In Which She Milks a Goat and Goes on a Date

1 August 2008
Bruni, Piedmonte, Italy

Not in the same day, however. That would have been overwhelming. Chronologically the goat came first, but as there's not much to say about the date I can start there. I just wanted to make a few brief comments about Italian men: one, that their accents make them sound a little bit like movie villains when they speak English, adding a curl to our language that recalls mustache twirling and clever hijinks; two, that riding on the back of a Vespa actually is just as fun (and not as scary) as I thought it would be, but not quite as romantic since it's hard to avoid clunking helmets together every couple of blocks; and three, that I continue to laugh at myself for being a 22-year-old American girl. I never considered what it would be like to fit so snugly into that specific category, but I really do feel like a 22-year-old American girl most of the time and especially when sipping pinot grigio across the table from an intelligent European bachelor who was already deep into the depths of adolescence when I was swimming in the womb. (36. Mamma mia.) Christa, if you're reading this... not quite Motorcycle Guy, but... email me! Or skype?

So last weekend the family went to the mountains, and rather than loiter on vacant Turinese streetcorners I packed an overnight bag and took a train to Bruni (or rather, to Bra, where I was continued the journey by car) to see a friend from Colorado College who recently joined this international network called WOOF. Working On Organic Farms, I think? You basically purchase a membership, receive a contact list, and can go from farm to farm in whichever region you choose - she picked Italy - to work in exchange for room and board. Very cool. The nearby town, Murazzano, has a population of about 600 people, and the surrounding hills are breathtaking: rolling foothills of green, green, green split into stripes (vineyard), squares (veggie crops), and orchards, receding into a misty background of more hills, more hills, and then, sky. We drove up a gently winding road, past lines of tall, slender poplars, and a set of 19th century Catholic stations of the cross (frescoed statues placed along the roadside), past an abandoned church and still other trees, and a big tree that had only a week ago housed a huge beehive that Mario had harvested for the farm, and past a mangy-looking yellow lab who barked at us like strangers. I stayed for about 28 hours, from Saturday afternoon when I dropped my backpack in the upstairs hayloft-turned-bedroom to take the animals to pasture, to Sunday evening when I finished my bowl of gelato, shouted a goodbye to the deaf Signora who was also staying at the farm (long story there: overnight I made friends with a 93-year-old Genovan who walks with a cane, reads without glasses, and lived some years in Africa), and took off again for the train station. It had been only a day, but it felt like forever. I think I tapped into my ancestors or something, my universal unconsciousness or whatever that's called, because I left the countryside feeling profoundly moved. Or just profound, in general.

The details of this weekend are innumerable, and make great little stories to tell after dinner or over a leisurely tea. You have details, too, that will never make it to a letter or an email or even a phone call. We will tell these stories, don't worry.

What else? I cut my hair! Not true: a magician named Fabio with a goatee and a hair salon called "Pepe" cut my hair, and Ruggero told me that I looked like a buffalo. Wait, I think I already told you about that in my last entry. Umm... I... met two American au pairs in the park across the street, one of whom will come out with me sometime tomorrow to get a coffee in town and exchange stories. She's from Long Beach, wears a headscarf that made me think of Utah, and lived one year in Florence (!) while she was in college. I have been playing a ton of soccer with Ruggero, and one time a couple of days ago I kicked it with surprising force and hit him square on the forehead, sent him flying into the air! Miraculously he was fine, thank God, with only a scratch on his elbow, and it's only because he wasn't hurt that I now laugh every time I think about it. I'm not supposed to play soccer! Non sono sportiva!

Have to go now, to brave the summer warmth and buy some fish and fruit from the market before it gets too hot. Love, love.