The Land Where I Live

The land where I live is alive. It is fertile. It’s generous and ancient. I can hear it speak to me through the caress of a warm wind; “settle down, my friend. There is no rush.” Time is different for the non-human world, and living on this type of fertile land has grounded me. I suffer thinking about how carelessly we ravage through its resources. How selfishly we extract, destroy, and destabilize the natural world we depend on. I’ve always wondered, where are we running to? Where are we going that is more important than where we are right now? Do we really need more technology? I believe we need to focus less on development and more on regenerative states of living that will not ultimately kill us.

Perhaps living in such a beautiful natural landscape lends towards this type of protective thinking. I don’t want to lose this type of natural abundance. There are days when I wonder, “Imagine if we could still drink the water, clean from the local river?” I’ve done it before in Belize, out in the middle of the jungle, far away from human developments. . . And I am grateful that my children have had that experience as well here in the mountains of Tuscany with their nonno. “Mamma, the water was so clean we drank it straight from the river.” These relationships with nature are and have always been essential to me.

The land where I live is inviting. There are many walking paths and hikes through nature. One ancient epic hike that is not as famous but similar to the Camino de Santiago in Spain, is the Via Francigena, a famous pilgrimage walk from Canterbury to Rome that attracts international travelers all year round. This path is easily accessible from where I live. Massi and I walk it often. In fact, when we host our annual Food and Wine Retreat in the Spring, I always take whoever is up for it Sunday morning, on a hike through the cypress-lined dirt streets, horizoned with rolling hills of agricultural fields, and often wild animals.

Jordana GiovannoniTravel Tuscany, Tuscany Retreats, Natural BeautyComment
Siena and the Perfect Italian Shoe

November 20, 2017

I went to Siena last night for the first time since we arrived in Tuscany, and each moment I enter this city I examine it, like the study of a new lover, my eyes rolling over every curve and every angle with wonder: “are you for me?” The length of the arm from the shoulder, the weight of the hands and their gesture, the cut of the fingernails, the posture of the back, the openings, the closures – “what is truly hidden behind all those impassable entrances?”

And I feel inept to describe it – walking through a medieval city and staring down the tunnels of its den like gazing into the depths of another’s eyes; zipping across cobblestone paths; gaping at the fragmented light elapsing through apertures between ancient buildings erected in different centuries, centuries ago.

And amidst all the intensity, all the imagination of time travel, the awe of the many lovers who strolled beneath a similar moon with similar hearts and such different stories to tell . . . amidst the glitter of romance and discovering a sense of immersion within the unfamiliar . . . amidst all of this . . . truly. . . I just wanted a new pair of Italian shoes.

And this was a matter of great laughter for Massi, and his brother and I last night as we rambled together under vestiges of rain, from store to store, cackling at my ridiculous yearning for the perfect black Italian shoe.

In the end, without finding any such shoes, we went to the Prosciutteria and climbed down a vertical of stairs into a dungeon most likely procured from the Roman era. It was maybe 5pm and already dark. Massi picked out a Crémant de Loire, a gentle and friendly sparkling of chenin and chardonnay, that made our hearts grin while we sat and waited for the main spectacle.  The prosciutto, aged 36 months and hand sliced on its own wooden slab, melted into a chewy cream with one bite and I felt grateful, more than anything because I wasn’t born into this, but this is where I have always dreamed to be.

Jordana GiovannoniComment
November 6, 2017

We have moved to Italy and already I feel like it’s a memory instead of our reality. My son has had a fever the last three nights in a row fostering a deep guttural cough full of phlegm as the days stuck inside the house progress. At least it has been raining. I sit on the couch, or on the bed, most of the day with Bruno committed to my side taking inventory of the changes that are happening in my life. The most apparent is the coming and going of Massi’s father and Nonno Bruno, both carrying at different times of the day, up and down the shiny sea shell colored marble stairs, to the second floor we live on, produce from their respective gardens.

“My garden is better,” Massi’s father said the other night at the dinner table. I look forward to assisting the arbitration of this matter with the years to come. Though Nonno Bruno has an edge – raising chickens and pigeons – some of the best I’ve ever tasted. And in my opinion, especially from the heart of someone fighting a cold as well, with tired bones and a faltering appetite – there is nothing more comforting and nostalgic than the warmth and the smell of poultry in the over or in the pot and the sounds of these farm-life comings and goings while Massi’s mother zips across the house cleaning, ironing, washing vegetables, organizing, and talking on the phone in that Italian manner that seems like she’s telling someone off.

I yearn to go back outside and walk the neighborhood again, clasping Massi’s arm with mine as we did the other day down a street I thought I had never strolled. “Do these smells do anything to you?” I said. “Do they remind you so much of your childhood?” I looked up into his green eyes which began to ponder. We wandered slowly, perfectly clad in Fall attire. I whiffed the creamy air, stuffed with pockets of smoking wood and the perfume of withering leaves and transforming seasons. “It reminds me so much of my childhood in NY,” I said and stared at the falling leaves. I remember them as I imagine one would feel when watching the fleeting descent of cherry blossoms for the first time -- like an ancient geisha dance performance – steady, stoic, magical, overall tantalizing. The grounds were spattered with fallen leaves mimicking the colors and tones of the Italian architecture besieging the landscape.  The pomegranate and brick reds, pumpkin nudes of stone and orange, and lemon and lime foliage painted together into a scene captured in multitude by some of my favorite European painters. How much I want to go back to this street and see it again, worried that with even the passing of one more day, the exhibition will be gone.

Jordana GiovannoniComment
Pan dei Santo

I said no to the pan dei santo today and I regret it. This house is bursting with sweets. . . and my prudent eyes overcautious to the threat of sugar. Massi's mom got up from the dining room table and followed me into the kitchen as I placed the dirty dishes on the table. She opened the bread pantry, barely tall enough to access the back reaches of its spread, and pushed aside the hodge-podge of dated tin cans that have clearly outlasted Berlusconi, and were filled with breakfast cookies. There have always been at least five different paper bags, white and beige in hue, plump from shape of the various Tuscan breads purchased daily at the local panificio. I try to stay away from these as well, giving Massi's mom the side-eye as she unwrapped a new bag designed with mosaic. "Pan dei Santo," she repeated to me, unveiling the chestnut colored flesh of its center freckled with the traditional ingredients of raisins and walnuts. "E un po' dolce," she said, while holding the bread in her hands like Wheel of Fortune hostess Vanna White, explaining that it was to be eaten after the meal, customary to the "Ognissanti" Christian holiday that falls on November 1st, the day we arrived in Italy. 

I walked into the bedroom following my son who wanted to watch a movie in bed. Whispers from the bread pantry followed me. "Why didn't you eat me? Aren't I the epitome of what you came to Italy for -- tradition, regional delicacies, non GMO foods?" 

Massi walked into the bedroom, "Did you eat any of the Pan dei Santo" I asked? "Of course," he said. "Was it good" I asked? "It was too fresh," he came over and kissed Bruno on the head. "What do you mean?" I asked. It sounded delicious. "It's better when it's a little old," he said. "I'll eat it tomorrow morning then for breakfast," I said. Delighted.

"If my father doesn't finish it all tonight." Massi said and walked away.

Jordana GiovannoniComment
November 4, 2017

After traveling to Italy for over ten years I finally feel proficient at operating basic daily life tasks. It seems silly, but I feel proud now as I effortlessly release the the rope-like fasten of the window security shutters in a movement I imagine not so dissimilar to that you'd make while descending rock-climbing. It's embarrassing how many times I've almost broken them. 

Perhaps I'm even more satisfied that I can finally understand how to use the house key, something  that looks like an elongated cross, or some type of ancient relic used in Game of Thrones to open a door inside Winterfell. How many times I've stood outside the house door almost sweating while the key turned infinitely to the left - for some reason this has always been eerily discomforting. And now, for the first time, I see it -- the dividing ridge of one side of key that marks head from tail; and now after endless terrifying turns of a key that can find no entry point, I have finally learned by heart (or terror) to turn this ancient thing to the right. 

There are many ways that entering into Italy, one, like me, from a more modern city, feels like they have been transported through a time capsule to the past -- and shockingly (because I am always shocked experiencing ineptitude) cannot function with ease, let alone grace. 

Jordana GiovannoniComment
November 3, 2017

Moving to Italy is a thing to be done very slowly . . . and then take another moment to prepare yourself . . . to move even slower. A most difficult proficiency to perfect is becoming one with the reality of store (basic-life-retailers) operational closing and opening hours. If you've never been to Italy, life shuts down during lunch -- a very long lunch -- like 1pm-3:30pm. There is really nothing you can do either than sit your ass down and eat and drink. Nothing is open other than the restaurant or bar. Don't even think of needing something at the store. You, my friend, are shit out of luck.

On the very tall end of the stick I had grilled squid today for lunch, doused with fresh olive oil, perfectly salted. All vegetables on the table come from the garden -- fresh is the lettuce Massi's mom went and picked minutes prior to tossing, and frozen from an earlier harvest was the spinach she boiled and piled on the plate like a primi piatti. Bruno's favorite was nonna's patate frite immersed inside a pot full of clean Italian oil, perfectly crispy.

Today we are buying new phones as our American ones will not transfer and are looking at an Agritourismo to stay for the first five months during their off season to give us time to "move slowly" and eat our daily lunch and drink our daily drink while searching for a new home. Cheers to taking it slow.

 

Jordana Giovannoni Comment
On Arriving to Tuscany, Our New Home

 

November 2, 2017

We arrived yesterday in Milan and drove four hours through tranquil countryside smitten with the gorgeous pigments of fall -- green vineyards turned burgundy and trees adorned with dazzling leaves the various colors of citrus. It was the day of the Saints, “a national holiday,” Massi said. Though at first he thought it was the day of the dead, “I Morti” – rusty with his Italian heritage.

There is a peace here. The smell of the air in the countryside, unpolluted. The sound of the horizon, unsullied. The conversation, of family passed, of family future – beholding the eyes of the venerated who have “seen” and the glistening eyes of the young who want the “unseen”.

In a saturated short day, hazed with jet lag, serenaded by sights, sounds and smells to satiate a timeworn dream, and after an aperitivo of negroni and affetati “fatto bene” – “done right,” I truly felt at home.

Jordana GiovannoniComment
I Fell in Love with Him over a Glass of Wine

    I fell in love with him over a glass of wine. Or because of wine. Hmm. Or perhaps the sheer display of his passion, his blue eyes alive, his curly blond hair bouncing. His thick Tuscan accent rolling. 

    It was the way he grabbed the glass, swirled the wine, funneled into its soul and brought it up to his nose to see what he could detect: "apples, mineral, oak, sulfur," and then . . . stop . . . his mind shut off . . . I could see it happening and I tried hard to pretend like I wasn't hanging off my seat yearning to be inside that glass so he could perform the same analysis on me.

    Stop . . . and then his lips parted like open hands ready to receive . . . and he tasted. The wine didn't make it to the back of his throat immediately. It stayed in front as he sucked air through his teeth like Koreans eat noodles. He sucked and swished and created a hurricane around his tongue and cheeks with that verdicchio, all while his eyes gazed blankly at mine and mine dived into his trying to feel what he felt. 

    He swallowed. "Good for cooking." Now he could smile. He loved his verdict. "I'll order the Barbera," he said. "It's the only thing drinkable by the glass.

   "Well I like it." I said. "Of course it's not a white burgundy but it hits the spot. I can't drink red during the summer."

    "Okay," he shrugged.

    We were still only friends on this day, and I don't think I really knew that I was falling in love with him yet. It just happened from one day to the next. A few days after this night together he looked into my eyes and mine into his - and it was love at first sight - after two years of friendship. 

Jordana GiovannoniWine, Love, Verdicchio, Italian WineComment
Twenty Reasons Why I Love Italy

I couldn't keep my reasons to just twenty. I wanted to share with you some of the greatest moments of my life captured with my camera. This is a slide-show.

Jordana GiovannoniItaly, Travel Italy, Brunello, Italian beaches, Italian architecture, Sicily, TuscanyComment
Tuscany from Elba Island to Bagno Vignoni

La Locanda del Loggiato

Piazza delle Sorgente

Attending a Tuscan Wedding

Elba Island

Elba Island

Elba Island

Sciamadda, our favorite restaurant on Elba

La Spiaggia delle Piscine

Newly Weds and a glass of Biondi Santi Rosso di Montalcino

Siena

Piazza del Campo

 

Jordana GiovannoniElba Island, Bagno Vignoni, Tuscany, Spiagge, Italian beaches, Tuscan travel, Travel Italy, Piazza del CampoComment
Into the land of Marsala, Sicily

San Vito lo Capo, Sicily . . .My bisnonna (great grandmother) was from Palermo, "outside the city where the land was made of stone," my aunt told me.  She left me wondering, until I arrived and saw for myself.  Sicily.

The view from our room.  The heat not as oppressive at higher elevation.  Recently there had been many fires that had left the dry desert-like vegetation blackened and void.

The African influence was great and I listened only to the radio station taking pleasure in the very blatant mix of reggae, African music, and R&B -- sometimes all in one song.

The surrounding mountains seemed like large dinosaur fossils.

There were many Moroccon influenced restaurants.  Here we watched young French teenagers smoking hookahs, even younger Italian boys smoking hookahs and picking up young Italian girls, while Massi and I relaxed in our pillows and drank local Marsala discussing recent gossip about Marco de Bartoli wines and how much do we really like Marsala . . . how much do we really like Sicilian wine?  That was the first time we had ever sat down and both ordered a glass of Marsala together.

Zingaro National Park was by far our favorite spot in San Vito lo Capo.  Though the beaches were small, the sand large pebbles, and the surrounding hills scorched by recent fire -- this was the beauty of the whole area we were in.

Massi read La Repubblica every day.

Marsala was actually my favorite and was much more interesting that I had anticipated.  However, it doesn't take much to make me happy.  I just want a little bit of good shopping, a few historic buildings, a quaint local spot to have lunch, and a wine bar that actually has a good selection of local wine.

Again we ordered Marsala -- this one was our favorite:  Cantina Buffa.

 Beautiful ocean views day and night.

 ​

Jordana GiovannoniSicily, wine, Sicilian wine, marsala, Italy, Travel, Travel Italy, Sicilian beachesComment
Napoli and Monte Vesuvio
Monte Vesuvio
"Vesuvius was formed as a result of the collision of two tectonic plates, the African and theEurasian" (Wikipedia).
I remember reading the Volcano Lover by Susan Sontag on the airplane returning to NYC from my first trip to Italy (I did the typical Florence, Rome and Venice in ten days).  I was twenty one years old and recall no more than images of an old-fashioned Napoli, an obsessive art collector and lover of Mt. Vesuvious, a somewhat compelling heroine, and their numerous walks up and down the volcano -- which I thought was weird. However, the book injected Vesuvius into my world, releasing this exigent tenderness towards a Volcano that had no apropos to my life. . . until Italian wine and I became lovers.



In Napoli you can even find vines growing on the beach, in the city.  It was a sight to be seen

As much as I prefer Northern Italian wines such as my recent obsession with Piedmont, my undying love for Tuscany, my respect for the exciting styles of Friuli, don't forget the whites of Liguria are high on my list, and some of my all time faves from Trentino Alto Adige, when it comes to Southern Italy I have been captured by almost anything grown in volcanic soil.  
What is it about this volcanic soil? 
It was at least 100 degrees out

Volcanic soil is rich in almost all the minerals that are "vital to the health of vines" (Wikipedia).  It's full of Calcium, Iron, Magnesium, and even Potassium.  If you have never grown anything before, which seems to be of the norm these days, being full of vital minerals is a very impressive trait.  Imagine how your own body feels when it's satiated with vitamins.
When I think of these wines, grown in rich volcanic soil, I feel jitters in my mouth.  They have a dancing quality to them that do not ring as specifically elegant or austere but jazzy.  They are in the groove.  To me they are comparable to food that has the perfect sprinkle of salt on top -- more flavorful -- without being doused with a smack.  I went to Campania unexpecting to return singing praise to it's wines, but I had some remarkable bottles while I was there.  The exciting part for me was that there are still plenty of wineries that are not being imported to NY and it's always a pleasure to find affordable wines on a list that you've never tried before and that really impress you.
Massy and I stayed in a bed and breakfast along the lungomare

Along the lungomare, which is the long road that borders the port at Napoli, where one can take a quick boat ride to Capri or Ischia (we went to Capri), you truly feel like you are not anywhere close to a place with a dangerous reputation.  From day to night, couples congregate by twos along the seaside concrete walls necking, joking, pinching, and hugging.  Joggers in tight lycra outfits stained with sweat pass by as if training for some serious athletic competitions.  If you are lucky like I was you will see men in tight one pieces, almost like a wrestler's uniform -- bright blue with the Italian red, white, and green flag and Italia.  It's fantastic. 
I will briefly mention our experience with garbage overload in Napoli.  The first day we arrived I thought that it wasn't that much dirtier than NYC.  When we returned from Capri I really understood what all the rumors were about.  Garbage was more than overflowing the sidewalks.  Almost every street block you had to walk around the heaping piles onto the roads and avoid oncoming traffic because you couldn't pass along the sidewalks.  Then add the 100 degree heat and how many days the garbage sits outside unattended too and you have one stinky city, beautiful, but reflective of the challenges that confront Italy and not just Napoli.

There is a hubbub in Napoli different from the other Italian cities
.
Although nicer than the Hudson River in NY, Massy and I did not throw on our bathing suits and go for a swim during our brief stay in Napoli.


I took long walks instead and photographed some sexy Italian naked men.
Jordana NicoleComment
Garlic and Garden at La Fornace
La Casa at La Fornace, Montalcino
We always stop by La Fornace whenever traveling through Montalcino.  This winery is a great representation of how such a beautiful Brunello and Rosso di Montalcino are produced by father and son and mother operation.  I've already written about this vineyard in my previous blog post, however this time I took some photos of what else goes on at this small vineyard other than wine production.
First there is always talk about wine. . . .with serious faces.

Father and Son, La Fornace
The Other Garden close up

The Other Garden from the shade
I've tasted the wine.  I've drizzled the olive oil all over salads, breads, even used it as lotion for my face . . I can only imagine how the tomatoes and other vegetables taste.

The Garlic
They even braid their own garlic.  It's beyond picturesque and what the American heart dreams of when they think of a family run vineyard in Italy.  I say American because, yes, I am American.  
Flowers and empty glasses from visitors
Within close proximity of the other by la casa of La Fornace I found these beautiful piercing red magenta flowers and a basket of empty wine tasting glasses from all the different tourists who visit La Fornace during one hot summer day in July.
Still at Quinciano before we headed over to La Fornace




Jordana NicoleComment