This doorway was not exactly “special,” but we both liked the layers of doorway, then stairway in the background through the door, and then another doorway above the stairs. Just the little things, like the religious symbol over the outer door, the postal boxes on either side, the potted plants and all the varied textures—it’s a treat to spend time seeking out photos here.

Stone, old wood, plaster--texture on texture for this scene

We were soon on the way to the “acquadotto Romano,” the Roman aqueduct restored only a few years ago by Stefano, the architect brother of Paola. Leading the way, I soon had us well down the wrong (but parallel) roadway, and we “bushwhacked” our way uphill through the olive trees to the upper road, and finally found the aqueduct. Along the roadway, on our way back, we stopped for some photos of the red poppies, just beginning to be numerous. With rains (and sometimes hail, “grandine”) nearly every afternoon, many are damaged and not worthy of photographing, but the rains have also pushed many more to open. Where the soil is not cultivated, drifts of these red poppies appear all spring, and this roadside was no exception. Dolores had ample opportunity to find poppies, wherever we walked.

Red poppies beginning to appear in larger numbers, after the rain

Dolores is enchanted with the poppies, lining all the roadways here

One of the poppies (liberties taken to highlight the ruffled petals)

An advantage of getting out early in the morning is the sunrise light on Spello, from the east side. Our walk took us to many spots where views of Spello behind us were plentiful, and where we could frame the village in olive trees, and also red poppies.

Many options for panoramas of Spello, in morning light

Saturday night I introduced Dolores to the bresaola and arugula salad, with lemon, olive oil, Parmesan shavings and pine nuts—a big hit with her. It is a perpetual favorite of mine, and we can have more wine if we eat sensible dinners, like salads. Worked for us!

On Sunday, Dolores and I began the day by attending Mass at the convent—my recommendation for her, the only Sunday she would be in Spello. The bells begin ringing at 8:15, then 8:30 and 8:45, until Mass begins at 9. The nuns there are members of a closed order, and are not seen again (except for medical emergencies) once they have taken their final vows. Their music didn’t disappoint, but it was tough for Dolores to sit through a sermon that she could not understand at all. I am not accustomed to the Catholic traditions (she was), but still mass at the convent on Easter morning was a special treat, for both of us.

Later that morning, we were invited to Robespier’s home for lunch (“pranzo”), for Easter with the entire family. I was kept busy translating for Dolores, but Robespier is such a good actor, there is little need to explain what he means. Recently turned 87, he hears less, but still hardly misses a step in leading the conversation at his table. It was an honor for both of us to be included, we enjoyed a very bountiful meal, ending in wonderful roasted lamb, and Dolores really got the VIP treatment.

"Dolores," portrait of a photographer having a great time in Spello

Later that afternoon, we walked by the Circolo Photo Hispellum (the old Roman name for Spello), where Ennio invited us in, and then “gave us the store.” He kept bringing more and more packs of postcards made from historical photos of Spello, and large printed panoramic views of the village, and calendars and more. Finding out that we were both photographers was great news to him, and he did not want us to go. He showed us around the small meeting room of the photo group, not far from my house, and it is covered in large prints of old and historic photos, as well as photos of significant events in Spello.

Dolores and I signing in to the Circolo--"Friends of photography in Spello"

Both of us invited to sign the 35th Anniversary poster

Dolores and Ennio, the boss of the Circolo

Ennio, who was more than a little "friendly" to us

Ennio is very proud of the “Circolo” of “friends of photography,” and I have accepted the invitation to come and visit on their Wednesday night meetings, which are really only chatting sessions. The first time, he and I were alone for the first hour, and he had already “accidentally” planted a kiss on me when I kissed his cheeks in greeting—one cheek, and then I didn’t get beyond his lips before he landed the second kiss. I was happy to see a second photographer show up—as a chaperone, thanks. (And Ennio was SO disappointed to see my wedding ring—almost as happy as I was to be wearing one for him to see! Bet his wife would be surprised! He had already established that my 61 years and his 69 years were a good match—too bad that won’t be working out for him!)

The day following Easter Sunday is a holiday in Italy, called “La Pasquetta,” the “Little Easter.” It is “Lunedi degli Angeli,” the Monday that Mary found the tomb of Jesus open, and the angels spoke to her to tell her that he was not there. Usually, it is a day of picnics, especially up on the mountain here in Spello, and often with the leftovers from the big meal of Pascua the day before. All over Italy, people head to the countryside for picnics, with Easter heralding the beginning of spring. For us here, it was a day threatening rain and hail, so no one was risking heading up the mountain for the day. Instead, Dolores and I booked a reservation with Nazzareno, in his Vallegloria Barbarie restaurant right across the piazza from my house.

Dolores and I showed up at 1 p.m., our glasses were immediately filled with prosecco, and a small plate of Nazzareno’s rosemary focaccia was served while we waited for our antipasti. The restaurant was once a pizzeria, and now he uses the pizza ovens to turn out his focaccia, always a tender, flavorful start to the meal.

Prosecco and Nazzareno's rosemary focaccia--a good start!

Our appetizer plates arrived in minutes: eight different bites to sample, always a beautiful presentation. Cristina, his wife, is the chef, while Nazzareno (originally the chef, and now the sommelier and host) handles the front of the house while she cooks.  Our plate had a small tomato baked with savory breadcrumbs on top; an herb I have only had here called “agretti,” steamed and then with a few fresh fava beans and some fruity olive oil on top; a slice of very aged pecorino cheese (sheep’s milk); perfectly ripe cantaloupe and a slice of proscuitto; a deep-fried fresh artichoke heart; a sage leaf, dipped in batter and deep-fried; a small spoonful of creamed baby onions, with a breadcrumb crust; and finally a small crostini with a slice of wild boar (“cinghiale”) salami on top. Every one was only a bite or two, but a perfect selection, and all complementing one another, both for the eyes and for the palate.

Antipasti--little tastes of many things, all wonderful

Next, we were served a portion of lasagne, made with layers of ricotta cheese, and with tender chives baked into the ricotta filling. Small splashes of black truffle sauce were dripped on the top, and it was a light, flavorful change from the lasagna we normally see in the U.S. The restaurant was packed with holiday diners, out for a special meal, on a day when Nazzareno normally only served dinner. (For Pasquetta, only lunch that day, and then home for him and Cristina.)

Next, an orzo dish arrived, with mint, zucchini, fresh tomato and fresh fava beans in the creamy sauce holding the orzo grains together. This is rather like barley, I think—a chewy small grain, usually served as a “primo,” before the main course. (This was our second “primo,” after the lasagna.)

When our “secondo” arrived, the meat course, it was slices of rare, tender beef, served with roasted potatoes and paper-thin slices of celery root, dressed in olive oil. There were bits of green beans and herbs in the potatoes, for color, and the combination was a winner, for both Dolores and for me. Here, at this restaurant, there is no menu and no price is quoted. All of the wines, including the prosecco when we arrived, are included in the meal, down to the last sweet dessert wine or limoncello, and everyone in the restaurant is being served exactly the same meal. There are usually two choices for dessert, but all of the rest of the menu is fixed. Astounding to me, the cost of the complete meal is about €30, which is a bargain considering that wine glasses are always full, and the food is fantastic.

Our last course was dessert, and we both chose a tiramisu, made with candied orange peel in the mascarpone layers of the dessert, and served with sweetened strawberries and a small chocolate bell on the side. I think the ladyfingers were dipped in Grand Marnier, not espresso—but the dessert was light, and just perfect to end the meal. The tables around us were emptying, and the remaining glassware was a roadmap of the courses, changed each time the wine changed—prosecco, red or white wine, and then the dessert sweet wines.

A variety of glasses, left behind after the meal

It would not have been a complete visit for Dolores without being a guest with Nazzareno, and we got special treatment. In fact, whenever I stop in and ask for him to save me a table for guests, he says he ALWAYS will have a table for me—a nice touch. I walked Dolores back to the kitchen to introduce her to Cristina, and our meal was finished. Vallegloria Barbarie serves a fun and reasonably priced meal of very high quality—not to be missed in Spello.

The first challenge was the arrival of my plane from Los Angeles to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris—a full hour behind schedule. The 90 minutes to change planes had become only 30 minutes, and I had to get from Terminal A to Terminal G. First, a train shuttle took me to Terminal E, next a dead run through the huge terminal on a sore foot that was not happy about the pace (not at all what I had expected, since the old, small airport I had visited in 2003 has been completely changed into a HUGE hub for Europe), and then a shuttle bus to Terminal G, and another dead run through the terminal. Outside security (Again? At each terminal?), the agent assured me that my plane was still boarding, but once I was through security and to the gate, the doors had been closed for take-off, leaving me both breathless and behind at the gate (staring at MY plane, right outside the window, beginning to back away). At the minimum, my luggage was catching up with me—and my bags would arrive in Florence at the same time that I did.

The desk agent at Air France was very apologetic about my missed flight, and gave me a voucher for a sandwich and drink at the bar nearby, then re-ticketed me for a flight two hours later—arriving at the same time the last train that day from Florence to Spello would be departing. With Leonardo expecting me in Spello later, I was in some big trouble with my plans, at that point.

I went to the bar with my voucher, and tried to convince the waitress that I would exchange my voucher for €25 for a single beer—but she would not serve me. She showed me all of my possible sandwich choices (including quiche), but I only wanted a beer—an impossible substitution, with the total financial advantage going to the bar. When I asked for a bottle of water and no sandwich, same reply—that would be impossible. Finally, a supervisor came by, and I got a bottle of water in exchange for the voucher (the most expensive bottle of water Air France has EVER purchased, perhaps), and two hours to sort out my sore foot, determine my plans for the night, and try to avoid spending the night in either an airport or a train station with my bags.

I was delighted to find out that my Italian cell phone (for an exorbitant price, of course) could connect me to Italian numbers, so I was able to call Alain and arrange for him to pick me up, as well as call Leonardo and let him know that I would not be arriving that night. Alain was waiting when my plane landed, and took me out for a wonderful pizza dinner before leaving me off at Anne’s house for the night. The next morning, he picked me up and drove me to the hospital for a great visit with Anne, and then later to the train station, so I was soon on my way to Spello—for my arrival on . . . April Fools Day. (No wonder. Duh.)

A later flight from Paris to Florence put me over the Alps as sunset

A window seat and clear skies for a great view

Stunning views, in the golden sunset light--a nice reward for my inconvenience

Leonardo was at the station to help me with my bags, and drove me up the hill to my place, where he helped me into my house and left me alone to collapse.

Soon, I was unpacking. Covering the table were all of the things I had carried for gifting to others, including microfiber tablecloths (Paola), Enzyme CoQ10 (Anne), graham cracker crumbs, baking powder and vanilla extract, and two books (Suzanna and Phil), nitrile garden gloves (Paola and Giorgia), a birthday gift from my friend, Cheryl (for Robespier) and ratchet pruning shears (for Signor Antonio, easier on his arthritic hands).

All things I brought, destined to be gifts for others

In addition, I had carried more things for the house: the metal canisters from my Grandmother Ryan’s home (a great memory from my childhood, always full of her cookies), more coffee filters for the “American” coffee maker, tools and gadgets for the kitchen and the barbeque, cork coasters, pistachio nuts, an ice bag for my swollen and throbbing foot, and a pack of the blue sponges I have not been able to find here—non-scratch, for my stove and pots.

"Gifts" for the house: coffee filters, sponges, ice bag, BBQ tools, garden seeds, coasters, measuring cups (better ones)

Cheryl's "Hot Italian" shirt for Robe (box nearly destroyed by the trip), and my Grandmother Ryan's cookie canisters

Soon, my bags were empty and ready to be stowed under the stairway (a secret storage compartment, and a real convenience), and I moved in.

Unpacked, moving the mess from inside the bags to scattered around every room of the house

It was not quite the arrival that I had expected, or a stress-free entry, but carrying my Italian phone with me saved the day when I missed my plane in Paris, allowing me to call ahead and change plans—AND not spend the night in an airport. I did arrive a day late, but also (thank goodness!) I missed the chance to kill the scorpion that Leonardo had found in the kitchen the day before, while checking on the house prior to my arrival. He spotted the unwelcome visitor in a corner, and removed the shattered corpse before I could ever see it. (WHEN will I get over my constant vigilance for the next scorpion in the house? Ever? And HOW are they getting into the house?)

Once I saw the house, and knew the price, the wheels began turning slowly in my head. I returned to the US a week or so after I saw the house, and kept thinking about it. It was hidden, secure, and small. Even more significant in Spello, it was on the ground floor, near a principal piazza, had a patio and a view of Santa Maria degli Angeli (near Assisi) and was near my friends here. After a few months of thinking about the possibility, I wrote to the realtor in Spello, and asked if this property was still on the market. Hearing “Yes,” I began the bidding process, and ended up buying this place in September 2010, after many offers and counter-offers via e-mail and attachments.

So this is the result—what I saw the one and only time that I was able to see this place before purchasing, and what it has become since then. I have carried so much here, from home, to stock the cabinets and the kitchen, and now I am reaching a point that there is no more that I need to bring. I am happily spending time here, photographing and baking and cooking and gardening and hiking on Monte Subasio, and I have all that I need right at hand.

So, here are the “Before” and “After” photos, as of May 2012, and you can see the differences for yourself. I have had this blog post in mind for some time, and now it will be posted and the results will be shared with anyone tuned in to the blog.

Here we go!  (The captions will tell the rest of the story.)

Doorway to the "ingresso," with the "For Sale" sign posted on it--April, 2010

Same doorway, once the entry to the stables, now with my house number (1) and post box

House number, doorbell and post box

April, 2010: the "ingresso," in violation of the written pact to keep it cleaned up

Ingresso now--a bit more tidied up than before, "garage" storage for other residents in the building above

April, 2010--my first view of the courtyard, big half-moon window I loved instantly

Same view today--jasmine gone, flowers and kitchen herbs planted instead

Before, view back toward the gate ("cancello") with algae growing on the window wall

Same view today--without the invasion of the star jasmine into the courtyard, and with flower boxes

Before--Sig. Cocchini, the previous owner, and the jasmine "hedge"--he wouldn't trust the realtor with the keys

Same view, today--more sunlight, less humidity, panoramic view, no more algae on the wall

Today, my small contribution to "Spellani" covering the village in flowers this time of the year

Another view, my flower boxes hung on the iron grate of the kitchen window--with parsley and basil tucked in, too

Today, view back toward the doors--and the wine demijohn just rescued from the trash

April, 2010--the outer thick wooden doors, for security, with glass doors behind them

Same view, today--with table and chairs for watching the sunset and dining outside

The doors, today--in need of refinishing, but my security when I am not here

April, 2010--the view from inside the front door out to the courtyard ("cortile")

View today, from inside the front door

April, 2010--First view of the living room, old leftover furniture, a house left vacant for several years

Today: new furniture and revisions--a slow evolution (bench coffee table I carried home on the train from Arezzo, and through Spello)

Today--the other half of the living room (half IKEA and half Italian antiques, mixed together)

April, 2010--the closet under the stairs, plumbed for a washer!!!! Amen!!!

Now, a center for washing, household tools, ladder,cleaning products, vacuum, shopping trolley, etc.

Before--short hallway between the living room and kitchen

Now: antique madia (for breadmaking), Deruta lamp, wooden shelves replacing glass ones, PAINT!

Hand-painted Deruta ceramic lamp--a month old--for some bright color and light

April, 2010: View back to the living room from the kitchen

Today: shelves gone, the same view with structural arch, iron clock, recycling buckets, table and chairs

April, 2010: Sig. Cocchini and Paola, outside the half-moon window (once the stable entry), side windows of yellow glass

Today: window open, clear replacement glass in all windows, storage built-in underneath, privacy short Sicilian lace curtains

April, 2010: the window wall, with the previous kitchen completely removed by the owners

Same view today: cabinets and shelves installed under the window, kitchen table and chairs, lighting fixture, refrigerator

Sicilian lace curtains, transparent enough to keep the view and the light, and a few "finds" from here

Above cabinets: antique wooden bird cages from Arezzo antiques fair, and wine "stash"(all cheap but good) on old wooden racks from a bar

April, 2010: old kitchen wall tile, plus water and gas connections together awaiting a kitchen installation

Today: from the same angle, the pantry, refrigerator, sink, dishwasher, quartzite countertop and cabinets

Today: other half of the kitchen, including the stovetop, oven and the hood (gas line was moved)

Today: view into the kitchen from the living room, with my "bar" shelf, cookie jar

April, 2010: the bathroom sink, bare bulb, horrible cabinet (in my humble opinion)

Today: mirror wall-to-wall, ceramic lamp, same cabinet (painted out, some day soon, I hope)

Original bathroom (the only two seats in the house--a toilet and a bidet)

Bathroom, today--pesky bathroom scale installed, curtain and bath rug

Today: storage over the bath, new towel rack over pocket door (tricky installation)

Today: baskets for extra towels and TP, antique carved mirror, small landscape

April, 2010: the loft, already installed but incorrectly counted in the house area (ceiling too low to be legally "habitable")

Today: same view, with storage credenza, holding two inflatable beds and their linens, extra towels

April, 2010: empty loft, pine floor, with vaulted low ceiling making it illegal to count as available living area

Today: storage credenza with extra guest beds, bedding, and small writing desk and chair

Today: second storage credenza for linens, and my "reading/rocking spot" (When did I get so old? Rocking, really?)

Today: view from the loft, and green glass demijohns over the door (all very old)

April, 2010: the bedroom, still mostly pink limestone rock walls from Mt. Subasio

Today: same view, furnished with a queen bed, dresser, and armoire ("armadia) from IKEA, plus an antique chestnut storage chest

April, 2010: unfurnished, empty bedroom corner

Today, with furnishings and accessories (antique painted side tables for the bed)

April, 2010: view toward the courtyard from the bedroom, another bare bulb, and the "Hobbit door" (5'3" tall)

Today, same view: old carved coat rack on the wall, items from antique fairs, extra chairs, new clear window glass

April, 2010: "Hobbit door," small to preserve architectural stone arch above it

Today: new clear glass in window, armoire for hanging clothing, privacy curtain for night

Today: antique handmade child's chair (Pissignano antiques), painted hydrangeas panel (Foligno marketplace) over the armoire

My sincerest apologies to those of you who are watching smoke rising from your computers, after downloading 61 photographs! This was a huge chore, to document “before and after,” and I hope it tells the story well of building this little place, one piece at a time (“un pezzo alla volta), almost always without a car, and transporting many familiar items from home (this time, especially, the metal canisters painted with roosters that were once in my late Grandmother Ryan’s kitchen in San Jose, always filled with cookies for the six little Colwells–as children, our “Mecca.”). Now I say a small prayer that this will upload! Ciao!

A couple of unrelated photos, first. This one is one of my favorite meals in Spello, and I always have the ingredients on hand when I am planning on eating alone. It is a quick salad that I learned to make from my Austrian friend, Irmy, who has lived in Italy for 30 years. The base is arugula, and this was fresh from the local farmer’s market held every Wednesday morning—as fresh and spicy and substantial as arugula can be. Dressed with fresh lemon juice and new Spello olive oil, the next layer is bresaola, an air-cured beef product sliced thin like proscuitto (air-cured pork). It turns to almost a purple color, and is so lean that I have wondered if it comes from the filet. Next, shavings of parmiggiano Reggiano cheese, pine nuts, and then a last sprinkling of olive oil and lemon juice finish the dish. Here, I added a few of the taralli on the side (from Puglia, in southern Italy) for crunch—small round “pretzels” that contain fennel seeds (my favorite flavor of these snacks). Almost every week, I restock my bresaola supply, so that this flavorful and simple dinner is only minutes away.

My very favorite salad meal--made with arugula, bresaola, Parmesan, lemon juice and olive oil and pine nuts

Next, this is actually the setting moon, disappearing in a fog bank in the valley I overlook from my house. After recent rains, I woke up often to fog, burning off in the first few hours of the morning.

The moon setting into the fog, with the valley and mountains obscured below

Now, on to “The Last Supper,” just a day or so before I was to depart for Florence, and then leaving for home a day later on several flights. I invited Paola and Leonardo, and also Suzanna and Phil (vegetarians)—so I knew that I needed to put some time into thinking through the menu. I spent most of two days preparing all of the foods, from the breadsticks and appetizers to the pear tarts for dessert. When it was time for the guests to arrive, I lit a string of six votive candles along my garden wall, and opened the gate—unaware that the winds right behind me put the candles out immediately. So much for the flashy entrance I had planned!

The table was set, the wine was opened, the prosecco was chilled for the appetizers, and pots covered nearly every burner of my small stove. In the living room, I moved my two outdoor chairs inside, and pulled in the bedside tables to make more room for holding the appetizers. First, the smoked almonds I made were a big hit, and then the puff pastry “pizza” came out of the oven, covered with sliced apples, gorgonzola, walnuts and honey. So far, I was “on a roll.” We were all sipping glasses of prosecco, and in no hurry to rush the evening along.

Throwing my own "Going Away Party," with the table ready for the guests

Pots on nearly every burner, filled with the evening's menu items, with crostini on the side

Extra seats and tables, ready for the arrival of the guests--and the appetizers

To the table for more “antipasti,” including bruschetta with onion “marmalata,” a few dried Umbrian sausages (I needed to empty my fridge, and not everyone was a vegetarian), and fresh Parmesan rosemary breadsticks. Of course, the conversation was entirely in Italian, the common language of us all, and I was kept hopping up over and over to keep the next course coming.

Paola, Leonardo, Suzanna and Phil--and the party begins

Our “primi” was a derivation of a recipe I came to love on the island of Elba, in Tuscany, in 2003. There, I was served eggs poached in a broth enriched with fresh marjoram and garlic, and served over toasted bread, with the hot poaching broth poured over the egg and toast. The last touch was a splash of fruity olive oil—from the bottle given to me by Suzanna and Phil—and we were all set for the first course. Unfortunately, I was using eggs from the store—when Suzanna and Phil are accustomed to eggs from their own hens—a better choice, certainly, but I was using up what I had before I left for home.

"Elba eggs," and we all sat down for our "primo piatto"

Eggs poached in broth, over toast, with Suzanna and Phil's olive oil on top

Next, the “secondo” was a baked pasta dish, filled with grilled eggplant, red peppers, and cherry tomatoes, and then blended with pasta, red sauce and grated smoked mozzarella. I was doing my best to keep meat off the menu, and this dish sounded good when I read it in one of my cookbooks, and didn’t disappoint—but we all were getting filled by the time we got to the main course.

Finally, we reached the dessert course. I had peeled and poached pears in sweetened blood orange juice, with bits of the orange peels, and then reduced the poaching liquid to thick, red syrup, which candied the peels at the same time. In small tart pans (not nearly small enough, after all of the food we had already had), I had made a crumb crust with the last of the cheap, “vanilla wafer” cookies that I still had left in the house, but added in butter and almost half the volume was ground hazelnuts—and then I baked off the crust. I filled it with almond-flavored pastry cream, sliced and fanned out the pears on top, with a small spoonful of syrup and some candied orange peel to finish it off. It was certainly an enticing dish, but we were all groaning by then—so we ate slowly, with three sweet liquors on the table to sample: Varnelli (anise, known among some of its fans as “Varnish”); limoncello (sweet lemon liquor, from Sorrento); and Agricanto (dark cherry, and a new product I had discovered at VinItaly with Pall in April).

Hazelnut crust, filled with almond cream, and topped with pears poached in blood orange syrup

Convincing evidence that the dessert was a hit

The desserts disappeared, and we were all uncomfortably full—but the evening went on for hours longer, with lots of conversation and stories and joking. This is a posed photo, proposed by Suzanna—the look of four over-fed guests, after an overly satisfying dinner, all too polite to leave anything behind on their plates!

Overstuffed guests after a great dinner party

Following the suggestion of my friend, Debby, we put out the lights and lit a candle to finish the evening in soft light. (She told me to never—after age 50—serve meals by anything brighter than candlelight, which makes everyone look more young and romantic.) By the time we lit the candle, we were all looking mighty fine, I’d say. Or maybe that was the liquor talking. We had a wonderful evening together, and it was a fitting “last supper” with friends before I was leaving for home.

All of us beautiful by candlelight (but the camera couldn't handle it)

I had one last outing from Spello, to meet a friend in Montevarchi. It is located almost all the way back to Florence, and we had an afternoon and evening walking around the old city center. I happened to look into a sculpture studio we were passing, and I was impressed with the work I saw—good enough to think about returning when the school was open, and the students were working on their pieces.

Student work in progress in a Montevarchi studio

I saw this bike, too—and it was the colorful door that caught my attention—so I could not pass without a photograph. Then, small streets with laundry hanging were everywhere, and the colors were enhanced by the last light of the day. Finally, as night came on, we headed for the train station, and walked beneath the holiday lights, just being strung across the streets for the coming holiday season. It was a nice afternoon exploring Montevarchi, home of Prada and the obvious destination of dozens of shoppers waiting on the train platform with me, weighed down and juggling huge Prada shopping bags.

Old painted doors caught my eye, with the bike

Warm sunset lighting on a narrow street

Nightfall on the main street, but no holiday lights were lit yet

The very next morning, I was packed, the house was ready to be locked and left behind, and I was on my way to Florence. Anne left her keys with her sister-in-law a floor below, and I just spent the night in her place before calling a cab at 4 to get me to the airport for a 6 a.m. departure.

Bag, backpack, carry-on bag and cane--ready to depart

Arriving at the Florence airport, I was reminded that I had been sporting a boot cast (I’d almost forgotten, no longer using a cane, and getting around well), and was “treated” to another transfer from the terminal to the plane, via specialized trucks with scissor-lift compartments to lift disabled passengers up to the height of the doors of the plane. The operator was delighted to get the opportunity to get more practice with the new truck, and I was his only passenger. While I was belted into a wheelchair at the back of the compartment, he drove to the plane, out on the tarmac (no jet ways in Florence—only stairs, and then transfer buses that take passengers to the terminal, only about 100 yards away). He got out, put down and secured a “gangplank” from the compartment to the airplane door, and escorted me onto the plane, then followed with my carry-on bags. I was the FIRST person to board the plane, before the buses arrived from the terminal with the other passengers.

Scissor-lift transport for the disabled, and my personal driver, Francesco

I had my choice of seating assignments, all with wheels

Francesco aligning the transport with the open door of the plane

Laying down the "gangplank" bridge between the transport and the plane door

Soon I was on my way home—headed for a connection in Frankfurt, and flying over what appeared to be cooling towers of a nuclear reactor. I was only surprised to see the steam billowing out the towers because of the immediate closure of all German nuclear power plants after the tsunami damaged the plant in Fukushima, Japan. Maybe that was just a precaution, and they were already back online.

Steam from cooling towers, German nuclear power plant

A great trip, again. The boot cast and pain medications had become “non-issues,” after six weeks of time had passed, and I was getting around well, leaving my cane in the house unless the streets were wet and slippery, and using the Spello “navetta” shuttle van to get to the grocery store in the borgo below. Mike’s idea to send me to Spello was a good one, and time passed quickly as I was recuperating. I was looking forward to seeing Mike when I landed, and counting the few days left before my appointment to get clearance from the surgeon to start walking again without the cast, and slowly returning to “normal”—including driving again!

Leonardo and Paola, always two booths ahead of me

One of the few vendors of specialty Umbrian products

After stiffening up when I hear the prices quoted in Arezzo, Pissignano is always just a fun trip, with no agenda and nothing on my list to find. I once found a small desk here, or rather, Leonardo found it for me, and it was perfect for my space. I’d looked here many times for my madia—a furniture piece that was the center of bread production in homes in Tuscany and Umbria 100 years ago—and fretted that I had left behind the perfect one, until I found one in Arezzo from a vendor who I already knew from a previous purchase. Now, for me, I just have a fun browse with Paola and Leonardo, who never go there until an hour or two before they close, in order to find better prices on things left unsold at the end of the day.

I encountered (and photographed) this same onion vendor in Trevi, 2006

Since the vendors are all along nearly a mile of street, parking is nuts—the cars far outnumber the vendors and their posts. Leonardo always manages to find a parking place, but usually Paola and I are already on foot, starting at one end and heading toward the far opposite end. We try to keep each other in sight, at least, and often we just head for what interests us.

I'm always far behind, talking and touching and bargaining for better prices

Just-pressed olive oil for sale (only days old), direct from the olive grower

Hay forks, and a wooden bowl for kneading bread dough

This trip, on 6 November, I found a small carved side table for only €25, and could not leave it there. It had a family crest carved into one of the legs, and was missing small bits of wood and stain around the edges, but I was stocked with Old English furniture polish, and thought I could bring it back to life with some “elbow grease.” I took it home, and soon had it stained and restored, and used it to replace one of the IKEA small tables that I had purchased a year ago.

My refinishing project--a small side table I found in rough shape

Hand-carved family crest ("stemma") on the legs

My next find was a small woodcarving of a barefoot woodsman, with a rucksack and hiking stick, carved from hardwood. Another piece I could not resist for only €10. For a small “piece of art,” made by hand by someone whittling away, this was a bargain price. It’s now up on a shelf in my living room, watching over the house.

Small rustic woodcarving, one I could not pass up for the price

The final purchase was a blown glass demi-john, this one made to contain wine (smaller opening than the ones for olive oil). The vendor had about 40 of these out together on the ground, and they were €5 each. In his van, there were another 40 or more, in case I needed several. Leonardo insisted on carrying it to the car for me, and we were soon on our way back to Spello, only 20 minutes away by the superstrada. That gave us plenty of time for the argument: Was I going to clean the green glass demi-john, or not? “No,” I said. And then the debate began. Since it’s mine, I get to have my way—and didn’t clean it before I put it up on the shelf over my front door, where a second demi-john in a woven basket was already posted, and NOT cleaned up. Paola was giving me all the instructions to clean it, inside and out, but I was not interested. More rustic, I said, if I don’t clean it. And I won.

New (uncleaned) demi-john joins the older one above the front door

The weather was threatening, but I just carried an umbrella for the day--and used it

On 5 November, the weather was gloomy, I was going alone, and I seemed to be having difficulty getting to Arezzo. The newspaper stand where I usually stop for a ticket for the train was closed, and the ticket machine in the Spello station had a notice that it would not take paper bills (“banconotes”), leaving me without enough change for a ticket and no time to go back into town to find a ticket there at a tabbachi. (Some of the tabacchi stores, which usually sell tobacco products, also sell train tickets, postage stamps, cell phone credit, lottery tickets, and are packed with candy, gum and snacks.)

I boarded the train without a ticket and immediately found the conductor, to tell him that I needed to buy a ticket aboard (only done in grave emergencies, since a few years back). The fine for not having is ticket is the cost of the train route from beginning to the end—and must be paid to the conductor, or else the price doubles to pay it elsewhere, later. Fortunately, he believed my story in my very most sincere Italian, and I soon had a ticket and was safely on the train and on schedule.

As I walked into the main piazza, after passing at least 100 other vendors, I saw a huge wooden water trough for horses, complete with a pump to fill the trough. It was made of chestnut wood, and weighed about as much as a boxcar. I had not seen this before, and didn’t know WHO would be interested in this, but it was certainly a deluxe way to water horses.

The most elegant wooden horse trough I have ever seen! Beautiful chestnut wood, hand-carved, and with a pump.

I talked to many vendors, some of whom know me now, and wandered the side streets, all lined with vendors and their wares. Some of the vendors are located just outside their shops in Arezzo, and there are a series of three shops that always get my perusal. One, just off the main square, had a paper maché Pinocchio, nearly six feet tall, that has become very familiar to me. With girlfriends years ago, we found this same Pinocchio (then painted red, green and white—Italy’s colors) leaning on a wall across from the shop where it now resides. Once it was for sale, but now has become the “mascot” of the shop, and the owner will not part with it—but I never had any idea of dragging Pinocchio home to Spello, carried under my arm. I’m still meeting people in Spello who saw me carry a bench home from Arezzo once, and remember me from that day, nearly two years ago.

Pinocchio, an old friend from six years ago--now golden, not tri-color

At the top of the big main square, the arcade houses many vendors of very expensive paintings, silver, and fine antique linens. There, they are under cover in case of rain, although the other vendors are prepared with big sheets of plastic, in case the sprinkles begin. (And they use the same covers to leave their things secure and find some lunch, too.) This one lady is always present, outside a restaurant there, and always making fresh pasta to entice diners into the door. Here, she stands behind a display of the bistecca fiorentina (special cattle breed, fabulous steaks 20-40% larger than ours, and always served rare), some colorful vegetables, and some samples of the pasta specialties of the house.

A demonstration by a fresh pasta expert, outside the restaurant

This is a headboard for a bed, designed to be attached to the wall. I have a photo of this because I thought long and hard about buying it for my house here in Spello, and using it as art on the wall. I have a spot in the bedroom, across from the foot of the bed, that is about nine feet wide, and five feet tall—over a coat rack, all the way up to the high ceiling. The texture of this, and the chipped and worn paint, and even a bit of gilding had my interest, but the price stopped me. It was hand-carved of one piece of wood—no seams—but several of the top curls were missing, and then there was the price. I loved it, I wanted it, and I could just hear the tongues of Spello wagging if I brought THIS home under my arm—nearly six feet across, almost four feet tall. I know I could have carried it, but I just could not spend that much money on it, and the final price, after some negotiating, was still too much. So, I have a photo, instead!

Still thinking about this carved headboard--sure would have liked to bring it home

This little red “casaforte,” or safe, is meant for jewelry, and has a small tray that sits inside, suspended over another space for larger necklaces in the bottom of the little painted steel box. It came with a key and I just thought it was a very interesting piece for only €10—from a vendor who has very eclectic choices, and I don’t think I’ve ever left the fair without something from him. I had unlocked the box, and then put the key inside and closed it to take home. When I arrived, and Paola and Leonardo wanted to see my “finds,” I could not open it. Paola had a quick splash of “genius,” as she called it—and tried a key from a small table in their house—which worked! Since then the key is on a string, so that I don’t lock it closed by accident again. Now, I know better!

LIttle red painted jewelry safe--my kind of old and rustic collectible

From the same eclectic vendor, I had purchased a rack for stamps (“timboli”) used in some bureaucratic office here. Seems as if every piece of official paper here is stamped over and over with some form of stamp, and the rack was about €7, and interesting to me. Since then, I have looked for the stamps, to hang few on the little rack.

I was completely taken by surprise to find the timboli I was seeking in the stand of the militaria vendor, and the six I found took my breath away. They were remnants of the occupation of Italy by Germany in WWII, and were all symbols of the Nazi Party, the Waffen SS, and actually I was as fascinated as I was repulsed to have these in my hands. There is no way to know what documents were certified with these six stamps, but they are a piece of history that I could not let go. I negotiated a price for all six, and brought them home to put on my stamp holder, but up in a corner where no one will come upon them by accident. Living in California, I never imagined I’d have something so significant from WWII in my hands, and now in my house.

Old brass stamp rack, with the six German stamps I found in Arezzo

First two stamps

Second two stamps

Last two stamps

That was it for this trip—I need and want less and less, but still enjoy the shopping at the antiques fair. Now, I have to find things that are just interesting, with good prices, and that I can find a place for in my house here. No headboard this time, although seeing the photo reminds me how wonderful it would have looked in my room, but the steel safe and the stamps have found their spots in my house, for now. That’s enough!

We set out about 4:30 in the afternoon, allowing plenty of time for all of us to be back for dinner, normally not before 8:00 each night. As the sun was beginning to get low and the light became golden, we entered Assisi at Porta Nuova, so that we could walk from one end of the town to the other.

The setting sun throws a long shadow as Paola passes, in golden light

Much of what we pass in Assisi is commercial, and the shops are stocked with tourists in mind—full of snacks, small bottles of balsamic vinegar or limoncello (NOT from Umbria, but farther south, near Naples), bottles of wine from Umbria and Tuscany, and (of course) grappa. This little enoteca was full of wines and liquors to carry away, many packaged already for travel, and in small containers that would fit easily into a suitcase.

Enoteca, selling wines to tourists passing through Assisi

Soon, we were passing the Basilica di Santa Chiara, begun in 1257 and dedicated to the young woman who was one of St. Francis’ first followers, and who also founded the “Poor Claires,” or the Order of Saint Claire. In the tomb below the church, her remains are displayed in a glass coffin, and have been there in the basilica since 1850. This particular church (one of MANY in Assisi) is easily recognized by its massive lateral buttresses, visible here through the archway.

The lateral buttresses identify the Basilica of Santa Chiara

Here, a typical window from one of the dozens of souvenir shops, lining the main roadways. The first shirt says “My aunt loves me, Assisi,” and the rest are all meant to attract tourists and pilgrims, especially those looking for gifts for children.

Evening lights coming on, window full of souvenirs from Assisi for travelers

This is a quick view into a bar as we passed, with a case filled with meringues, these nearly 5 inches in diameter. It seems that these are popular here, in many pastry shop windows, and in the displays of sweets in the bars. I can just imagine that the first bite into one of these huge treats would result in a shower of shards to the street—with the entire brittle thing crumbling to small bits. At the least, these are only sugar, egg whites and cocoa powder, and are not going to do much damage to a low-fat diet.

Giant meringues, dusted with sugar or cocoa powder, await an espresso for a quick snack

As the sun disappeared, and we continued to walk toward the basilica of San Francesco (at the north end of the town), the streetlights were coming on and giving a beautiful glow to the streets and shops. We were among many taking a walk in the early evening, enjoying Assisi with several hours yet to go before returning for dinner.

The last daylight departs as streetlights take over illuminating our walk

In the Piazza del Commune, the principal piazza of Assisi, the square hosts several popular bars and restaurants, and is always busy with passersby, often gathered near a small fountain known as the “Lion’s Fountain.” Here, also, is the church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva (“St. Mary over Minerva”), with six impressive Roman columns. Assisi was once Roman, and had this impressive temple dedicated to Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, which was later transformed into a church where the Virgin Mary was said to “stand above pagan wisdom.”

"St. Mary over Minerva," the church in the old Roman temple

The Roman columns and pediment make the Tempio Minerva stand out

Across the piazza from the Minerva Temple columns is a decorated vault, with intricate frescoes from nearly 500 years ago (the doorway at the end of the vault leads to a restaurant—quite an impressive entryway, don’t you think?). There are a variety of family crests included in the vault’s decorations, and Paola asked me to capture some of them for her ceramic paintings—so I just explored a bit with my camera. It is actually the surround of the crest, or “stemma,” that is what interests her, to use in some of the commissions she takes to create painted ceramic pieces.

Decorated vault, leading to the entrance for a restaurant--impressive!

Indication that this vault was decorated in 1556

One of the crests, or stemme, this one featuring Papal symbolism--Paulus IIII

Another of many stemme in the vault, this one with a lion on a red field

Before reaching the Basilica of San Francesco (St. Francis of Assisi), we turned around and headed back toward the car, and the time for Paola to get back into her kitchen, preparing the next meal, was approaching. Here, Paola and Leonardo are passing the Lion Fountain in the main square, and night had fallen entirely. We were all wearing warm coats, and were glad to have made such a wise choice as the temperature fell quickly.

Paola and Leonardo leaving the piazza, passing the Lion Fountain

I could not resist a few shots inside the souvenir shops as we passed. Some are entirely filled with religious souvenirs, especially figures of St. Francis and St. Claire. His sermon to the birds is such a revered part of his history that he is often represented with birds in his hands, or surrounding him, as seen here. A second window of the same shop was a haven for angels, in all sizes and poses. Many of the shops carry almost exactly the same inventory—including the nun’s habit and monk’s robe wine bottle covers that I purchased in Assisi nearly 7 years ago, the first time I visited Assisi.

St. Francis and St. Claire, available in any size, and in any shop in Assisi

For collectors of angels, a "target-rich" window of opportunities

Paola has quite a sweet tooth (especially for chocolate), and is a spectacular baker, herself. The croissants for the B&B are all made by her, as are the other pastries served there for breakfast to the guests. She is always looking for new ideas, and cannot resist a stop at a pastry shop window to see what is offered. These “toreiglione francescano” caught my attention because of the intricate design in the pastry covering the fruit and nuts that fill this particular treat. The price is one that I have come to regard only from a distance, with my wallet closed tight. Instead of a price per kilo, these are priced at “€3.10 per l’etto,” which is €3.10 per 100 grams (only a tenth of a kilo). That means that these 6” wide pastries, assuming them to be about a pound (550 grams) each, probably cost about €15, or nearly $20. When I see a price “per l’etto,” I tread cautiously and make certain that I understand how dearly I may pay for an impulse purchase. (I wonder how many tourists clutch at their chests when they are told the price, once their pastry is bagged and rung up at the register?)

Paola, browsing in the pastry shop window

Intricate pastry design, but a price to bring a big surprise at the register

On our way out and back to the car, we passed a little street with the Chiesa Nuova, a small church built over the original home of St. Francis. Here, a fresco located over the steps down to the door of his family home helps to identify the importance of this spot in the history of Assisi.

Fresco indicates that this doorway leads to the birthplace of St. Francis

Our last stop was at the city wall, to take a look out over the valley below, and the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli (St. Mary of the Angels), lit well enough at night to get a small image. This church is at the foot of Assisi, about 2 miles below the Basilica of San Francesco, and was created to house the Porziuncola, the most sacred place for Franciscans. It was in this small chapel that St. Francis heard the call to rebuild the church, and renounced his inheritance to live in poverty, starting the Franciscan movement. I have taken many guests there, to see “the other half” of the St. Francis story in Assisi, and many have considered Santa Maria degli Angeli to be their most treasured visit while in Assisi. The small Porziuncola was the modest church of St. Francis, in his time, and he died just outside the chapel in 1226, in the Chapel of the Transito, where a stone now notes precisely where he died, and where his rope belt is preserved in a reliquary. As many pilgrims soon arrived to seek the “Pardon of St. Francis,” the small chapel was considered inadequate to house so many, so the church was built around the chapel beginning in 1569. Both the Basilica of San Francesco and Santa Maria degli Angeli are officially Vatican “territory,” since 1909.

View down to Santa Maria degli Angeli (which I can see from my patio in Spello)

Taking a walk with Paola is often an adventure, but having another chance to tour and get to know Assisi is such a treat for me–cast or no cast, but with two great tour guides. Each time I feel I already know my way around, but discover more than I have ever seen before, and add to my knowledge of the lives of St. Francis and St. Claire, whose ministries are so thoroughly woven through the history of both Tuscany and Umbria. (The convent across the street from me, today housing 29 cloistered nuns, is the Order of Clarisse, or St. Claire, and the path of the pilgrims passing in the footsteps of St. Francis leads right by my doorway, and down through the center of Spello, heading toward Assisi.)

As the six weeks passed, it was nearing the time for me to begin preparing to go home. One of my final pleasures was another meal with Robespier, along with Giovanni, the son of one of his best friends (from Bergamo—5 hours by car distant from Spello), and Giovanni’s girlfriend, Marzia. We had met several times before, and so I was included for a small dinner with just the four of us.

I knew exactly what was on the menu—“trippa.” Robespier loves tripe, and it is one of his cooking specialties, but I am not a fan, at all. The first time he made it for me, and served me a generous portion, I ate it all to be polite. I was thankful for the carrots and the sausage in the bowl that time, meaning there was less room for tripe (I cannot tolerate the texture—no thanks!), but I ate the entire serving and politely declined seconds.

A year or so later, with my friend Cheryl along (Robe calls her “la vichinga,” the Viking), we could see early in the day that he was thawing tripe to make his specialty for me—thinking I had enjoyed it the first time. I had NOT. But it was Cheryl who spoke up, and told Robe that I strongly DISLIKED trippa, and so did she. Robe was shocked, knowing that I had eaten every bite before. I went upstairs to the guest book, turned the pages back a year, and translated my comments: “There is no one else on earth for whom I would have choked down tripe, but Robespier. I hate tripe.” He laughed like mad, and we were served something else that night for dinner.

Robespier serving the trippa for Giovanni, Marzia and himself (none for me!)

This dinner, with Giovanni and Marzia, I knew to enjoy my pasta and just decline the next course—the trippa. I declined, while Robe and Giovanni had seconds. This dish is just not for me, barely for Marzia (to be polite–her turn!)—and I cannot see my tastes changing any time soon, but at least Robe knew not to ask, and not to serve me his specialty.

Robe's trippa--more for him when I abstain, thanks

With the beginning of November comes “la raccolta,” the olive harvest. First, All Saints’ Day (a national holiday) and then All Souls’ Day (no longer a holiday) take up the first two days of the month. Then, weather permitting, time stops in Spello while shops close, and everyone able heads to the mountain to collect the olives. There had been real fear that a total lack of summer rain would mean there would be no harvest, but late rains increased the size of the olives just enough to make the harvest worthwhile, and the little Ape trucks drove out each morning, with the nets to spread under the trees, the wooden ladders, and the containers for the olives to bring them back.

In the piazza, an Ape was parked with big green bins in the back, filled with the harvest of the day. Smaller baskets are dumped into these larger ones, and then the bigger ones are hauled to the frantoio, the cooperative just down the hill where the olives are pressed for their oil. Each one of the farmers follows his olives from the first washing to the final weighing of the new oil. That is so that no other olives are mixed with his, and so that his entire production is tallied and delivered back to him. Those wishing to have the cooperative sell their oil take what they need for themselves and for family, and then sell their excess oil to be bottled and sold at the frantoio.

Plastic bin full of just-harvested olives, on the way to the co-op local frantoio to be pressed

A mixture of olives, picked just hours earlier, after being stripped from the tree by hand

Suzanna and Phil, ex-pats who have lived here several years, were anxious about having enough rain to make the harvest worth the effort, but ended up with enough oil for them and their friends who helped harvest, and one bright green bottle for me! I put it up on the sill by my window in the kitchen, and marveled at the bright green color, and the spicy bite of new olive oil that slowly goes away as the oil sits in the bottle and ages a little. It was quite a treat to have some extraordinary olive oil, only a day or two after it was pressed at the frantoio.

A most precious gift: Phil and Suzanna's olive oil, pressed only a day or so earlier--the very best!

In the garden right outside my house, Signor Antonio was already taking his tomato plants out, which had been full of huge tomatoes all summer. The artichoke plants were cut back, there was some arugula left, and always the sage and rosemary and parsley, but most of the garden was done for the season, and he was beginning to spade under the old plants. In the ingresso, the covered passage to my gate and front door, I could see a small pile of the last tomatoes of the season, barely red at all, and some boots that were drying after having been hosed off from the mud of the garden. All signs here are pointing to fall, in earnest—the gardens are done, the olives are harvested and pressed into oil, and I’m ready to go home.

The last tomatoes of Signor Antonio's orto, ripening off the vines

At last, I got a shot of a little “still life” that has caught my eye since the first time I saw my place with the real estate agent: Signor Antonio had hung up about 5 heads of garlic on the wall, where they have been hanging as long as I have been here at my place—nearly 2 years now. I have tried to move lawn chairs, or garden tools, and I have waited for better light—and finally I got my chance on a cloudy day, and photographed what is a beautiful sight to me—those garlic bulbs and their long-dried leaves, just hanging by a string from a nail in the stone wall. Somehow, this is a small triumph for me, and I can check off one more goal that I’ve made for myself while here.

Finally, the light I was seeking for capturing these dried garlic bulbs