The Italy Files: Part 2
Yes, it's true. I can't get enough of that boot-shaped, fashion-soaked, sun-drenched country to the south. So when my friend Claudia dropped in for 10 days from San Francisco, there was really no question about where we were heading. She too has Sicilian roots and spent time in Italy (Assisi) as a student, so we are joined in mutual Italy worship.


Following a tip in the paper, we decided to visit Le Marche, an area in central Italy some have deemed the new Tuscany. Like Tuscany, Le Marche has an abundance of medieval, hilltop villages, gorgeous countryside, and meandering back roads. But it's greener and more rugged than Tuscany with the Appennini mountain range separating it from the rest of central Italy and its crush of tourists. We were primarily on a gelato-seeking, wine-appreciation, language-refresher mission, so the fact that Le Marche is not the Italian epicenter of important museums and historical sites was not a problem. For that we had Florence and Assisi (our starting and end points).

In my mind, our trip had two distinct phases -- before and after our arrival at Il Casato, a wonderful farmhouse hotel and restaurant that's also an operating vineyard and small farm. The Italian term for this type of place is "agriturismo," and I gather that the concept has really taken off in the past several years. I first noticed it this past Easter when Christoph and I spent a day driving through Tuscany and saw agriturismo signs everywhere.

Before Il Casato, we were having a pleasant enough time shopping the markets in Florence, exploring picturesque Urbino, and putting miles on our rental car - get this - a BMW station wagon. Hertz had run out of Fiat automatics, the car I'd reserved, and decided to pimp our ride at no extra charge. We figured it was a real stroke of luck until we got that thing all tangled up in the impossibly narrow cobblestone alleys of every town we visited. And then there was that belligerent Italian driver stuck behind us in a particularly small parking lot who threatened to call the police.

I'm sad to report that we detected some anti-Americanism on this trip. Every restaurant seemed to have a special place for us --- let's call it the American ghetto. There was also the single-women-over-30 ghetto. Anyone who's gone for dim sum in San Francisco and found themselves in the Caucasian ghetto will understand this concept. Again and again, we were seated off in a corner by ourselves, the lone diners.


The worst was in Urbino, where we had a whole floor to ourselves. After we complained and looked really gloomy about this situation, they eventually moved us downstairs with the other patrons. Unfortunately this included a group of drunk Swiss men at the table next to us who made sure we understood, after we told them we are from California, that they think Napa wine tastes like shit. Nice. As we got up to leave, they started yelling "Bush! Bush! Do you like Bush?" My reply: "I LOOOOOOOVE Bush! Goooooo Bushy!!!!"

We took all this in stride, but it was starting to wear on us. Afterall, we weren't your average American tourists. We actually made attempts to speak Italian and look stylish at all times in accordance with local norms and customs. Yet it was clear, especially after being referred to once (albeit in a friendly way) as "le ragazze alte" (the tall girls), that we didn't exactly blend in.

Then we hit a real low point. After a long day of driving, we reached the town of Macerata, where we planned to stay for the next two nights. The Rough Guide described it as the perfect base for exploring the magnificent countryside.

Perfect, my ass.

After driving through the ugly modern development that surrounds the city, we parked the Beamer in a lot and proceeded to the youth hostel (yes, I'm aware of how absurd that sounds). Claudia had to pee and had a nasty cold. I was tired and frustrated after a set of directions that had us dragging our bags up and down several sets of stairs. We were lost and grumpy.

I ended up in the tourist office rubbing my face and saying, "Io sono molto stanca." (I am very tired.) From the look on the face of the woman behind the counter, I'm sure I appeared slightly deranged. She quit trying to explain the location of the hostel (just around the corner!) and cautiously handed me the map I had been asking for.

We finally reached the hostel. It had the ambiance (perhaps aptly by then) of an abandonded mental institution. We seemed to be the only guests, so we got our own room, which Claudia nicknamed "cell block A." As soon as we set our bags down, I started scrambling for a new plan and that's how we ended up staying at Il Casato, that little slice of heaven, the next night. It wasn't even in the original plan!

But first we had to go through more hell. After taking a stroll and eating some crappy pizza, we returned to the hostel and decided to hit the hay early. A few minutes later there was urgent knocking at our door. Before I could open it, a woman barged in and started yelling at us in rapid-fire Italian. I wasn't quite following all of it but I understood she was upset that we didn't leave the key at the front desk when went out. Just when I was sure she was wrapping up her verbal assault it escalated and this is where she lost me. She was on the verge of hysteria about how she's responsble for us and something about getting raped in the bathroom.

At this point it was almost comical. This really was the insane asylum. Finally she left, and as I climbed back into bed, I felt somewhat violated. I told Claudia, as I turned out the light, let's just pretend we're already on that nice farm in the country. And she said, god bless her, "Yeah, and that was the cow."

To be continued...