Storied By Josh

Alaska, that Cruel Mistress

We paid our rent to Alaska dearly that summer. The most beautiful places in the world charge the highest. Alaska charges the most. The landscape will bring you to your knees, but in turn you will pay in weather, darkness, cold and sanity. I spent those short summer months in a rainy town building a hospital. Day after dreary day was spent under a sky convinced it needed to turn the ground to sea. The crew I worked with were a hearty few, however and took it all in stride. Of course I didn’t, but I made a few friends and they helped ease the burden.

We spent drenched days erecting huge glu-lams with cranes, setting joists and trusses high into the air and sheeting the roof with heavy plywood in blowing winds. One day a gust was strong enough it ripped a man’s tendon in his elbow. The sheet of plywood flew from his hands. I watched him reach for it a second before dropping to his knees. He tried desperately to not be useless to us, and succeeded well enough that we couldn’t justify sending him home.

By the time the temperatures began to dip in the morning, we were weather proofed and in the midst of abating months of rain water off the concrete floor. It was a messy bit and the heaters did little to warm my wet and shaking cold hands early in the day.

October found me back in our hovel. After a quick trip to Arizona to attend our friends’ wedding, we packed as lightly as two months would allow. Rare is the trip I bring more than a carry-on. On this trip I brought two checked bags.

Roma, La Citta Eterna

When the plane landed in Rome, I found my posture straighter. My muscles less sore. The afternoon sun warmed me deeply. It’s an old, well-worn, but strong town. It reminds me of a builder’s hands, with their calluses. I landed before she did. I feigned stoicism, but I was giddy to be back in my soul’s home again. I shot a video of the long taxi ride to Trastevere, a neighborhood known to food aficionados everywhere. These days though, only a few of the old osteria remain. Most of the “ristorante” are in name only. Their menus are offered in English and pictures, while the prices are as outrageous as the food is bland.

It is no small matter to the locals, who will enthusiastically explain their dire dilemma. I had discovered a place the last time we visited the Eternal City though, and the wait time was short. So I made my way there. Surely, I thought it is too late for the tourists. The winding street’s stones clacked back against shoes as I carried my two mountain packs a few short blocks to find the flat we had booked for the night. Wheeled luggage on old cobblestone often find themselves broken. They are a poor choice, and so I carry my belongings on my back. It helps remind me to keep my load small.

The building we were renting our flat from looked like every building in Rome. As a west coast American, I am very use to homes and residences being obvious: this building is obviously apartments, this building is obviously a house. In Roma, stand alone homes are rare. Most flats are hidden behind giant doors and courtyards. It is a relic to older times. Indeed ancient roman homes, called domus and insulae, were designed to hide as many vulnerabilities as possible.

The flat was an exercisable three floors up. An open floor plan revealed a kitchen first, then a living area with french doors that opened to a balcony overlooking the square. Below I could see tourists mingling near a fountain. They clutched espresso and gelato in the afternoon sun. Stinky, noisy delivery trucks expertly wove through skinny street and crowd. Hustle and bustle is different here than Hong Kong or New York. It’s leisurely. People have things to do and places to be for sure. It’s just that Italians know the places and things will be there. There is no rush. The air in the apartment was stuffy and warm. When I clicked the doors open they swung gracefully, but noisily inward. A rush of street noise, cool air and the scent of late lunch flooded my senses.

Oh Roma. My stomach gurgled expectantly.

After a quick night of restless sleep in the city, we took a taxi to the Tiburtina. The driver was an eccentric woman, based solely on the interior of her Fiat. It was covered in figurines, catholic icons and cat merchandise. Anna leaned over to me, with “Please can we visit the cat sanctuary when we come back?” I tried to hide my ever growing excitement at the thought of coming to one of the oldest cities in the hemisphere, rich with history, culture and pride only to visit a bunch of worm-infested strays.
“I guess,” I replied.

The Tiburtina is mostly for locals. Anyone is welcome to travel via the bus system, and it is in fact a great way to get about the country, especially in the south of Italy, where rail lines run down the eastern coast, and across to Naples, but neglect much of the more beautiful, spots. Still, there is nothing flashy about the bus station. It could be a bus station anywhere. It has the international homeless, the poor, and one convenience store. Which yes, does sell ready-to-eat pasta and pizza. No it is not good.

The road to our town is a winding one. The bus doesn’t go all the way. Once we arrive in the province capital, we must take another cab, roughly 50 euro and a 45 minute ride, to get up the mountain. Luckily, this time, we had friends who were willing to give us a ride.

I tried to close my eyes and sleep but the winding road offers such views that I could not. We passed by centuries, even millennia of history on our route: farms older than America, towers from the 1300’s Roman villas, medieval castles, ancient villages and thundering mountains. The elevation creep causes our ears to plug and then to pop. Our only stop was at a convenience store so the driver could smoke. I’m not sure why he did though. He was happily smoking with the window down the entire way. It mattered little. We arrived in the capital, a little sore, but still chipper. I always sweat and feel filthy when I travel. I never feel clean until the next day. Our friends, Patrizia and Francesca, were waiting. We were renting an ancient home from Patrizia, and Francesca is her daughter. We met the first time we came to our town. We stayed in Patrizia’s house and fell in love with it. It is in the heart of our small village and has three floors. The first floor is the kitchen, dining and bathroom. The middle floor the living room, and the top floor is a changing room, bedroom and the tiniest of bathrooms. It is a small, and honorable home. Patrizia and Francesca are models of Italian citizens, lovely, truly lovely people.

Francesca speaks English better than most Americans. She had been tutoring her mother in English, who when we first arrived two years prior, could barely speak a word. We conversed mostly through Google Translate. It is a marvel of software engineering and a godsend to the illiterate travelers of the world. This time however, we were able to converse amazingly well. Her English has improved so remarkably, and our Italian? Well I can say “bathroom” in a pinch and we’ll leave it at that.

Patrizia took us into her brood in the most motherly of ways. She walks with the confidence of a cop, often opening doors next to signs that demand they stay closed. If she needs something, she will get it. She’s a grizzly bear when it comes to looking out for her children, both born and adopted. I was in more than one office when she gave a dressing down to government officials, leaving them red faced and speechless. Often, begging our pardon the next time we met. She is kind and gentle, though not someone one wants to be on the wrong side of. She’s determined, bold-hearted and proud. She’s the salt of what makes Italy great.

Contrast to her daughter Francesca, who was bashful at first. She has the looks of her mother, with a piercing gaze, and youthful optimism. Though she was light-hearted and gentle as we got to know her. The only time I saw true fire in her blue eyes was when I teased that American pizza was better than Neapolitan. “I cannot even talk to you right now.” she said with the anger of Bellona. “American pizza cannot be called pizza. It is cake.” She shook her head with disdain. There was the strength she inherited from her mother. I cowered a little.
“I’m just saying. I think we took it and made it amazing.”
“You are stupid.” She said bluntly. Checkmate.

The ride up the mountain was filled with catching up. We had only met them once before but it was like settling into a well worn, comfortable shoe again. Sometimes we don’t pick who our family are, sometimes it just happens. Forty five minutes passed in a second and we were trying a new coffee shop. The rings under my eyes had betrayed my exhaustion. We ordered dessert and espresso. The sugary pastry slid effortlessly past my taste buds, firing the dopamine receptors in my brain. It was angel’s food. The strong, savory espresso sprung life back into my bones. We chatted for a bit and made plans to catch up the following days at the table. We had yet a ten minute trip up the mountain to reach our home for the next few months. We arrived in the dark. Patrizia climbed out the car. We embraced and said goodbye for the evening. “It is so good to see you again.” Patrizia said. “Buona notte. Get some sleep.”

Il Nostro Villaggio

The region is a hilly, mountainous one. It can have earthquakes. Winding roads with little room move the denizens from one village to another. It is unpopular compared the tourist hotspots of Firenze, Roma, Milano and Napoli. The rain would come now and then and with it, vicious wind. We were at the peak of the mountain here and it would blow against the shutters. The rain would search for any nook and cranny. The village is somewhat cutoff from the coast, only intrepid tourists with time to spare would make their way here to this town of 9500. It boasts the best views of the region. The tallest peaks around stretch to the sky in the north, and the hills slowly drop down to the sea to the east and stretch down to the south. The west holds even more mountains and hills slowly pushing toward the Atlantic. Farms Olive tree groves and wine vineyards populate the hills. There are grassy knolls, but mostly forest trees and bushes hiding deadly asps and friendly cats. Take your chances if you hike off trail. Anywhere here, you are either walking up a hill or down one. Level ground is for the lazy folk down below. They say there is a law, that as long as you are not disturbing the peace or damaging valuable crops or property, you are allowed to walk anywhere. It’s a romantic notion, but not one that this foreigner tried often. It is not easy to argue legalese in a language you do not speak. “Bagno, per favore” isn’t a sound legal argument. Still we trekked many a mile during that fall.

The village itself has many alleys and side streets. It’s a medieval town, and thus the streets meander with a few that run the entire length.

They all lead somewhere though, whether it’s the main square, piazza with the church, nearly a thousand years older than the state I live in in America, or the city gate which has stood through two world wars, and dozens of smaller skirmishes, or the city park with a gorgeous walking bridge overlooking the tumbling hills below. The main street, aptly named Roma, holds all the shops the surrounding locals come to buy. Clothing, vintage wine, baked goods, electronics, butchered meat, tools and household goods are all sold here. It’s strangely urban, tucked away and hidden behind buildings with whispering walls, longing to tell you the secrets of history you don’t read in books.

The tiny streets fill with cars only for a few hours at a time, mostly when the farmer’s market opens on the weekends. The Terrace near our favourite coffee shop fills with farmers and their produce, all grown locally. The locals move about the tables and stalls. “Pesce fresco dell’adriatico!” A man calls to us from his ice filled truck. Anna moves in. Damnitall I think to myself looks like we’re having fish tonight. We snack on biscotti and cornetto as we meander to and fro.

We are on vacation, so we “piano.” It is a word that means many things in Italy. It means floor, as in “quattro piano” or fourth floor. It also means the instrument. But mostly I heard it in response to my American tradesman demeanor “slow down” “Piano, Piano!” Patrizia would call to me as I wolfed down the best pasta this side of Pluto. Or as I would hurriedly try to get through grocery shopping.

Shopping. There’s a whole different game. Especially with a partner who has food restrictions. One quickly learns very specific useless-in-any-other-aspect-of-life words when grocery shopping. Words for unique ingredients like: benzoato di sodio. I digress from my subject, but these little nothings are very important eventually. You find that, sure Italy is much like America except in the little things. The things that end up mattering. And then suddenly alone in a supermarket in a small village on a mountain, this woman is speaking to you in the language everyone knows except you and pointing and growing frustrated that you’re here shopping without an inkling of any knowledge ever.

You have a sudden realization that you are the foreigner, and you wholly understand the word.

Part 2 continues soon