new year's eve

On New Year's Eve 2001 I was in Siracusa (Syracuse), Sicily, with my then-boyfriend M. I remember the next day the euro officially debuted. Sicily was not my favorite place but I would probably go back just for the food.


From the home page I kept at the time:

... A very ancient city indeed. In those days it [Siracusa] was generally limited to the island of Ortygia (which is only about 300 feet away from the mainland), and Ortygia is where we generally looked around, the rest of Siracusa being generally modern and uninteresting. One very odd highlight, if you can call it that, of the modern part is a very strange church built around a statue of the Madonna that was said to weep. Hence the building is supposed to resemble a tear. It’s just ugly, like a big evangelical church you’d see on the side of the highway in Kansas or something.

Ortygia itself is not that big. Almost all of the buildings date from after 1693, when there was a devastating earthquake. Giovanni Lanza took the opportunity to refit the entire city in the Baroque style, again not my favorite. But there were plenty of winding narrow streets, lovely decrepit buildings, and of course, great views of the Ionian sea. The first day there, while meandering through we stumbled on quite a good restaurant that wasn’t in any of our books, but we noticed a Slow Food sticker on the door, so we decided to go off the book for once. Mike had some really excellent shrimp, like nothing I’ve ever tasted. They were barely cooked and quite sweet. I had some sort of tiny fish fried that look like extremely small transparent squid or something. Everything was fresh fresh fresh needless to say.

That first day we also noticed a man selling raw sea urchins in one of the piazzas. You can just eat them raw right there. I really wish we had bought some then, but we weren’t in the mood—it was a bit early—and we thought we’d see him again. But we never did! I think sea urchins may be overfished around there—and he did have sort of a shifty look about him. We also had some great fruit juices—I had some good lemon juice and another day we got fresh squeezed orange juice, with blood oranges. Another day we stopped at an alimentari by the daily market and picked out some cheese and salami. Then we asked the guy about bread, and he gave us some really great stuff, spicy and with bits of olives in it. I wish I knew the name of it. One night we were too stuffed to eat a big dinner, so we just stopped at a panino hut, which seemed to be very popular. They had all types of sandwiches, including…horse meat! So of course M. had to get it. It was tasty—like beef only more so. But I just kept thinking of poor Mr. Ed.

We were in Siracusa for New Year’s Eve. For some reason I felt like we had to go to dinner, so we made a reservation at a nice place. Of course we ended up not being hungry at all, and we were facing a 7-course meal. It was not even that wonderful. At midnight they gave us a bottle of sparkling wine. I didn't really want to be inside the restaurant at midnight, but there was no way we could leave with the bottle without looking like jerks, so we stayed. Afterward we just walked around for a bit, watching drunk people and trying to avoid fireworks set off in the street. Then we went home and tried to ignore the huge patches of mold on the wall of our room. Happy 2002!

For me, I hope 2010 brings a lot more travel, to Italy and elsewhere! May the New Year be joyful and prosperous for you and yours.

Christmas in Italy

I spent one Christmas in Italy, the year I lived in Rome. The holiday is typically a little more spartan than Americans are used to--there are some lights, of course, but decorations are pretty low on glitz for the most part. There also aren't many Christmas trees--instead everyone pours their energy into presepi, or Nativity scenes. These can get pretty elaborate, with tableaux not only of the holy family but of village scenes, such as women drawing water from the well or even, I remember, a pizza baker, who shoveled a pizza in and out of an oven. Other versions take more artistic tacks--I saw one that was artfully created out of twisted and folded paper, origami-style.

Not that there isn't a festive atmosphere--people are out shopping, of course; the air smells of roasted chestnuts being sold in paper cones on the corner; and there's a Christmas market in Piazza Navona. I remember loading up on amazing profiteroles from a bakery in my neighborhood, having Christmas lunch at Agata e Romeo, listening to choral singers at Santa Maria Maggiore, and for some reason watching Pope JP's midnight mass on TV.

However, it's always nice to be with lots of friends and family at the holidays. I am currently hoping that the ice storm in Chicago today passes in time for me to make it to Boston tomorrow so I don't have to spend Christmas Eve alone and Christmas at O'Hare! Fingers crossed.

more tales of Italy

I thought I'd post a few entries now and then from my old home page from when I lived in Rome. A home page, kids, was kind of a proto-blog. The main difference is that I was writing for friends and family--there was no expectation that the general public would find or even be interested in the pages.

I've edited a bit here and there for readability and included some explanatory notes.

Some background: I arrived about a week before 9/11. (I'll have to write about the experience of being in a foreign country during a national crisis and not knowing a soul sometime.) To my eternal regret, I was faithful to my boyfriend at the time instead of availing myself of the many attractive Italian men around.

I read this and I am touched by how young and giddy I sound.

11/18/01
What a terrible correspondent I am. No updates, no pictures! Well, I can write something for you now, though I haven't taken any pictures lately. I should be able to rectify that soon, when my brother and Mike [the then-boyfriend] come to visit--I'll be more motivated.

What have I been doing lately? Well, mostly just pottering around, going to my Italian classes, and shopping for myself, under the guise of looking for Christmas presents. I do need to get some warmer clothes, so I have a vague excuse. It hasn't been too terribly cold yet—except for last night! I went out with Rachel and Roberto [a couple I got to know and am still friends with--Rachel is British, Roberto is Italian]. First we went to a pub that apparently is very popular with American students. It was OK, except that I felt really old, as usual!* Then we met some of their friends and went to a bar near Piazza Navona. It was about what you would expect—loud, crowded, lots of semi-drunk people. Not really my scene. But I haven't discovered the Roman equivalent of Simon's or the Hideout [two bars in Chicago I used to go to a lot] yet—if there even is such a thing. Roberto's friends were very appreciative of the waitresses in artfully cut outfits showing off lots of skin, so maybe that's why they put up with everything else. We did want to go to this wine bar, or enoteca, that I've been going to eat lunch at lately—it's very popular at night though, so we would have had to wait about an hour for a table. That would have been nicer, quieter, and we could have nibbled at food with some good wine. Next time maybe.

I did get a chance to speak some Italian to Roberto's friends, although when they talked amongst themselves it was once again apparent how much I have to learn. I could pick up words, and usually get the gist of what they were talking about. Roberto said "You speak Italian very well!," but I'm still very limited. On the way back to the car we walked through a nearly empty Piazza Navona. The piazza is a huge tourist thing, always filled with people, so you can imagine how striking it was. (Lisa [my American roommate] says that her boyfriend and his friends used to play soccer there at night when they were kids.) That's the secret of beating the crowds—just stay out til 3 in the morning! It was really lovely—we also passed the Pantheon, no one around, and incredibly, lots of stars visible. If Mike and I can stay up that late after gorging ourselves on dinner, we should walk around there. But it had become absolutely freezing! I don't have a proper winter coat, just a leather one, and anyway I didn't think I would need much of a jacket that night. But I was pulling my thin scarf over my nose as we walked back. I thought it would be really cold today, but it's not too bad. Actually now there's a thunderstorm, but I like storms.

Friday night I actually went to go see a play in Italian. It was called "Odio e nazisiti in Illinois," so you can imagine that I was intrigued by the title. In English that's "Hatred and nazis in Illinois." I thought there was a slight chance it might have something to do with IL and if so, it might make a good Our Town [a now-defunct section in the Chicago Reader] to talk to the writer. After reading the description I thought it even more unlikely, but I went anyway—I didn't have anything else to do. It was one of those "relationship comedies"—a really neurotic woman who rarely leaves her apartment gets a call from this basketball-loving, normal guy (he actually wore a Bulls jersey in the first act), who is supposedly a long-lost boyfriend. Then (I think) after a long time talking they actually figure out after talking for a long time that he called the wrong number, it's a huge mistake, ha ha! I did actually understand some of the jokes, but the guy especially talked so fast, it was just a blur of rolled r's.

Here's my wacky observation for the week: Italians talk to themselves a lot. You pass them on the street, in the store, mumble mumble, paranoia, are they talking about me? I think they just love to talk so much that keeping it inside their head doesn't come naturally.

Here's another thing I experienced: Desert Rain. No, it's not just a vaguely hippie-ish perfume oil you can buy at Whole Foods, it's an actual phenomenon! Last Sunday I was waiting for the bus in some slight rain and I noticed that my bag was covered in spots of dirt. And then my skirt and my boots, too. Apparently it's dust or dirt from the desert carried in the rain. Which desert? I have no idea. It made a mess though—all of the cars and the sidewalks were filthy. The sky that day was really weird too—if it was in Chicago I would say it was tornado weather—it was sort of orange, and warm outside too. Very odd.

Lisa just came to my door and said, "Are you journaling?" Argh! "Journal" is not a verb!*

*I was all of 31. I didn't know from feeling old.

**Still fighting the battle against this.

Sometimes, on a bright day, the skyline looks like a toy model that you could pluck from the ground.

A Day Without . . .

Today is No Berlusconi Day in Italy, a rally against the country's libidinous leader with all the legal troubles (I'm watching the Rome rally live on Rainews24). I wish we Americans had thought of doing this with Bush! Maybe this is something we could consider here in Chicago--a No Daley Day in protest of truly horrifying waste, corruption, and total disregard for the welfare and wishes of the majority of Chicago residents.

Thanksgiving (belated post)

Via Panisperna/photo by Lalupa

Corey's post on the bemusement of the French regarding Thanksgiving reminded me of the time I tried to explain the holiday to a Spanish friend in Rome. I too had language difficulty--I actually spoke Spanish better than Italian at that point but since we were in Italian class together, we tried to stick to that tongue.

I said that Thankgiving was a day of giving thanks--for food, for family, friends, etc. He said, "So it's a religious holiday then."

"No, not at all," I said. "It's a national holiday--and you know in the States we try to keep church and state separate."

"But who are you giving thanks to?" he asked pointedly.

"Well . . . " I was a little taken aback by this one. Not being particularly religious myself, I falteringly tried to explain that it was a time to slow down and be grateful.

"You're giving thanks to God," he said authoritatively, "so it's a religious holiday."

I gave up and let Enrique think he understood American holidays better than me. Then later I went to a friend's apartment on the Via Panisperna, my favorite street, who was running quite late with the meal because when she went to pick up the turkey, she showed up five minutes after the butcher shop closed for lunch. (In Italy, many stores close for a couple hours starting around 2:30 or so. A nice tradition, but also very frustrating when you need something asap.) Other guests were the hostess' fruttivendolo and his wife, and an American dentist with his two sullen Italo-American teenagers, and a very cute guy named Filippo who seemed interested in talking to me and who I will forever regret not encouraging more.

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, wherever you are.

oeuf en sauce meurette--kind of

Last week I invited some friends over for dinner, a good excuse to make something special. I was considering Julia Child's recipe for boeuf bourgignon, inspired partly by seeing Julie & Julia and partly by the cool fall weather. I have a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the 60s that was my mother's. I don't think she used it much--there aren't many stains and some years ago a little card fell out of it from the friend who gave it to her. Looking at the recipe, I started to lose steam myself. So many steps! I am not the type of cook who likes to stand around for hours chopping and fussing. That's why I like making Italian food so much--it's generally pretty simple and tastes delicious.

So I turned to Epicurious, my favorite "cookbook" these days. (I love to plug in items that I have in the fridge and pantry to see what I can do with them.) It came up with a recipe for beef braised in red wine--essentially the same thing as boeuf bourgignon, but a little more rustic. I did not use Barolo--I'd already splurged on a bottle of Margaux to drink. (I'd walked into the neighborhood wine store and they were having an informal tasting with a distributor. Of course the one I really liked was the most expensive. The Curse of Good Taste without the wealth to back it up.) Instead I used an affordable Cotes du Rhone.

It turned out very well--I took some pictures, but I accidentally deleted them at a fashion event this weekend while I was trying to make more room on my memory card. (And frankly a photo of a pot full of some red boiling substance is maybe not so exciting.) Unfortunately one of my friends couldn't make it at the last minute, so there was a lot left over. It was definitely Meat Week over here. Not that I'm complaining.

Around the end of the week I had more of the sauce left than the meat. I recalled reading a recipe for meurette sauce in a blog written by an American expat in France, one of the many expat blogs I check in with regularly. It occurred to me that my leftover broth was basically meurette sauce. I poached an egg, made some polenta, et voila!


As a side note, I have discovered a love for polenta. I like it as a side dish with meaty entrees like this, or even just plain, with butter and a little salt. When it cools and becomes solid, I like to fry it in butter and eat it for breakfast with molasses. I bought a little bag at Whole Foods that is almost gone. All they have at Trader Joe's, where I go for non-produce staples, is the premade kind, so I'll probably have to make a special trip to Whole Foods to get more soon.

Paris in Chicago

I think I write this post every year (or maybe every season), but I am so powerfully drawn to the area in Grant Park around Buckingham Fountain. It feels so wonderfully Parisian--a wide-open space that reminds me of the Place de la Concorde with carefully tended gardens and wide allées a la the Tuileries. This weekend I took advantage of the excellent early fall weather to take a bike ride along the lakefront all the way downtown.


The chairs are noticeably bigger than those you see in Paris parks, the better to fit our extra-large American bottoms.

While the atmosphere is delightfully French, the food is not. The kiosk run by the Washburne Culinary Institute really needs to step up its game. There is no excuse for a sloppily put together, supremely mediocre turkey and Swiss sandwich with no finesse whatsoever--especially when you are in cooking school.

A friend had the brilliant idea that someone should open up a crepe cart. If they could get a permit, they would clean up. I can just taste that Nutella crepe now! Are you listening, entrepreneurs?




There are even people walking tiny dogs.

the ancient version of the revolving restaurant

Archeaologists in Rome have uncovered what they believe is a revolving banquet hall in the emperor Nero's Golden Palace. "The purported main dining room, with a diameter of over 50 feet (16 meters), rested upon a 13-foot (4-meter) wide pillar and four spherical mechanisms that, likely powered by a constant flow of water, rotated the structure," says the New York Times.

The palace was the ancient Roman version of the Aaron Spelling mansion--sprawling and flashy. From thecolosseum.net:

The area of the property was 985 feet long by 295 feet in width or depth. Among the other things there was an amphitheatre, a market, and bath-gymnasium complex, served by an aqueduct 75 Km (50 miles) long. Baths were served by a flow of both salted water and sulphurous one from the Albulae springs. Upon the Caelian Hill there were beautiful gardens, zoos, woods and parks where cattle roamed . There were hundreds of statues, grottoes, nymphaeums, porticoes painted with romantic landscapes; multiple waterfalls flowed all over. The lake - where the Colosseum was later built - was surrounded by woods and fake sea villages, and it was so big that ships could manoeuvre in it. The rooms of the palace were decorated with rare stones and mother of pearl; in the banquet rooms the guests were inundated by flowers and perfumes from the ivory ceilings (R. Lanciani, Rovine...). One of the most famous of these rooms featured a circular roof painted with the stars and the planets, that revolved mechanically imitating the movement of the stars.

The Golden Palace, or Domus Aurea, as it is also known, was one of the more obscure and enjoyable sites I remember touring in the city. It was right when I was leaving Rome--I went with my stepmother and sister, pitching it to them as something few tourists bother to visit. (I let them go to the Vatican on their own--after dealing with the crowds in the Sistine Chapel, I wasn't eager to do it again.) I seem to remember the guides saying that after Nero's death the emperor Vespasian actually had it covered up with dirt to erase all traces of Nero's profligacy. I can't find a reliable source for this online, but I like the idea of an entire palace sealed up for thousands of years. At any rate, the structure is completely underground (quite near where I lived in Rome, in a much more humble abode), and they've only excavated a small percentage of it, even though its existence has been known of since the Renaissance. Raphael and other artists used to rappel down into the darkened rooms to take a gander at the wall paintings.

It's quite an eerie feeling to head into the cave-like rooms that are open, and even in the height of summer a jacket or scarf is a good idea as it can get really chilly. The rare stones and mother of pearl are long-gone, but some of the wall paintings still exist, and the scale and size of the rooms offer a sense of the building's grandeur.

the end of the season

Lifeguard stations in a jumble, ready for storage.

I haven't done much to tie in the last couple of posts to Italy--but surely the appreciation of fiori, giardini, e il lago is molto italiano?

favorite summer spot of 2009

As you may have figured out, my favorite spot this summer is a section of the lakefront bike path that is actually a little detour off the main path. It is a narrow, gravel stretch between the Sydney Marovitz public golf course and the lake. I like it because it runs right next to the shore, there are weeping willows and the sound of crickets and cicadas in summer, and the traffic on Lake Shore Drive seems very far away.



At either end, various section of land are fenced off for butterfly and bird sanctuaries, or to let it to back to its original prairie nature. A field of pink, purple, and blue flowers at the north end attracts not only butterflies and bees but a surprising cross-section of the public--men on bikes, couples out for a stroll--who stop to admire the view of the blooms.




Sailboats gently sway in the harbor as the golden, early-fall light wanes.

Wistful signs of the end of summer . . . but fall has its own pleasures.

(PS: I just figured out you can click the photos to view extra-large versions of them.)

lake and sky

Spent the weekend on the beach in Michigan, where the landscape is perhaps not so different from that of the northern French coast. (Certainly the weather, which was freakishly cool for August, felt northern.) There are even vineyards . . . and lots of old barns and houses along the back roads.




For food, though, we went pretty much all-American--grilled skirt steaks and s'mores one night, plus frozen custard and cheeseburgers for lunch one day. We did have an Italian flavor on the second night, with me making a great amatriciana sauce out of fresh tomatoes (N.B., in my version, I do not use garlic--I like to have the bacon-y flavor right out front). The grocery store even had pancetta--they were well set up for us city folk.

The lovely little cottage we stayed in was well-stocked with vintage cookbooks and other books about food. I picked up this one (you may know Ludwig Bemelmans better as the author of the Madeline books) and read it all weekend. Now apparently out of print, it's a memoir of his life as a waiter and eager gourmand in Europe and the U.S. in the middle of the 20th century. It put me a very pleasant Continental frame of mind, for which I was very grateful.

corniche

e


We had a few really lovely, golden, late-summer days here. Maybe I was in a French mood from watching this movie the night before, but driving along North Lake Shore Drive to work in the morning reminded me of Cannes--something about the combination of the road, the trees on the median and the park to the left, and the sun glinting off the water and the gently swaying boats in the harbors.

It's somewhat odd that given how much the lake is a part of the city--and how huge it is--that we don't have more of a coastal culture. Of course, there are probably many people who spend every weekend on their boats or at the lakefront and would strongly disagree. I wish I knew more of them!

Blogging reminds me daily how pathetic my photography skills are--at least for this one I have the excuse that I was driving at the time. Please use your imagination!

mussels

Tried out a new recipe for steamed mussels last night from this book on a friend. Although the recipes have French flair, this one respects the Italian culinary ideal of the best ingredients, simply prepared. This is what went in it:

mussels
olive oil
garlic
chopped chili peppers
white wine
tomato sauce


I made a salad from green leaf lettuce using an olive oil, vinegar, and anchovy dressing from a Mario Batali recipe that is supposed to be for puntarelle, which is probably out of season and even in season would be hard to find here. Of course with mussels you have to have frites--in this case baked, chunky-style--and aioli, which I buy because the last few times I have tried to make this mayonnaise-like condiment, it hasn't worked out. This is one of the few recipes where I have to admit defeat.

Mussels are really easy to make and inexpensive too, about $5 a pound (a pound per person is generous). I suspect us non-coastal Midwesterners find the idea of preparing them intimidating, especially when recipes refer to the de-bearding process (removing the seaweed-type substance that comes out of the shell). But the ones at Whole Foods are already de-bearded--just give 'em a good rinse. Then you put them in a pot with the ingredients, steam for about six minutes, and that's it.

The whole meal cost less than $35. (I don't think I've ever gotten out of Whole Foods for less than $50).

old stone

Rome is a bunch of old stones piled on top of each other throughout the centuries--marble cannibalized from ancient monuments to gild Renaissance palaces, rocks heaved in from ruins to plug holes, buildings built on top of older buildings built on top of even older structures. You look at an ocher-colored wall and try to wrap your mind around the fact that it has been the backdrop for events both historical and mundane for hundreds or thousands of years before you existed. For a moment the concept of time seems ridiculous--"How is that even possible, that I am here and they are not?" And then your brain rights itself and you accept the reality of time again, because you have no choice.

This stone wall along the lakefront bike path probably measures its life in decades, but how many kisses, scraped knees, and tantrums (it is right next to a public golf course) has it seen?

smart car

I've been seeing a lot of these around town lately and finally had the wherewithal to get off my bike and take a quick snap of one. The ones here seem to be two-seaters, but I've actually ridden in the back seat of one in Italy. It was uncomfortable, but doable.

I've considered getting one. Club Monaco and the Smart Car banded together on some publicity push a few months ago (I know--I didn't get it either) and I was badgered into taking a test drive. It handled pretty well, actually. But I'd be nervous about my long daily drive to the office, where I encounter a lot of semis. Semi versus Smart Car = Smart Car pancake. I'm not sure about the lack of passenger space either, but on the other hand 95 percent of the time it's just me in the car. It'd be a nice second car, though. And it would be easy to park--although I'm not sure this would be legal here.

taking a seat wherever you are

Quite a while ago I somehow got subscribed to the Telegraph's newsletter for expats, which is odd since I am neither an expat or British. I don't like people subscribing me to these things without my permission--it's a huge breach of e-etiquette--but I kept this one for the essays on expat living. Today's relates to the theme of this blog, which is that you don't need to be in Paris or Rome to be happy.* To wit:

Everyone in the world has a routine, the same things to do by the end of the day or the week, but without realising that routine is in itself something to be enjoyed. From London to New York the commute to work is an opportunity to make new acquaintances, chat with the woman who has been sitting next to you every morning for the past two years, or smile at the children on their way to playschool, or simply enjoy the morning air. From New Delhi to Stockholm lunchtime is the perfect moment to try something new: a different restaurant, different company, or simply a walk in the park and a good book.

As one of my favorite bloggers in France has said,

The perfect place?

Is the space

in between
the past and the future,
the empty chair
that calls our
name,
Be here now.
one place
or another

we must take a seat
and
be happy
where we are.

"Be here now" was one of my mother's frequent mantras and I try to remember and obey it--but it's very difficult, especially when you are not particularly happy and would rather be somewhere else, physically and emotionally.


*Although I certainly think it can help!

bambini

OK, this post is really just an excuse to post some photos of my brand-new nephew. (Isn't he cute?) But it is true that Italians love the bambini. All these expat blogs I read talk about how the Italian neighbors warmed up to the weird foreigners once they had a baby. But that's pretty irksome: so if you don't want to have kids, you have to be the outsider straniera for the rest of your life, I guess. You're not someone until you have kids!

For being spoiled, though, Italian kids are pretty well-behaved. At least in public!

Seeing Italy in Chicago a little too literally

I once read an article in which a shepherd somewhere in the Middle East or North Africa suddenly spotted an old Roman coin in the earth. So when I lived in Rome, I always kept my eyes open when I was out in the country, much to my friend Rachel's amusement. "Are you looking for your coin?" she'd tease when she saw me scanning the ground.

I guess technically taking an old coin out of the country could be considered stealing a part of the country's cultural history--but nothing like the cache found at a bungalow in Berwyn a couple of years ago. After John Sisto died in 2007, his son knew he'd find a ton of artifacts at the house--and he did. Millions of dollars' worth, including things from the Vatican, ancient statues, and medieval manuscripts. They're finally on their way back to Italy, although some pieces whose provenance cannot be determined will be returned to Sisto's family.

Hmm, come to think of it, I do have a piece of old pottery that I found on the beach in Sicily . . . *

Read all about the treasure trove in Berwyn here.


*Lest you think I've become an international archeology thief, it's obviously contemporary.

old garden statuary

Or at least old-looking. These were taken at the Chicago Botanic Garden.

Fountains like this one always remind me of the Fontana del Mascherone at the end of Via Giulia in Rome.



The Botanic Garden is worth the drive to Glencoe and a few hours of your time, especially at this time of year, when everything is at its greenest and most blooming. I love to visit gardens whenever I'm in Europe. Gardens in Spain smell the best! I remember looking for a perfume that captured their essence, with no luck.

the double cheek kiss

While hugs as greeting and (especially) parting gestures are popular in America (especially among teenagers), I have never been fond of hugging anyone other than close family members and significant others. The intimacy of the embrace feels awkward and insincere in most situations. That is why I am an advocate of the European tradition of cheek-kissing.



I prefer to faire la bise because it just seems more impersonal than hugging. That sounds counter-intuitive, but think about it: you're just in there for a couple quick pecks and it's done, whereas with a hug you're all scrooshed up next to someone for who knows how long. And your, um, pelvises could be in close contact too. Plus, let's face it, the mwah-mwah is more chic.

I propose a national campaign to swap hugging for cheek-kissing. Are you with me?

Some tips on cheek kissing in Italy and France:


Which way do you kiss in Italy?

Right or left side?

How to Kiss Hello in France

Or just watch this video:

casement windows

Casement windows always look charmingly European . . .




. . . especially on a Spanish-influenced apartment building.

The only drawback to casement windows is that you usually have to forego screens, I think. In Italy the windows never have screens, which Americans usually find inexplicable. I think they tend to be quite expensive because windows don't come in standard sizes there, given the long and varied architectural history. But I'm just guessing.

A little bit of Paris

Maybe I should have titled this blog "Seeing Italy . . . and France . . . and a little bit of Spain now and then." Buckingham Fountain in Chicago's Grant Park always reminds me of one of the big parks in Paris, more so when the area used to be covered with pebbly gravel (they've paved it with bricks--still pretty).

Buckingham Fountain was in fact modeled after the Latona Basin at Versailles, which I'd guess is smaller--this fountain is really huge. Four sea horses symbolize the states bordering Lake Michigan--Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Michigan.

On hot days the mist from the fountain's sprays carries quite aways and is very refreshing.

the Modern Wing of the Art Institute

People generally don't go to Rome to see contemporary architecture. But there are a few notable examples, such as Italian architect Renzo Piano's Parco della Musica, an opera house in the north of Rome. Piano is also the architect of the new Modern Wing of the Art Institute of Chicago, which just opened to the public this month. The lines of the structure are admittedly not ones often associated with the popular notion of "Italy," but the notion of harmony and beauty with surroundings are.

bowers and vines

Vines twisting over a wooden bower. In Italy and France acres of vines are laid out in neat rows, which might just provide you with a bottle of wine or two a few years down the road. I doubt these vines will provide any grapes, but they look lovely in their slightly messy, unpruned state.

Good friends, good food, and good wine brings a little bit of Italian culture no matter where you are.

hidden gardens

Hidden gardens are all over Italy. I once went on a garden walk in Florence that gave me a glimpse of the blooms and greenery hiding behind the city's high walls. Sometimes you can peek into courtyards through iron gates or doors left ajar to see terra cotta pots and burbling fountains. I think that's one reason I like to wander through Chicago's alleys--because you can peek into people's yards into a hidden oasis. This one is in the Ravenswood Manor neighborhood, also known as the home base of ex-governor Rod Blagojevich.

terra cotta

These shrubs and terra cotta pots in a neighbor's backyard bring a Tuscan garden to mind. This inspired me to buy some for our building's patio--it doesn't quite resemble the Giardino di Boboli yet, but I'm working on it!

seeing the bel paese in Chicago

Once, not so very long ago, I spent a totally self-indulgent year in Italy. Back in my hometown of Chicago, I find myself trying to find ways to "see" Italy here, whether in the lines of a building, the quality of the afternoon light, or an excellent lunch. I decided to create this blog to "tease out" aspects of la dolce vita in the Second City. There are things I love (and hate) about Italy, there are things I love and hate about Chicago--this is my attempt to combine the best of both.