A Tale of Living in the Villa ‘In Progress’
What follows is a rambling tale of living in the house while it was under construction. Written Summer of 2002, the Summer the house was purchased.
June 2002 — So close and yet so far… I stayed up until almost midnight working to create our internet link to the outside world. I labored with mixed emotions. On the one hand to be able to communicate, two-way with the world, do research and get the news are tantalizing motivations. But on the other hand the isolation I have here is rare. I do not speak the language so the daily flow of conversation and angst passes me by as I sit, like a rock in a raging torrent, unmoved. I see no newspapers. I hear no news. Being without internet leaves me separate and untouched. That aloneness, done by choice, is a special luxury in this day of instant everything.
Nothing is instant here. Not the coffee, not the soup that one eats for lunch. Certainly not the work to be begun on this large house. Everything seems to progress on its own internal (and therefore secret) schedule. That something actually happens as promised or planned is a cause for startle and minor celebration and amazement. Not that this is a bad thing. Only on rare occasions or in rare circumstances is this clandestine system of performance a travail.
Like being without a washing machine for over a month during the hot, sweaty weeks of late June and July — appliances ordered in early June — still not delivered. For Madelyn and I our vasco de bagno (bath tub) serves to wash our bodies, our clothes and in a tub of their own, set inside the vasco de bagno, our dishes, glasses and the occasional pasta pot.
Oh, we have no kitchen. The good friends down the hill loaned to us, last week, a 3 burner propane cooker, so there has been the occasional pot slicked with olive oil to wash. When I carried the cooker — a cooktop mounted to a fragment of countertop — newly scrubbed and polished to the ferremente (hardware shop) to buy the fittings, the owner, Gabrielle, queried, what did I want with that? Shaking his head he returned to the shelves, divining the valves, pipe clamps, hose and nipple that I would need to finally brew a cup of tea for my morning musings on the terrace.
Gabrielle is a fine young man, who, unlike many of his contemporaries, has retained and even improved his school book English. He jokes and tries out words and feigns incomprehension at my attempts, only to break into a smile at my fourth try, and, enlightened by my improvement, beam “Capisco, oh, capisco!” I have bought all manner of things from him — mosquito candles, electrical cords, converters, extensions and lamp parts, wire mesh for composting, paint and primer, paint brushes and a shop vacuum. Afraid of some words, which if mistaken could mean unintended things, I always resort to drawings. A sketch of a fitting can bring an instant smile and an obscure part, retrieved from a dusty shelf.
My under-construction and therefore perpetually dusty house caused me to notice the small Italian shop vac and ask its price. Gabrielle showed scorn and said that I wouldn’t want that one. He trotted out a beautiful, sleek, as only Italians can make sleek, vacuum and said with pride, “Suzanne bought this one!” This to say that the only other American woman living in our village had purchased this model. (Suzanne’s lovely house is finished and polished and glisteny.) That I would resist spending three times the cost of the shop vac and thereby depart from his image of Americans who spend money at the drop of a hat was shocking. Ultimately he took the lesson well and now watches me as I watch my Euros and debate the prices.
Nothing in his shop, and many others for that matter, has a price sticker. All the prices are stored in his laptop computer. Ask the price of something and he flips it open and delves into his databank. Then he whips out his hand held calculator and translates the price from centuries-old lire to modern Euros. I often suspect that he makes up the price to suit the situation or the cliente.
For one example, THE LADDER. My friends down the hill had what I consider to be the finest ladder I have ever met ~ dubbed the ‘miracle ladder.’ Made of sturdy formed steel it is painted two colors. Through a unique sliding, interlocking — akin to voodoo — system, this ladder can be a tall straight house-painting ladder, a medium height step ladder, a change the light bulb hanging from the wire in the center of the room with the 12’ ceiling ladder or half a set-up of scaffolding for some really big job up near that ceiling. My friends had loaned this wonder to me and when finally they came to collect it, I felt oddly unsettled, as if part of my domain, anything over about 6’, was no longer under my control. I wrote ‘ladder’ on my ever-changing list of to-dos and set out on our daily hunt through the villages.
Arriving at Gabbrielle’s shop I saw a shiny new black and white miracle ladder standing in front, just delivered. His tiny, crowded shop was mobbed with hot, sweaty people, all speaking rapid Italian and all seemingly well acquainted. I caught Gabrielle and asked the price of the ladder. He didn’t know but would look it up. In the face of the swelling crowd, I demurred. No, I said, I will go on to the next village for some shopping and would return and discuss the miracle ladder when he wasn’t so busy. Don’t sell it to anyone else, I cautioned, but let’s talk price when I come back. He agreed and turned to dart across the street to the gas station (which he and his wife own and run) – his only credit card station for customers who want to charge their purchases.
The last stop on this particular journey was at the co-op in the next town, a large supermarket that sells all manner of foodstuffs (nothing instant) as well as limited amounts of seasonal goods, home miscellany and hardware/auto supplies. There, standing against the corner of the shelving, looking seductive and new, was a miracle ladder — not the crisp white and black of Gabrielle’s, but nonetheless, a miracle ladder. I had been told to expect to pay 60 to 70 Euros for a miracle ladder, so imagine my delight to see the price 35.63!! But then the anxiety — I had all but promised to buy Gabrielle’s, though the price was unknown and could be higher — even much higher. I turned and walked away, leaving a perfectly good miracle ladder leaning there at the corner.
Gabrielle’s shop was deserted as I entered. Cool and dark – dark because like most Italians he turns off the lights — even though they are fluorescent — to save sending any more money to Enel (the national electric company) than absolutely necessary. Everyone loves electricity, but everyone equally seems to hate Enel. He walked around the counter and opened the databank — smiling. I jumped ahead. I have bad news, I said. Bad news? Yes, I found the ladder at the co-op. The price, I’m afraid it was 35.63. I shrug my shoulders sadly. He smiles a gentle smile and accesses and calculates. Good news he says — his price is — and he writes it down for me — 35 Euros!! Imagine that!!