Come On Baby, Light My Fire

So our oven/stove/candle lighter ran out of fuel. And being good environmental citizens (except when it comes to wasting bathwater on account of our meager shower), we thought we’d try to refill it, instead of sending yet another piece of plastic to the dump. 

Earlier in the week, Trofie Wife made an excursion into the town centro in order to purchase a new one (for backup) and inquire as to how to refill the original. The friendly folks in the electronics shop explained the difference between the ones that run on fuel and those that run on some sort of rechargeable crystals (magic!). Deciding that she didn’t want to bother with lighter fuel if she didn’t have to, Trofie Wife went for the rechargeable crystal one, spending just 2 euro more and hopefully saving even more than that in trouble. Well, upon arriving home and attempting to cook dinner in the oven that evening, Trofie Wife and Martello discovered that the crystal one doesn’t work on the oven or open-air candles (it has to connect in a special way with the lighter thing on the side of each burner). 

So, yesterday, Trofie Wife took not one but two “boy do I feel stupid” trips to local stores. Having studied the term for “lighter,” I went to the local tabacchi as instructed in order to purchase a lighter fluid refill. Except that I pronounced the term incorrectly, emphasized the need for gas but not lighter fluid, and ended up leaving with extra-long matches (which I will never use, given my abject fear of lighting them). I was thinking of bringing (and should have brought) my present lighter with me, but at the last instant, I chickened out, afraid that it would burst into flames inside my purse with whatever little fuel was left). On my way to my next errand, I ended up passing the gas store, where seated inside was the same guy who filled our propane tank when we first moved in. My arrival commenced yet another frustrating encounter (interestingly, his English would only appear when he was totally exasperated). I ended up leaving with another charger that can be refilled with lighter fluid—of course, at the tabacchi. Luckily, on my way to the wine shop, I discovered another tabacchi, where I will go with the lighter’s box whenever we need more fluid, circumventing my need to interact with the lady who gave me matches.

I also noticed on this walk that it may have snowed here as a number of parked cars have snow on their roofs (upon arriving home, Martello confirms that, in fact, snow did hit the higher elevations). For our weekend pleasure, I stopped into the wine shop (my first time in there as we usually just pick up vino at the grocery store) for a bottle of Cantina Tramin Alto Adige Sauvignon (just raved about on Chow.com; thanks for getting me onto that listserv, Moshe). A quick Google search revealed that it’s retailing for $18.95 at liquoroutletwinecellars.com, but Trofie Wife scored it for under 9 euro! We will surely miss the wine bargains when we depart. (Tasting notes: we tried the wine with our antipasta dinner (with Trofie Wife working on that same glass for another two hours after dinner) and both agreed that it was fabulous and not at all overrated.)

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife 

Probably Not Making the Most Popular Baby Names List This Year

Trofie Wife is always on the lookout for interesting tidbits regarding her adoptive home. If readers remember from an earlier post, she was shocked to see a Mussolini calendar on sale in Voltri. Well, apparently there actually is a market for such paraphernalia. A little tidbit in The New York Times, of all places, reported on a $1,900 payment, courtesy of a neo-fascist party in the Southern Italian Basilicata region (Potenza is the big town there; the region is Italy’s smallest and most impoverished), to couples naming their children either Benito or Rachele, after Il Duce and his bride. No word on how many—if any—families have taken them up on the offer. I guess this is an extension of other attempts by Italian regional and local leaders to financially incentivize parenthood in order to stem the tide of negative population growth (see this New York Times Magazine article from last summer, http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/29/magazine/29Birth-t.html).

However reactionary, this group just might be on to something. Trofie Wife has heard on more than one occasion parents referring to a child as “the little dictator” or something of that nature. Taking the Fiamma Tricolore up on their offer turns the moniker on its head. In exchange for dictating, il bambino gets stuck with a funny name (at least if he’s a boy), and Mom and Dad get to take the money and run.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Gobbled in Genoa

Turkey is known in Italian as tacchino, but from what we can gather, it’s not really a big sell around here. This Thanksgiving was a first for Trofie Wife in many ways. It was the first time in recent memory that she did not watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (or the National Dog Show that follows it), OD on pineapple horseradish dip, blow out the candles on her (totally expected) belated birthday cake, or otherwise spend the holiday with however many Schwartzes can be wrangled together. Instead, Trofie Wife went into Genoa with her British pal to see Rachel Getting Married (at the original-language theatre), which was highly appropriate Thanksgiving fare given its focus on a dysfunctional family; Trofie Wife highly recommends both the film and soundtrack. Given the film venue, Trofie Wife should not have been surprised to hear English both onscreen and in the audience—a most welcome indulgence. She was also happy to gab with and give directions to an elderly couple visiting from the States. Other highlights of the visit to the city included coming upon a large group of Germans from Stuttgart beering and cheering on their “football” team and leafleting students preparing for a big rally on Friday (which might have encountered some complications, given the impending massive wind and rainstorm). 

Martello arrived home well after 9 p.m. so we could finally start working on our Thanksgiving feast. Trofie Wife was hoping to cobble together some fish ravioli from frozen fish filets and some egg pasta Martello selected in Eataly that looked enough like ravioli such that if they were cooked, separated, and then pan-fried fish was slid in between two pieces, presto, we'd have ravioli, right? Well….Martello was pretty convinced that the pouches would not hold together in boiling water, and he was correct. Instead, we baked the ravioli in the oven for five minutes or so and then topped the warmish, sometimes crunchyish, dish with the remnants of our bottle of bagna cauda, a traditional Piedmontese condiment made with olive oil, garlic, and anchovies which even Martello, the Garlic Freak, thought was a bit too garlicky. I’ve just read, however, that it is supposed to be served warm, so perhaps we’ve misjudged/mischaracterized it by not following directions…

Nevertheless, we dined and gave thanks for our new home, each other, and everyone else in our orbit of love and friendship, both near and far.

 Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

 

One Small Step for Manicotti, One Giant Leap for Mortadella

Apparently, Italy has just been selected to head the European Space Agency for the next two years. (See:  http://www.upi.com/Science_News/2008/11/25/Italy_heads_European_Space_Agency/UPI-61831227654473/)

The country is the third-largest contributor to the European space program, yet it’s only been launching astronauts since the 1990s. Plus, Trofie Wife is not really sure why it was granted this honor, given its well-documented foibles with all the other forms of transport over which it already has control (airplanes, trains, buses…). A strike on a space station sounds unsafe. Perhaps it’s all just an elaborate reemployment plan for laid-off Alitalia pilots?  Either way, for the next couple of years, I’d stick with Cape Canaveral as your shuttle launch of choice.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Fear Not Poste Italiane

Prior to moving to Arenzano, Trofie Wife was warned repeatedly about the unreliability of the Italian postal service. With this advice at hand, I expected little in the way of mail pouring in or out and expected that whatever was delivered to me—if it arrived at all—would be chewed up/pilfered through, and anything that I sent to the States would actually end up in Nova Scotia. Thus imagine the pleasant surprise when mail started arriving seemingly rapidly and word came back that what I had placed in the little red boxes had turned up across the Atlantic, in the right Zip code! Perhaps our good fortune is due to our positioning in Northern, and not Southern, Italy, where things are still a bit rough around the edges and not as interconnected with other Northern European commercial centers. Whatever the reason, I will happily accept it!

This week has been an especially good one for mail, with care packages of magazines (thanks, Mom!) and Lactaid (thanks, Keith and Amy!) finding their way to our box. An added bonus was that the Lactaid package was actually delivered via Poste Italiane courier, so Trofie Wife finally figured out what the downstairs buzzer sounded like and discovered how to let in guests!

The most recent get was especially exciting, not only for what arrived, but in that it allowed Trofie Wife’s determination to triumph over Martello’s cynicism. Prior to leaving, Trofie Wife created a lengthy agenda of necessary address and billing changes. As high a priority as ensuring that her final Brooklyn bills would be paid and banking and credit card statements redirected, was making sure that her New York magazines would continue to arrive. Yes, Trofie Wife realizes that presently she does not live in New York. But how can you expect me to keep up the RobynZagat if I don’t get all the information regarding restaurant openings? The good folks in charge of delivery told me that I would be able to have it forwarded to our new home at no additional cost for the lifetime of this subscription (basically, our entire time in Italy). Martello was certain that either a fee would show up and/or the magazines never would. I trusted that the people who so deliciously comment on the goings on in my favorite city would be certain to keep me in the loop. Low and behold, on my way out of the apartment this morning, a glossy plastic package beckoned from our box. What was it? The November 17 issue of New York magazine! (Yes, they might be a little far behind, but they’re still arriving!) My mother just sent me November 3, and I’m almost certain that November 10 ended up in Brooklyn and will somehow make its way to New Jersey and eventually Italy. (Note: midway through writing this post the November 24 issue arrived. Two in one week! Oh happy day!) Martello is not happy with this turn of events, as he believes New York magazine and the NYC-centric view of the world it proffers belongs somewhere in between the 3^rd and 6^th rings of the Inferno. He, of course, neglects to remember that many a fun birthday dinner or weekend outing sprang forth from those pages…

Speaking of Martello, I’m sure that readers are thrilled that he finally provided his promised disquisition on Venice. However, he has sadly determined that it will likely not be possible for him to be a regular correspondent due to his super-long work days. He will thus make guest appearances as opposed to being a regular player. Either way, stay tuned.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Cherie, Michelle, and Trofie Wife

Not that I’m presenting Martello as design’s little lost Laborite (with decidedly large ears) or Democratic savior/messiah (also with large ears…hmm, is there a connection between ear circumference and prestige? Maybe I should more closely examine Martello’s ears, not to mention my own), but reading the following New York Times article on the transition from power player to (less) power(ful) wife, I found cause to ruminate on my own situation here as Trofie Wife: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/24/us/politics/24advice.html?_r=1

Via an article in the Times of London, Attorney (and former British First Lady) Cherie Blair told attorney (and First Lady-Elect) Michelle Obama, “‘You have to learn to take the back seat,’” as your husband will be the focus as long as he holds his title. The New York Times reporter continues to discuss various ongoing debates regarding Michelle Obama’s decision to resign from her own prestigious position in order to support her husband, first as a candidate, and now as president-elect and ultimately, president. The question is whether or not she truly had a choice in the matter and if so, if such choices are dispiriting or empowering for career-minded women. Some activists argue that Michelle Obama will gain a new soap box as first lady and perhaps be able to accomplish even more in this role than in her private-sector career trajectory. Obama remains convinced that she can return to her old career or a new one once her husband’s term(s) of office end(s).

Yes, Martello wasn’t elected the leader of the free world, and Trofie Wife had not yet risen to the professional stature of one Michelle Obama. But there are parallels. Trofie Wife is certainly taking a backseat to Martello at the moment, with her professional options limited to those that can be undertaken from afar on her trusty computer, as determined by open-minded employers. Just as any spouse (though in heterosexual couples I’m pretty sure women more frequently than men) must make tough decisions when their partner is offered a position far away from their current home, Michelle Obama and Trofie Wife found themselves in this same boat. While commuter marriages (or relationships) may work for some period of time over a manageable difference, at a certain point they are no longer feasible, especially, as in Michelle Obama’s case, when the family extends beyond the couple to animals and/or children. Becoming Trofie Wife and coming here was certainly a choice, and being with dear Martello in such a lovely location sure beats any administrative role. (I’m not sure if Michelle Obama will feel quite the same way about swampy Augusts in D.C., though I know nothing of Chicago summers, so maybe it’s not a major change.) Still, in the “dispiriting” corner, it’s unfortunate that one person’s career opportunities have to be sacrificed on the altar of another’s (here’s where the case for finally working out teleporting comes in).

Yet in the “empowering” corner, by tagging along with Martello, Trofie Wife has most certainly found a new platform—this here blog. In fact, it had been quite some time since she had written extensively outside of academic pursuits, so Trofie Wife has plunged head first into the opportunity, indulging in the writerly life complete with e-mail and online procrastination, constant revisions, and all together too many cups of tea. The ultimate question is what will become of Trofie Wife’s career, left behind on distant shores. Only time will tell if she will be able to transition back to the work force without skipping a beat, or if her “gap year” will be derided by employers in this increasingly dismal economy. While “First Lady” of the United States looks pretty good on the resume, Trofie Wife just doesn’t have the same ring to it…

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Falling in Love All Over Again

So, Martello and I have devised a little something called the “honeymoon bank.” Since we didn’t have a formal, mini-umbrella-drink laden week or so long honeymoon as per standard wedding operating procedure (SWOP), we’ve been denoting certain days/experiences here and there as part of our honeymoon cache. Included on the list was our actual 48+ hour Manhattan (where we realized we hadn’t slept in roughly five years) mini-moon, our 72+ hours in Maine, our 36+ hours in Venice, and most recently, our 36+ hours in Torino. (Yes, we understand that most of our readers believe us to be on a 12-month honeymoon, but in actuality, Martello does, in fact, go to work every day and stays out of the house for at least 12 hours while Trofie Wife is occupied with domesticity and computerly matters. Yes, we do this in a lovely setting, of which we realize most people are envious, but if you’re religiously making the bed every morning, you’re not on a honeymoon…).  Anyway, this post is dedicated to Torino, our new love (with apologies to New York and Philadelphia). If any design (or cioccolato) firms in Torino are reading this, we’d be happy to spend Year 2 with you.

Last Saturday we boarded the local train at a godlier hour of 10:30 a.m. in order to catch the Intercity to Torino. Turns out that we had purchased the wrong kind of ticket and were thus hit with a surcharge on the train. Luckily, the conductor was nice, knew some English, and answered his cell phone mid-transaction (pretty standard here—Trofie Wife is still smarting about not getting a snapshot of the gondolier in Venice kibitzing away while touring around a happy couple), proving that we were not in any sort of trouble. We also found out that they carry credit card machines, so if we are ever in a bind without cash, we won’t get thrown from the train! We alighted (sounds so much better than the subway conductor screaming, “Let ’em off, let ‘em off”) at the Lingotto station and immediately had an amazing view of the Italian Alps. We were a bit disoriented at first, but eventually found our way across the traffic median to the entryway of the Olympic bridge, the gorgeous red arch pictured below.

Torino hosted the 2006 Winter Games, which I somehow managed to completely miss, which is odd, given that I spent a good chunk of 1994 (post-Lillehammer) trying to figure out how I could become the next Bonnie Blair/Dan Jansen (I even went so far as to have my personal secretary (aka, my mother) call the nearby skating rink, Fritzel Ditzel (that’s at least what I called it; that might not be its proper name), to see if they offered speed skating lessons, which I figured I’d squeeze in between Hebrew school and tennis. Needless to say, it didn’t work out.). The New York Times was helpful enough to publish a tome to Torino just a few days before our departure in October, sealing the deal that we would journey there. In the article, the author notes that Torino, an old factory town, was on the upswing and cinching the Olympics further enhanced its development. However, the former Olympic village is a bit sad looking (see below). In two years, the huge visitors’ center has yet to be repurposed.

The gorgeous bridge provides breathtaking views of the Alps en route to the mall. Yes, the mall. Trofie Wife was glad to be back in her natural habitat, when she and Martello entered the shopping center to find themselves in the midst of the food court and many Christmas decorations. Amazingly, the mall is connected to two gorgeous Le Méridien hotels. We splurged at the Art + Tech, enjoying such amenities as a comfortable bed with multiple pillows!, window curtains with an automated open and close button, and a power shower (boasting amazing water pressure and massage nozzles and which has managed to make our dinky “shower” at home seem even less inviting, as if that were possible).

After settling in, we abandoned our plush accommodations in order to explore Torino. We hopped on a local bus and disembarked in order to walk the vaunted avenues of fancy shops, drink espresso-inspired beverages at the original Lavazza café, down some good, cheap falafel, explore the various piazzas, and attempt to not purchase the entire contents of the Muji store (I sincerely fear for our financial health when we finally make it to Japan, as our joint propensity for cute/well-designed stationery items will surely get us in a lot of trouble). On our way to visit the famed Shroud of Turin (Turin is Torino in English; I don’t understand why geographical names can’t just be standardized, with the country/city in question’s name holding up from one land to the next, in the original language!), we stopped for a ceremonial scoop of Grom ice cream. Now if you will recall, Grom opened on the Upper West Side to great fanfare several summers ago. Trofie Wife was one of many, many New Yorkers who waited for hours on lines that whipped around the block in order to sample this so-called most amazing gelato ever. At $5 a scoop, I was underwhelmed, though the experience of chatting with other hopeful ice cream devotees was in some ways worth it (plus, I had nothing better to do that night). Tasting Grom on its home turf (meaning, not freeze-dried), for a lesser price made it a bit tastier, but Trofie Wife is still not convinced that it’s the best gelato in the country. (However, she will likely look forward to visiting the relatively new West Village shop upon her return and commenting to her companion about “how much better it tastes in Torino.”)

So, with cones in hand, we made our way to Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista, where the Shroud of Turin is housed. The deal with the shroud is that it is believed by believers to be Jesus’s original burial cloth. The powers that be have put together a fairly impressive timeline (complete with radiocarbon and other scientific testing) that definitively places the shroud in Turkey in the 500s, and they have traced its travels from the Middle East to France and ultimately, Italy. According to a quick Google search, controversy over the carbon dating arose yet again this summer. (Trofie Wife and Martello have no official position on the matter.) Due to its sacred and delicate nature, the shroud is not on display, but a great reproduction is front and center for all to examine. From an artistic perspective, it’s pretty cool.  

We next moved on to the Roman ruins—a gate and amphitheater that were hard to view in the dark. They appear to now be used as an elaborate dog run—I’m sure the Roman emperors would be quite pleased to know that. At this point, our lack of sleep on Friday night and a pestering cold was really getting to Trofie Wife. She was ready to call it a day. However, Martello—who apparently likes to plan vacation itineraries (but not much else)—convinced me to soldier on…and up. I found myself riding up a ridiculously steep elevator inside the Molé, which is inside the national cinema museum (which boasts such national treasures as relics of American cinema belonging to Marilyn Monroe, amongst others, go figure) to reach a viewing deck looking out and over all of Torino. Pretty lights. Trofie Wife preferred to cling to the support column while Martello snapped some death-defying shots (below). Martello wants all readers to know that the entire top of the Molé is, as Trofie Wife refers to it, “suicide proof,” meaning lots of wires, enclosures, and other contraptions are in place such that it would be impossible for anyone (even with great effort) to tumble off. (He somehow thinks this makes my case for clinging to the pole less cogent.)

I should also add that the Molé was originally supposed to be a synagogue for Turin’s newly emancipated Jews, but wouldn’t you know it, the architect went over budget, which led to some sort of land swap (Whitewater?), with the city giving the Jews another parcel in exchange for the Molé plot. After relishing the vistas, we rode the elevator back down but decided to forego the cinema museum in favor of dinner as recommended by our guidebook and the above-mentioned New York Times article. Dinner caused Trofie Wife to perk up such that when we disembarked from the bus, she noticed that the lights were still on in Eataly, henceforth known as the most amazing place ever (to be discussed in greater detail two paragraphs down). As a sort of preview for the adventures that we would have there the following day, Trofie Wife and Martello ducked in just a few minutes before closing to get Gelato #2 of the day. With the staff trying to kick everyone out so they could go home, we returned to our hotel to rest and prepare ourselves for the culinary journey that awaited us in the morn.

For as long as Trofie Wife has been capable of booking her own hotels, she has been certain to pick those where breakfast is included (sometimes you have to double check these things, if it’s not automatically noted on the Web site). Martello doesn’t believe in this principle as firmly, believing that scavenging for breakfast provides the first opportunity for adventure each morning. However, I believe he will agree that it was well worth my nagging to get us to spring for breakfast at Art + Tech. We enjoyed the luxurious setting of the dining room ensconced with suspended lighting fixtures along with the buffet breakfast, complete with yogurt in glass containers and chocolate hazelnut sauce and honey (which may have found their way, half opened, back to Arenzano). After breakfast, we ascended the structure, finding ourselves on top of the roof of the old Fiat factory (the building’s original use prior to its conversion into a hotel). We had the dual sensation of overlooking the gorgeous Alps, while feeling as though we had entered the racing scene in Grease. Martello took the opportunity to get some exercise, as pictured below, while Trofie Wife took the opportunity to take pictures of Martello and find shortcuts around the track (she did, however, climb up the side of the track in order to commune with her inner Nascar driver). We then stopped at the floating art gallery, also on the roof, to view the Fiat owners’ permanent collection as well as the temporary exhibit of works from an eclectic Zurich gallery. Finally, it was time to head to Eataly.

To understand just how amazing Eataly is, imagine the largest Whole Foods in the world, running on hyper antioxidants. Eataly is a foodie’s mecca. Both Disney World (fun) and Epcot (educational) for acolytes of the Slow Food (keywords: natural, local, seasonal, greenmarket, biodynamic, organic, fresh, anti-prepared foods) movement. Essentially, heaven on earth. The aisles upon aisles of fresh, all native Italian food ranges from pasta to produce to prosciutto (we, of course, skipped #3). In addition to stocking every possible bit of Italian food you can imagine (well, except for black pasta, which was surprising and disappointing), there are nine—yes, nine—eateries within the complex, allowing visitors to sample fare from a specific genre and have it paired with wine, which you can then find in the cellar downstairs. We narrowly resisted the all-white truffle menu in favor of the fish bar. Trofie Wife dined on an excellent fish soup, while Martello enjoyed some grilled fish. I should also note that before heading into any of the food aisles, Trofie Wife navigated into the book section, and she and Martello nosed around there for close to 25 minutes, finally settling on a catalogue of Piedmont-produced delicacies (with a recipe section; all in Italian) and an awesome chart noting seasonal availability of vegetables and fruits. Our carts (and, eventually, eco-friendly shopping bags) were filled with pastas, sauces in jars, cupcake tin liners (!), and chocolate (lots of it! To atone for missing this year’s Chocolate Show).  Somehow we managed to leave the store with some money still left in the bank. Rumors circling the Internet say that Eataly is set to land in Rockefeller Center in 2009, but given the business climate right now, who knows. For a virtual visit see,  http://www.eatalytorino.it/eatalytorino/welcome_eng.lasso

We returned to Arenzano early that evening, laden with good food and great memories. We will certainly be sure to return to Torino in the coming months…perhaps with guests? Still to check out is the synagogue (courtesy of that land swap), Victorian-era chocolate stores, and maybe some more art and architecture, not to mention the happenin’ night spots down by the River Po, which Trofie Wife assures Martello she’ll stay awake for, provided she’s given wide latitude on an afternoon nap.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife