Category Archives: Life in Italy
2009 L'Eroica Photos
Simply put, I love bikes.
The culture of cycling is a large reason I have chosen to live in Italy, for the roots run deep and rich.
This past weekend we headed south to Tuscany to photograph the lifestyle around the 2009 L’Eroica. An event celebrating the culture of bike racing and all things that we humans have done with the bicycle. Ironically, in addition to the event I was able to also enjoy the town hosting it, Gaiole in Chianti, where I spent 6 months living on a ranch in 1997. What a joy to be able to play with photography, where I fell in love with photography.
For additional L’Eroica information, visit our DolomiteSport site’s similar page
Also posted in Cycling, Photography, Travel
Tagged Bike Culture, Cycling, Europe, Italy, road biking, Tuscany
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Tuscan Truths
The word Tuscany conjures up many images, ideas, perceptions and perhaps even flavors. For the American it signifies a quintessentially Italian landscape, food and wine. Ironically, it is the same for an Italian. It is all things that Italy is supposed to be, for Italian and foreigners alike. Brunello, Florence, Michelangelo, Chianti, Under the Tuscan Sun, etc, etc, etc…
I am lucky enough to have had a long association with it. Like the Dolomites, I went there during travels years ago, fell in love with the place, and promptly went right back to spend time living and working in the Chianti Region. There I picked olives, made olive oil, built a vineyard, lost the hard “C” in Italian (Che hosa/hoha hola, etc…) and learned to swear like a true Tuscan, “Maremma……….”
Last week we spontaneously decided to head south for warmer temps, Tuscany was just the spot. For Janine, days of running and lounging in the sun, drinking fine wines and eating good food pulled her. For me, as usual, the bike. Training camp time.
Our first stay was in Chianti as I had a strong desire to ride the roads of the area in which I lived 12 years ago. Little had changed in all this time and in no time at all I felt I had never left. Next up we headed to Pienza, a small village we knew nothing about but which came highly recommended. There, we discovered heaven. The Val d’Orcia is a UNESCO region comprising of the famous Tuscan towns Montalcino and Pienza. Both, perfect medieval villages that are exactly as one imagines a Tuscan medieval village should be.
But the hero of the area is the landscape one looks upon from the villages. Where one typically marvels at nature’s creation, in the Val d’Orcia it is man’s sculpting of the landscape that keeps one staring with a kind of sublime respect for what humans are capable of. Nature, and mans place within it, as art, the landscape as an art piece, and most certainly a masterpiece of simple elegance. Why I had never heard of this area I have no idea, and upon returning home to the north of Italy, discovering that Italian friends know little of it has me further baffled.
When I set out on my first ride from Pienza, I dropped out of the walled village’s gateway and entered the landscape we had spent the evening staring at. It was morning and the sun’s gentle rays were dampened by mist. Within minutes I had extraordinarily strong sensations from the feel of the air, the scenery, the sounds and especially the smells. One minute I was reminded of Alaska, the next the plains of India, then Iceland, Chile, Eastern Washington, northern California, one after another, memories from all these other beautiful places. I realized it was because in Tuscany the landscape takes the best from everything and with a wave of the Tuscan hand’s magic wand combines it all to make what see in the postcards.
If you are a cyclist it goes a step further, not only is it a perfect landscape to enjoy, but the roads are nearly void of cars with the silkiest, smoothest asphalt one can imagine. A 5 hour ride is not nearly enough to satisfy the curiosity of what is around every S-curve or hilltop.
Simply put, go to Tuscany.
On Display
We would always laugh at the consistency of the kids learning to belay at the climbing gym. For whatever reason when we taught them to ask, “Am I on belay?” before climbing, they would often forget this specialized term and instead repeat, “Am I on display?”. The other day, along with 5 other grown men, we most certainly were.
Our local small university has a beautician program which requires the students to get some “hands on” training. Facials, waxing, pedicures, manicures and of course body massage must all be practiced. Rather than have the students work on each other the teacher has them go real world and finds a local sampling of volunteers for the students. This is where our group of friends come in.
My first visit went smoothly enough, I was only mildly caught off guard by the fact that it truly was a classroom type scenario where 6 men are paraded in wearing flashy white robes before being directed to their student and then promptly dis-robed down to undies for school. All the students being early 20 something females.
My latest visit had a new twist. We 6 men were each given our robe, our funny little slippers for the 3 meter walk to the tables and an odd elastic string with funny paper sacks on each side. At first glance I thought nothing of it.
But once we were all isolated in our changing area, a glass walled room at the front of the classroom, the horror of what we must do struck each of us in its own way. The little papery things were underwear replacements. The memory of laughing hysterically at Janine’s own story came to mind, where the women were handed a similar sentence to be carried out, but their’s came in the form of G-Strings. Janine described how one older women, having no idea of the proper way to install a G-String, had actually put it on backwards. The tragedy of the situation was so extreme that no woman found enough strength to speak up before she wandered off for her free massage with the string in the front.
In our case it was almost worse. We were fortunate to have a front and a back, we just had no idea which was which. One side of the baggy material was larger than the other, and there were clearly differences in design and performance. Picture 6 men, naked, all holding these absurd little mini-outfits out in front of their waists, trying to decide what to do, which way to put them on, and just what the implications may be if you get it wrong. Or scratch that, don’t picture it at all. Better, picture 6 men in the above configuration behind glass walls in front of a classroom of early 20 something female students pretending to not look in.
We all stood there in silence studying the things, likely with similar thoughts going through our minds, then at precisely the same moment we all looked up and commenced with man talk. Nervous comments and tension easing banter filled the room. I stayed mostly silent, not wanting to chime in with my 4th grade level Italian. I knew I was about to look like a fool, but why sound like one as well. Finally, each man made his decision and committed himself to it by stepping through his elastic string. The time had come to parade ourselves into the room. With a roughly 50/50 split of big sack in front vs. small sack in front, we opened the door and meekly walked to each of our tables. It was then I decided to make a joke, someone had to, I’m not sure why it had to be the guy who barely speaks the language, but I went for it. “Speriamo che non c’è fouco”. Translated it is the obligatory, “Let’s hope there is no fire”. If only one reader of this blog chuckles it is more than I got from my colleagues. They say jokes don’t translate, I have proven this true time and time again.
Under the Watchful Eye
I was a Catholic school boy, trained to feel guilty for nearly everything I did while growing up. At some point I began to wander away from the church, my drifting turned to speeding and soon Confession and Guilt were items I had left in my wake with the discovery of life and all its many wonders. One memory that still resides in my head are the eyes of the Christ figure. No matter where I sat in class, no matter what I did, those eyes were upon me. Christ on the cross is found most everywhere in Italy, trail sides, the random homes yard, in town, and even on summits. I still look at them, still wonder if I am doing right, but now with a lifetime of experiences, I smile and consider giving him a wink.
And so today as I rode my bike by a little scene outside a small chapel, not only were the eyes of Christ peering onto the vision before us.
My ride started just before noon, Saturday. As I so often do, I wander from town on a lazy road that winds it’s way through some farmland. Where the road crests there is a tiny chapel sitting entirely alone and receiving sun all day. Outside is a bench optimally facing south, it is a perfect place to sit, soak up warmth, and think of nothing. Today an older couple was just making themselves comfortable as I pedaled by.
A loaf of bread, some cheese, a tomato, an apple, and the obligatory, and influential, bottle of wine. Our eyes met, smiles were exchanged, and a pop of the cork sent me off down the small descent. This is a scene run across countless times each day in Italy.
Two hours later, returning to town, I was making my way back up the hill when I noticed that the couple was still in place, but in a decidedly different condition. He was laying on the bench, with his wife’s lap serving as a pillow, she was sprawled out, topless, and enjoying the rotational massage her husband was offering. The wine bottle, having served its purpose, was cast aside and ready for the recycle bin.
As I approached, I felt little shame in having a look. That is until I peered above them and regretfully made eye contact with Christ, hanging there outside the chapel. I held his eyes for a brief moment before his own gaze was redirected, comically, back down to the spectacle beneath him. The things he must see.
Give, give, give, and you shall receive
As I stood in front of 10 girls, in class, in my underwear, my only thought was, “There is most certainly a blog entry in this.”
Matthias had called and asked if I would be interested in donating my body to some girls for an hour. ”Yes”, seemed the obvious response.
And so I enjoyed a great massage from the University Beautician students. While on the table it occurred to me how it all works.
We have suddenly found ourselves living in this incredibly wonderful community where helping one another is taken to an all new level.
Janine and I have marveled at the ease with which we have dropped into a community of friends here. In Europe, where groups of friends are tight, it is not always so easy to be a newcomer.
Then Igor said it the other day, “In Italy you help your friends and you will be helped. The two of you have done this, and you have been welcomed.”
It was the same in our old community of Bishop where we also found friends doing things for one another that was above and beyond the call of friend duty.
It is truly a wonderful way to live. I feel that when you have found yourself amongst these people and this way of living, you have found a home.
Tonight I am off to teach an Adobe Lightroom class, free for friends, and all my pleasure.
Also posted in Friends, Personal Story, Random Thoughts
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Tour de Sas: A Delightful Spanking
If you enjoy backcountry skiing where you feel as if your being chased, and you are never allowed to stop and rest, I have just the sport for you. Euro ski rando racing.
I have been talking about the Tour de Sas for the last week because I was excited to try this sport and much of my recent training has been focused on surviving what I knew would be a fast and competitive event. It was. Additionally, the race is 20 minutes right up the valley from where we live, so it is a local event.
From the morning start in Alta Badia, where AC/DC’s Highway to Hell was blaring, to four hours later when I crossed the finish line, my heart rate rarely dropped below 170. Charging up the climbs, trying to pass outside the track, frantic transitions (skins on/skins off) and insanely fast descents (confirmed, no turning) all characterize this sport.
It was obvious it was going to be a hard day when, 5 minutes into the race, I checked my heart rate and saw I had already burnt 92 calories. This actually gave me some number crunching to do in anticipation of the post race pasta feed. Just how much pasta is 4000 calories anyway?
Overall, a brilliant experience, to say I loved it is an understatement. I have some new visuals in my head; skiing down from the San Antonio at frightening speed with ridiculously soft ski boots on, out of the corners of my eyes, both sides, I see cartwheeling humans. I was hanging on for dear life as my skis were pointed straight to the bottom and my body was getting tossed around in the chopped up powder. Speaking of which, how very odd to ski great snow and NOT make turns, rather to ski the slop because it is faster.
The finish was a blessing for more than just getting to stop. I was able to seek a new song, other than Highway to Hell, to have in my head. My time, 4 hours, 118th out of 290. I am happy. The winner…? 2:48. Amazing to think of the speed the leaders maintained. So inspiring. I have some serious learning to do.
Many thanks to the organizers; Daniele, Paolo, Andrea and the always wonderful (and our partner) Igor Tavella – for the cushy hotel room and massively tasty calorie packed dinner. And next year I will be back, complete with lycra suit.
Janine was on hand to make some snaps from the event: The 2009 Tour de Sas
Also posted in Dolomites, DolomiteSport, Skiing
Tagged Alta Badia, Backcountry Skiing, Dolomites, Sci Alpinismo, Ski Rando Race, Ski Touring
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Italian Class, as in school
Two nights a week I sit in a room full of intelligent adults and speak like an idiot. We all have our normal lives as professionals, parents and/or business people but still we are forced to gather in an attempt to practice something other than our mother tongue. It makes for comedy, primarily from watching the teacher’s frustration at the consistency in which we screw up in a class that is called “conversational” Italian. Ancient Neandertal conversed as well, although through grunts and stick figure drawings in the dirt, we are not so far off in our methods. In each class I feel like David Sedaris, although unlike Sedaris our teacher does not verbally abuse us, rather she is fascinated by the fact that every student, without exception, bought all of their furniture at Ikea.
Speaking for myself, thankfully in English, I have transitioned into a new level of “student”. I think it comes from not really caring, and knowing that if I fail, at worst, I will just look foolish when trying to get my skis tuned or make changes to my Italian cell phone service. I do take my study of the Italian language seriously, but working all day in English, being self employed and having the necessary communication skills to succeed, it is very, very difficult for me to slow down and find work arounds for my sentences. It is just not natural for me to not have a rapid fire response to, “How is it you are so tan but claim to work fulltime?” Ma va…
Also posted in Humor, Random Thoughts
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Spanked! Welcome to the Dolomites
I left the house in the dark, 6:45 a.m., the street stone silent and glazed with a layer of ice. Rain drops came down confused about whether or not they should be snowflakes. Our third story house was getting snow, at street level, rain. We were snowline.
“Buon Giorno”, I looked up from my feet to see the “Nonno Vigilante” (Supervising Grandfather) standing beneath an awning. He is responsible for getting school kids safely across the street, it may be Saturday but kids are off to school. I made my salutations and went back to staring at my feet as they careened around on the icy walk.
Minutes later I was safely off the ice and cruising on skis through the field behind our house. My goal, ski rando race training on piste behind the house. 1400 meters up. Arriving at the parking lot, a group was developing, the biggest I have seen. One piece lycra suits, lots of long, muscular legs and little chatter. Cold, dark, wet and intimidated is what I felt so I cruised through muttering hellos, I knew I wouldn’t be alone for long. Sure enough, at the first steep section they swarmed me. I jumped on as if it were the peloton, feeling natural sitting on wheels (ski tails in this case).
Up, up, up. Abundant and impressively large snowflakes were piling up on my shoulders and head, the sound of breathing all around. The feeling was back, this is what I live for, home, amongst my people. Here, the sports I value are mainstream while in America they are fringe, oddball, and best left not mentioned.
90 minutes later, as we approached the top our group was engulfed in thick clouds and swirling snow, visibility a thing of the past. Instead of continuing up the lower angled normal piste, the group veered off to the “diretissima”, a steep shot straight to the gondola station. This is where I said my goodbyes with only rear ends to wave to, not by choice but out of concern for dropping dead. No matter how fit you feel you are here, there is always some grandfather more than willing to remind you of what “fit” really means.
Making my way up, alone, it hit me. Not any life revelation or realization, not a skier, but the smell of the restaurant preparing lunch. Garlic, tomato sauce, bready things and basil. Red, white and green just like the flag. Puttering along in the clouds, frozen solid hair, and quite ready for a descent, all I could think of was the food I would not be enjoying as I had zero Euros on board.
The top, no sight of the group, wind ripping now, freezing, skins off, goggles and jacket on, time to drop to my home. Bliss.
…………Fuchs, this is for you.
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