Makes Ruining the Manicure Worth It!

Marie's Rose Garden

There was a time when the only flowers my manicured hands cared to touch were those boxed, potted or delivered in a stylish vase by a florist. The thought of actually growing them never graced my somewhat urban professional mind…isn’t that why we have gardeners? I used to think.  Yet, from the moment I closed the door on my ivy-hedged apartment in sunny Southern California and headed toward my new home, a two-hundred year old fixer upper in the fertile Venetian countryside, I let my heart—and my gardening gloved hands—take a shovel to that city girl mindset and dig into the dirty task of transforming my new home’s rustic garden into a quaint haven of tranquility.  

Rake, trowel, hedge-clippers and hoe at my side I tackled the L-shaped stretch of land that had been the wellspring of nutrition for the hungry souls who had inhabited my home before me. This traditional Italian orto—or vegetable garden—had been producing fennel, tomatoes, potatoes, arugula, zucchini, eggplant, squash, figs, plums and grapes as far back as World War II, and was generous enough to leave me with mounds of rich, dark-as-ground-coffee soil to nurture its metamorphosis into a tree-lined, butterfly-beckoning, flower garden.  

I imagine there are many of you who might greet my spirited enthusiasm for soil and gardening with a roll of the eyes; you probably view mowing the lawn or plucking weeds as just another chore you’d prefer to pay someone else to do. But I also know there are many more of you who prune, plough and plant with passion, and will nod their heads at my comparison of a fist full of rich soil to that soothing, lung expanding scent of the underbrush in the woods or forest. My fellow gardening fanatics could give good reason to why something as mundane and dirty as soil can bring such deep pleasure—and I hope they will jot down their thoughts here—adding to my motivation for having become so addicted to planting the turf. Not only do I look at sod as material to cultivate and harvest with, I see it as the tool that comforts a gardener’s mind and soul.  Because once I’ve set the stringy bare roots of an English rose, a young pomegranate tree or a mix of erbe officinalis into the ground and I've tucked them into bed, fed and watered them, all that is left for me to do is wait for spring to raise the curtain and release the scents and flavors of my garden.

Now mind you, I still enjoy the occasional ring of the doorbell and the voice of a bouquet carrying delivery person crackle the word “fiorista” through the intercom, but what I find more delightful than filling up my favorite crystal vase with cultured roses or lilies is filling it with those I’ve grown in the garden. When that happens I know I got it right.

I would have liked to post a photograph of the rustic garden I’ve just described, but since I don’t have one handy and I moved from that lovely home more than four years ago I’ve chosen to share a snapshot taken in my current home's rose garden in the spring of 2009. Sorry, but it’s still too early in the year for more recent blooms, and I can assure you these same rose bushes have begun to stretch their shoots and are promising another spectacular year!

Buon Anniversario Italia!

March 17, 2011

150° Anniversario dell'Unità d'Italia

The 150th Anniversary of the Unity of Italy

Italy to Los Angeles and Back manda i suoi sinceri auguri all'Italia ed a tutti i suoi cittadini di Buon Anniversario!

Italy to Los Angeles and Back sends its sincere wishes to Italy and all her citizens for a very Happy Anniversary!

Will we ever learn that we do not rule the earth?



Photo courtesy of
 http://www.framework.latimes.com/



This morning I woke up with an idea for a lighthearted blog about Venetian culture, but after having scrolled through numerous international news reports on the nuclear reactor leaks in Japan and having viewed even more photos of the unimaginable devastation there, I felt a sincere need to turn my thoughts in another direction.

 As I sit here safe and warm in my home, my morning coffee within reach and I use my keyboard as a tool to share my thoughts with you, there are an incalculable number of people in Japan who through grave misfortune were fortunate to have survived the rage of the earth. Thousands have lost everything: homes, schools, hospitals, businesses, and worst of all their loved ones.  And as if all that wasn’t enough, they now face toxic waste spewing into their lives.  At a time when both of my governments—the U.S. and the Italian—intend to increase the number of nuclear energy plants instead of investing those funds in more clean renewable energy it makes me wonder if our captains really know where they’re taking our ship.

I don’t want to make a political post of this—for those of you who know me that would be my first thought—instead I want to keep it on a reflective, sensible level. I understand the need for energy; I understand the cost of dependence on other countries for petroleum based fuel. But I also understand that as intelligent and skilled as our engineers are in developing safer energy production, and as much as we have been told by the experts and our governments that other forms of energy won’t satisfy our over consumption—I am the first to admit that I take switching on a light, a stereo, or running an army of household appliances for granted—we remain vulnerable, and always will be, whenever nature decides to throw her weight around.

I, like anyone who has ever lived in a seismic area, knew the moment I read 8.9 on the Richter scale that that could only mean devastation; coupled with a tsunami it had become an apocalypse beyond my imagination. While glued to the shocking images of a tidal wave ripping a country apart, my thoughts raced back and forth across the globe between California and Italy. Both wear scars left by the rumbling of the earth and both will forever live with the threat of more to come. While California has taken advanced steps in renewable energy by increasing wind and solar production, she still houses active nuclear power plants in San Luis Obispo and San Onofre, and though after the Chernobyl accident in the mid 80’s a popular referendum caused Italy to close down her nuclear plants this government now plans on ignoring that popular vote and retrofitting a few of the old ones while building at least one within 100 kilometers of the highly populated and UNESCO  blessed city of Venice.

Though it is said that the Japanese were as prepared as any country could be for an extraordinary earthquake, the images show that we must demand that our leaders rethink how much they want to gamble with the odds of beefing up nuclear energy.  We’ve always been taught about checks and balances; well in my opinion the scale just tipped over!

My history of Ciao...and then some!

Photo of album cover with title song "Ciao Amore, Ciao" by Delida

While living in Los Angeles, and just before I moved to Italy, I beefed up my vocabulary by slipping in the word ciao—here and there—when greeting friends and family; a simple acknowledgment that wasn’t new to me. I had often heard it used while strolling down the boutique lined avenues near my office in Beverly Hills or while enjoying a California Cobb salad at my favorite Rodeo Drive sidewalk café. I was charmed, and somewhat entertained, to see fashionably dressed men and women greet their friends with this foreign four-letter word and accompany it with a double-cheek kiss. So cosmopolitan I thought, and knowing I would soon be immersed in the Italian way of life I felt it was my right to dive in and make the greeting mine! At the time I wasn’t very concerned about how it was spelled, or where in Italian history it originated. I just liked the way it sounded when it rolled past my lips.

When I moved to Italy it didn’t take me long to learn that this little word was bursting with vowels and wasn’t written the way we Anglophones pronounce it. Phonetically it sure seems to call for a ch and it certainly rings out like the twice repeated name of those fluffy purebred dogs; or Purina’s bestselling moist and meaty; and I mustn't leave out the noodle dish that brings red-lanterns, chopsticks and fortune cookies to mind. So one would naturally think that the friendly greeting would be spelled the same way as these others: c-h-o-w.  But, that’s not how the Italian language works.

It is common knowledge among Venetians that the word ciao derives from an expression in the Venetian dialect—yep they get credit for this too—s’ciàvo or slave; schiavo in Italian. (Note: “ch” in Italian has a “k” sound, and “ci” has a “ch” sound like chocolate) At its inception this tiny word, which is as much a part of Italian culture as pasta, referred to the people of Slavic origin, hence slaves.  The greeting s’ciào corresponded with the slaves' acknowledgment to their owners as your servant or at your service.  I’ve been told by my Venetian friends and family that over the centuries the greeting spread and was used as a form of respect by all classes of society before being shortened to the word as we know it today. It is curious to think that in our contemporary times ciao is considered an informal greeting reserved for close family and friends. No one I've spoken to seems to know when that transformation took effect. However, today when making new acquaintances it is considered proper etiquette to use the greetings buon giorno (good day) and arriverderci (until we see each other again) and never ciao.  

As anyone who has been to Italy can testify ciao is used by Italians dozens of times in any given day: It is echoed across school yards by backpack carrying children heading to their classrooms, waving goodbye to their mothers, and racing to catch up with their classmates screaming out the same; by women in the marketplace, weighed down with bulging bags of fresh produce, who chant the greeting across ice covered fresh-fish stalls to grab the attention of an old friend; by businessmen and women who glancing up from reading the local newspaper spot a colleague enter the local bar where their morning ritual calls for a marmalade-filled brioche washed down with a steaming cup of espresso before they head off to the office; or by carefree groups of friends whose salutations fill the air and bounce off the majestic façade of St. Mark’s square as they call it a night. Yet, if anyone were to ask me what my favorite ciao of the day is, I’d have to tell them that it’s the one that comes with a kiss and the word amore tagging along. Ciao...a sweet welcome or farewell that lets the giver and receiver know they are among friends. Ciao!

Playful Differences & Similarities of Italian vs. American Life

Twenty-four years. I simply can’t believe I’ve been living in Venice for twenty-four years!

January 31, 1987 was a warm, sun drenched day in Los Angeles when I kissed my family and friends goodbye at the Los Angeles International airport. I had all I needed with me: a one-way ticket, a few treasured belongings boxed and stored in the cargo hold of a PanAm jet, my wedding dress wrapped in a garment bag and held high above my head, and the man of my dreams by my side. I was leaving my world behind and was headed for the unknown.

We landed the next day on a fog covered winter morning in the city by the lagoon; two bone-chilling weeks would pass before the sun I left in Southern California finally came to our aid and turned the gray Venetian sky blue. It was a grim introduction for a young woman who was used to spending her workweek in a high-rise Beverly Hills office and her weekends sitting by the pool. But it was my new world and my new lifestyle, and it turned out to be the best choice I’ve ever made. Thank goodness my wonderful, patient partner never tired of me asking the question: Why? You see everything was different and being new to all this, and the nothing is impossible analytical type, I’m sure there were times when I drove my future husband crazy.

While tripping over the language (for the longest time I avoided using a spoon because it was too hard to pronounce cucchiaio…way too many vowels) I was prepared to pull everything I saw wrong with Italian bureaucracy into shape. Just give me six months I said, and I’ll have this place organized. How arrogant of me to think my way would be better! That’s not to say there isn’t a lot that could be done differently here, even the Italians will tell you that, but it took me a few years to realize there is a reason why countries, cultures and people see and do things differently, and that what works for one may not be right for another. And there are so many, many things I would never want to see change.

I have been asked countless times in the last twenty-four years by both Italian and American friends: Where do you like living the best, and what are the differences between your two countries?  I honestly love them both. How lucky am I to have two fabulous countries to call home?  I’ve made a short, playful list to give you an idea of the differences and similarities I’ve come across in the last two decades; differences that are now the norm for me. I’m sure there are many more, so feel free to add some of your own!

Italy                                                                                 

Coffee is not sold in paper cups                              

It is considered uncivil to set a lunch or dinner table without a table cloth               

Most Italians take a long vacation in August                                              

Beer with pizza and sandwiches; Wine with everything else; Milk is never served with meals                             

The majority of couples decide to only have one child

Grandparents take the place of daycare                                           

Soccer is the number one sport and has an 11 month season                                                           

Public transportation is used by all                                     

Consumers often seem to have fewer rights than the service providers                                                   

Old buildings are cherished and restored                             

You bag your own groceries and pay for the bags                                        

Slow-food is a way of life                                                    

Everyone drives as if they’re in a Ferrari                                         

People don’t really care what you do for a living                 

Baseball makes no sense to Italians                                    

It is acceptable to leave work in the morning to pick up your family’s daily supply of fresh baked bread

In larger cities people walk more than they drive

Pets are welcome in most restaurants                                                                     

Public schools are considered better than private                 

No one is without good healthcare

Meetings are scheduled to schedule meetings

Similarities between U.S.A. & Italy                                          

                                                           

Women love shoes and handbags made in Italy

Most women work outside the home

Everyone loves gelato and pizza!    

Pets are like family members

Basketball fans love the Lakers (this would be more Italy/L.A.)

SUVs are popular

Most don’t trust politicians

Everyone has a cellphone, or two

Glee!                     

People dislike call centers

Most high school grads go on to college     

Bruschette, risotto and pasta!

Gyms, yoga and wellness centers

Facebook

Italians love the U.S./Americans love Italy!                                                

A Gondolier and his Gondola



Maria beginning to take shape



For a Venetian gondolier getting a new gondola is a very special occasion, and one that usually happens once or maybe twice in a lifetime. Some might compare it to buying a new car, but for these seafaring men it is much more. With only a handful of squero or gondola boatyards left in Venice it can take almost a year to build one of these sleek vessels, and once the boat is ordered the waiting period to begin building it can last more than two years. My husband Roberto’s time came in July 2009 when the head artisan at the San Trovaso squero, one of the oldest and most characteristic boatyards in Venice, finally said “tocca a te—it’s your turn”.



The partially engraved Nardin Family Crest



In the ten months that followed that joyful day we observed the incredible skill and craftsmanship that go into building a gondola. From the varieties of wood (oak, walnut, cherry, larch, elm, linden and spruce) that were bent, shaped, curved and carved into 280 perfect pieces and puzzled together to form the structure of the gondola, to the seven coats of black paint that were applied by hand to the smooth wood surface, to the brass and iron ornaments that make each gondola traditional yet unique. We were witnessing a work of art in progress.  

Then one sunshine filled morning in May 2010, before Venice’s calle or alleyways began to buzz with their usual foot traffic, Roberto arrived at the squero.  He had left the house earlier than usual that morning and seemed as excited as he had been on our wedding day, or when our children were born. He had waited a long time for his new gondola and today was il varo or the launch.

When I joined Roberto a few hours later our guests, friends and family members had begun to arrive.  The bigoli in salsa—pasta with anchovy sauce; tramezzini—finger sandwiches; whole salamis to slice; fresh bread and pastries were lined up on the banquet table alongside dozens of bottles of wine and prosecco. Roberto had decided that, though it was before noon, this was the menu worthy of his colleagues’ appetites and the celebration. I greeted our guests, and placed a small bouquet of flowers on the gondola’s loveseat. Then I was directed to break a dangling bottle of prosecco tied to the back of the gondola. I blinked back tears of joy at seeing Maria glide elegantly into the water with my husband standing tall at the stern. She was...no, they were bellissimi!

A varo is a rare occasion in Venice, and one never seen by those not fortunate enough to be at the right place at the right time. That is why I would like to share that moment with all of you here. Please take a couple of minutes to take a look at Maria in her finished form, and step inside the intimate world of a gondolier and his gondola. Our dear friend Alison Victoria made a special trip from Rome to celebrate with us, and film Christening of a New Gondola: Varo.   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhtrC3_92KE

A dusty shot, but not yet finished!





Celebrating Armenian Christmas in Venice, Italy

January 6, 2011

The Church of San Lazzaro, Venice Italy

Yesterday was a day reminiscent of my childhood. It brought to mind memories of me fidgeting in the front pew of the Armenian Holy Cross church in sunny Los Angeles; of ruffle itching dresses, bobby socks, and shiny patent leather shoes snug on my dangling feet.  I remember how I would pretend to not see my mother's silent looks of disapproval as my siblings and I would complain, usually with a not so subtle cough, about sitting so close to all that incense. This time the incense, a symbol of honor and dignity in the Armenian mass that represents our prayers ascending to heaven, didn't bother me. Instead it was a soothing reminder of a family tradition, and yesterday I shared that tradition with my husband and friends at the Monastic Headquarters of the Mekhitarian Order in the church of San Lazzaro or Saint Lazarus. It's on the homonymous--fog shrouded in the winter and sun kissed in the summer--island in the Venetian lagoon. More simply known to the Venetians as Isola degli Armeni or the Armenian Island. 




Khatchkar (stone cross)

 

Stop if you will for a moment and think about this: the Mekhitarian monks have inhabited, worshiped and spread their love of knowledge from their tiny island headquarters for just under 300 years!The United States of America wasn't yet independent when in 1717 the Venetian Senate gifted this island to the Armenian Abbot and scholar Mekhitar, giving him and his fellow monks refuge from the Turkish invasion of their former homeland. A gift that one might argue was made for political, intellectual, religious or even personal reasons. It is said Mekhitar was a friend of the Mocenigo family, at the time one of Venice's most prominent and powerful. But, whatever the reason, this gift reflects the close ties between the Venetians and the Armenians of that era and today. Here is a photograph taken yesterday of a more recent symbol of their close ties. The traditional, 14th century, khatchkar or stone cross that was a gift from the Armenian government to the city of Venice in 1987 (coincidentally the same year I moved to Venice) and in turn given by the city to the Mekhitarian Fathers; they being the most appropriate guardians of the cross. It can be seen surrounded by three pomegranate trees--another symbol of Armenia and her people--at the entrance to the monastery.

But back to yesterday. We received a warm, hospitable welcome from the Mekhitarian monks. They opened their island, and embraced a hundred or so worshippers and guests for the Epiphany or Armenian Christmas mass.  It was a morning of tradition, communion, canto fit for the finest theater and the ritual of blessing of the holy water for the year to come.  After the mass, and while still in church, there was an added ceremony of fraternity between the monks and the congregation. A small cup of the newly blessed holy water was given to everyone to drink. An extra blessing of sorts, that was lovely to partake in and observe.

Afterwards, everyone gathered in the refectory where the monks and seminary students served us a soul warming, home cooked meal of olives and pickles from their orchard and vegetable garden, rice pilaf, roast potatoes, veal and vegetable stew, and of course red or white wine. A lovely meal, in a spectacular room adorned with the wall size 18th century Da Vinci style painting of The Last Supper by Pietro Novelli. An interesting note: above the door to the refectory, written in Armenian are the words "Keep Silent Here". It is their practice to dine in silence, yet they were kind enough to break that rule for us and share in conversation and comradery, and I thank them.

Stomachs full, and hearts warmed by old and new friends, we started our tour of the monastery and its extraordinary library and museum, where volumes of centuries old manuscripts, books and artifacts are on display; too many to describe here. My only suggestion is that on your next trip to Venice you try and make time to visit this marvelous island and its community within a community.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Lazzaro_degli_Armeni




The Internal Garden of the Cloister