1 teaspoon Kosher salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon red pepper flakes, more or less to taste

 

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.

 

Remove the core of each cauliflower, cut the florets into bite-sized pieces and place into a large bowl. Dizzle with olive oil, adding the salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Using your hands great toss the florets until they are covered with the oil and seasonings. Spread onto a large baking sheet making sure the florets are not crowded, otherwise they will steam more than they will roast. (For better roasting, I like to place the cut side of the florets down to make direct contact with the sheet.)

 

Roast for 10 minutes and check to see if the cut sides of the florets are browning. If not,  continue to roast (about an additional 5 mintues) until the sides in contact with the sheet are nicely browned. Remove the sheet from the oven, and using tongs, turn the florets over to roast an additional side. Place the sheet back into the oven and continue roasting for another 10-15minutes until side two is nicely browned. Remove the sheet again and let the florets cool on the sheet while you prepare the “sauce.”

 

For the “sauce”:

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 medium yellow onion, finely minced

1 cup low-sodium boxed chicken, or vegetable, broth, divided

½ teaspoon Kosher salt

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

 

In a large sauce pan over medium-high heat, add the oil to the hot pan and stir in the onions, coating well with the oil. Stir for one minute, making sure that the onions do not brown, and add ¼ cup of the broth. Stir occasionally, until the broth is almost evaporated, 3 to 5 minutes. Add another ¼ cup of the broth and continue stirring until the liquid has almost evaporated a second time. Repeat this step with the next ¼ cup of broth. When the third batch of broth is almost evaporated, stir in the salt, pepper, and remaining ¼ cup of broth. Still until well combined, remove from the heat, and set aside. This is the “sauce.”

 

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of boiling water to boil. Once boiling, add 2 tablespoons of salt and 1 pound of penne pasta. Cook the pasta as directed on the box.

 

While the pasta cooks, grate ¾ cup fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus an additional ¼ cup for garnish, and chop ¼ cup fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley. Set both aside for assembly.

 

Two or three minutes before the pasta is done, place the pan with the onion mixture back over low heat until it starts to simmer. When the pasta is al dente—tender but still has a bite, drain and add it to the simmering onions. Stir until well combined. Taste and adjust the salt and black pepper here (this is where I fell short in Minneapolis). Stir the roasted cauliflower and all of the dripping from the sheet into the sauced pasta. Again, taste for seasoning, and adjust as necessary.

 

Remove the pan from the heat, stir in the cheese, parsley, and drizzle with another tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil.  Plate and serve warm, garnishing with additional cheese.

 

**If you really want to turn up the heat, you can serve this with pepper sauce (peppers in white vinegar) on the side. Let people add dashes of the pepper sauce to their personal level of endurance.

 

Serves 8.

 

Hope this turns out well.

 

Buon appetitto!

 

Mark

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Behind the magic door~

"And behind door number 3..."

Often we imagine how grand it must be to sit in a piazza eating gelato, while enjoying the rushing sound of water as it cascades down an enormous carved horse, water nymph, or sea god. But those sights are for the masses, the peasants, the common rabble, as they hurriedly get about their lives.

 

Behind weathered, ancient walls, out of sight of the public’s purview, there exists a peaceful, calm, and private oasis. For all of Italy’s very apparent public beauty, there is a hidden world even more decorous. It is a private world of interior courtyards, porches, and loges.

 

Tucked away behind an unassuming set of doors along a very busy street in Siena, a cobblestone courtyard, complete with a wellhead and a very ornate loge, waits to be discovered. Busts of men fill niches that are staggered throughout the covered loge, the ceiling of which is frescoed within an inch of its life. Birds, fruit, creatures of mythological origins, and twisting vines are painted in plaster to capture and inspire one’s imagination. Here is where private beauty exceeds what is offered to the general public. These kinds of private treasures are abundant in Italy. But how can they be discovered?

 

Walk along the busy neighborhood streets of Rome and look for a flashing yellow light next to a weathered wooden door or gate. The flashing light warns the passerby that the door will be opening to let a car exit, providing a brief glimpse of the private beauty within.

 

Initially, when the light would start to flash, I would scuttle ahead of the slowly opening doors, hurrying to get out of the car’s way as it pulled forward and joined the bustling Roman traffic. Soon I learned to stop and wait before passing the opening door—giving me a chance to lean into the doorway, as the car passed, to see what hidden gem might be behind this door. Sometimes the Peeping Tom at the door—me—would see tall courtyard walls thickly covered in ivy, or a palm tree centered in the doorway, or statuary and a fountain surrounded by large terracotta pots overflowing with multicolored flowers.

 

At first, I found myself slightly ashamed by my brazen public peeping, but soon I got over that, and acted as if the exiting car and the people inside were a nuisance to me, an obstacle barring me from a pristine view. There were times when the hidden courtyard, or porch, or loge that came into view was so beautiful that I, for a moment, became indignant that the owners of this property were keeping it hidden from me.

 

I wanted to raise my fist in protest and shout at the tinted windows of the car, “How dare you lock up this beauty with its spouting water, potted flowers, vines, and nymph statuary?!!”

 

But I knew that might look too threatening and get me into trouble—some of the opening doorways were actually government buildings, and now is not the time to be screaming at a motorcade as it passes. I don’t imagine prison showers to be too enjoyable.

 

In Siena, I have walked along the same streets year after year; never realizing what was hidden from view. Richard and I happened upon the opened doors of the courtyard pictured above in 2006 and we have yet to discover it a second time. I am not certain why the doors were open to the public that day in particular. Each year, we walk the street looking for the opened doors, but for as individually beautiful as all of the doors are, once closed, they soon become a sea of sameness.

 

“Wait, I think it is over here,” I’ll say to Richard.

 

“No, it was farther up this direction.”

 

He stands in the middle of the crowded pedestrian street pointing uphill, while moving out of the way for the occasional car that is now slowly pressing its way through the throng. From above, I imagine this sight as resembling ants moving a large leave across the rainforest floor. A mass of ants moves like flowing water while a large green leaf slowly inches its way in the opposite direction, giving the illusion that it is swimming upstream against the rushing tide of ants. That is how a car inches through the ancient streets of Siena.

 

“Are you sure it isn’t here?” I reply, frustrated, as we continue our trek up and down the hillside avenue failing to rediscover our lost courtyard.

 

Someday, maybe, the owner of the courtyard will buy a car and install a flashing yellow light and, if they do, I hope I am standing there to peep as it opens!

 

Buona giornata~

 

Mark

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