tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50244396184267797932024-03-19T03:27:23.783-07:00Five Weeks in FlorenceWhat's it like to be a single female, with an unusual take on the ordinary, in Florence for five weeks with a new camera? Come along and enjoy the sights, sounds and adventures in Florence and Tuscany as seen through Ingrid's eyes.Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-81218280655967106342012-07-13T17:51:00.000-07:002012-07-13T17:51:25.443-07:00Inside Giotto’s Campanile, bell tower<br />
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Flying insects aside, sleeping next to a ten
foot tall window with shutters open wide to the world is liberating. Our bedroom
window opens into a room size air shaft shared by the four levels of apartments
on the front side of the building. Barbra and I have seen the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Catch a Thief</i> with Cary Grant and
Grace Kelly, but we don’t speak aloud of rooftop cat burglars for fear that
paranoia will force us to close the windows and put an end to hearing the
church bells and napping in the Tuscan air. Her twin bed is located under the
window so she feels the breeze first, in its full rush. My bed hugs the wall
across the room. I get a double whoosh, like a camera flash racing over me from
one direction, then bouncing off the wall and sliding back over me from
another. With the top end of the air shaft covered by a screen and my Marcello
sleeping in the apartment directly above us, we feel safe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">After a restful night we wake early because
today is a big day. I crane my neck out our front window on Via Ricasoli. Two
blocks away I can see the Campanile, the bell tower, standing tall and strong.
Today we’ll climb it and I’m excited because in July of 1958, I climbed to the
top of the Duomo, its neighboring cathedral, and looked across to this very
bell tower. I can’t help but wonder if the day was July 7, like today.<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITPawZtUWzYmHpNBust7MCEKGl4RCadIjUEB9Mfgnx1kTcks8JSoWvuStQzVWxCiHJVfuByR7R5wpz5ybkDaCuZnML_5qpfAvFxSPWJaC2A_6sYUIApJThRKnXSAYmqWUjrDfP_oMS_I/s1600/cropped+Duomo+daylight++jpg+upload+IMG_4809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITPawZtUWzYmHpNBust7MCEKGl4RCadIjUEB9Mfgnx1kTcks8JSoWvuStQzVWxCiHJVfuByR7R5wpz5ybkDaCuZnML_5qpfAvFxSPWJaC2A_6sYUIApJThRKnXSAYmqWUjrDfP_oMS_I/s200/cropped+Duomo+daylight++jpg+upload+IMG_4809.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39SUPj2T5VwSST_tuxEDdNgNvI46hpLNy3qHZoV0Gy1woEsKqfZxa_3QnWewbghIQ9DYgFMKHrDO0DwYT2j0pCklRidP5Rl3p8SADst2DmA5IBhZCkNWvPWpEl52iQWRcKhgH-YAvwz8/s1600/cloverleaf+IMG_0143+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39SUPj2T5VwSST_tuxEDdNgNvI46hpLNy3qHZoV0Gy1woEsKqfZxa_3QnWewbghIQ9DYgFMKHrDO0DwYT2j0pCklRidP5Rl3p8SADst2DmA5IBhZCkNWvPWpEl52iQWRcKhgH-YAvwz8/s200/cloverleaf+IMG_0143+copy.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Three main buildings sit together forming the
architectural religious core of Florence. The Baptistery of St. John, from the
11<sup>th</sup> Century, is the oldest building. Next came The Cathedral of
Santa Maria del Fiore, known as the Duomo, started in the 13<sup>th</sup>
Century. On the same property, in 1334 Giotto di Bondone at age 67, designed
and began building The Campanile. The project was taken over in 1343 by Andrea
Pisano, known for the South Doors of the Baptistery, and then by Francesco
Talenti who finished the structure in 1359. The square tower makes a bold
statement at 278 feet tall with hundreds of embedded pieces of art and
decorative architectural features. At the base, the four sides are each 48 feet
wide and increase in width at as the tower rises to make it appear
proportionate from the perspective of the viewer on the street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4lAqGe7CZY5Hl-Nh_u6OjhFM85kV-FjveyBy0E1m62d7r4Y8kjMguLW2cxFdSwJiv6MHInbeO0Q8M7lvZv6IN3fvvN2u0C7XdEM9F8eyB0FUvULgNFO2lNE1GwLeILqiuXDSNxJxVtk/s1600/coffee+on+the+patioIMG_0155+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4lAqGe7CZY5Hl-Nh_u6OjhFM85kV-FjveyBy0E1m62d7r4Y8kjMguLW2cxFdSwJiv6MHInbeO0Q8M7lvZv6IN3fvvN2u0C7XdEM9F8eyB0FUvULgNFO2lNE1GwLeILqiuXDSNxJxVtk/s320/coffee+on+the+patioIMG_0155+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSmP02j6CrgoYRMH44QoYt_jV4vKnCwOgs5ij5ShpU0By3ZjMHKvrMk0iwm2Ymz8gU8ovN0T5TLTv_UMBk5EUU1DhjhK4LIORs95LWsaJ-nTuB8XZnT7VpGiZMN_-ABXSJ6czf2rPqvk/s1600/upload+wake+upIMG_0127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSmP02j6CrgoYRMH44QoYt_jV4vKnCwOgs5ij5ShpU0By3ZjMHKvrMk0iwm2Ymz8gU8ovN0T5TLTv_UMBk5EUU1DhjhK4LIORs95LWsaJ-nTuB8XZnT7VpGiZMN_-ABXSJ6czf2rPqvk/s320/upload+wake+upIMG_0127.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There are several reasons to be the first in
line to climb the Campanile. 1) The early morning light is magnificent; 2) The
morning heat is bearable; 3) There are no crowds. Also, when you’re the first
group, you can easily find a mutually acceptable climbing pace, plus, you urge each
other on and are primed to experience a shared moment of victory following the
enclosed 414 step climb… before the 414 step descent. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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</span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">“Just a few more steps,” Jennifer, juggling a
camera with a huge lens, calls down the stairs to Marilyn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">“We’re almost there,” relays Marilyn to me between
deep breaths.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiux49mxYEu9jL2Met04HWuS5cg_xEGoHYZC-qhLqRnYtOdh8C4aPLEsXc0KAcboxFqmCThWc-8OuLvSFAOcnngOu1Eqe16Deaow5fgR3ipcaMd5_HFcgUSqHOyVIAhj4-p_n9a1zBCY7Q/s1600/shutters+IMG_0168+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiux49mxYEu9jL2Met04HWuS5cg_xEGoHYZC-qhLqRnYtOdh8C4aPLEsXc0KAcboxFqmCThWc-8OuLvSFAOcnngOu1Eqe16Deaow5fgR3ipcaMd5_HFcgUSqHOyVIAhj4-p_n9a1zBCY7Q/s320/shutters+IMG_0168+copy.jpg" width="188" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I can see the daylight,” I pass on to Emily and
Michael, as I round another turn that breaks out into a wide landing with
seating, fresh air and large open viewing windows built into
the walls. It’s designed as if the architect anticipated the climbers' need to recuperate before the next leg. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBa4wPTmcw-gP5vwmRmgGNBvUpbC4aOCwmOa29lxtgmHo5K259VsnSA26yMZNCo-gMWW2ON7X7Tm7jw3OYjSHdoC0BlZs6y7CdZuGXB7h1DnZ_Bs36ej8aa4fVSC5W33JgLG-HIEQERAw/s1600/big+city+view+IMG_0173+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBa4wPTmcw-gP5vwmRmgGNBvUpbC4aOCwmOa29lxtgmHo5K259VsnSA26yMZNCo-gMWW2ON7X7Tm7jw3OYjSHdoC0BlZs6y7CdZuGXB7h1DnZ_Bs36ej8aa4fVSC5W33JgLG-HIEQERAw/s320/big+city+view+IMG_0173+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There are four stages in the journey to reach the top. Each has a circular staircase of cut stone that opens out into a viewing area. If you make it to just the first, you are rewarded with gazing down to watch the city brush sleep from its eyes and welcome the new day as street artist’s set-up shop and townspeople walk purposefully to their jobs. After the second leg, an unexpected view of the rooftops shows another candid view of city life. After the third, a truly spectacular view of the city stretches past the city center. And from the top, a breathtaking panorama of the Florentine countryside.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilr4GH7nJYb6z3aI5PUrjwXq9By8dZdgoEwN5mcDjscV1aHtBfxD6y33pGbYaLf4PM3MjI8CjUDbIIjCloDlnIujUZ9mgukBMCk1oliCT1kuVym57EclCCEk4KzJqa7ddp4gWEFYVbCnw/s1600/Duomo+dome+detail+jpg+upload+IMG_4823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilr4GH7nJYb6z3aI5PUrjwXq9By8dZdgoEwN5mcDjscV1aHtBfxD6y33pGbYaLf4PM3MjI8CjUDbIIjCloDlnIujUZ9mgukBMCk1oliCT1kuVym57EclCCEk4KzJqa7ddp4gWEFYVbCnw/s200/Duomo+dome+detail+jpg+upload+IMG_4823.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tSWRAhxclkfFpJwLno7TvTqw3QF8FIUKJDYzvVytIljWQxDjwlxZLY8C4UyeRvkHVd1C3hzbyXow-ov-AIdDRijf99d8sBsodNyU6ncfvkskwCsz2nBKhOgfRyDzkam1RirfydzwnCw/s1600/Duomo+crowd+IMG_0187+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tSWRAhxclkfFpJwLno7TvTqw3QF8FIUKJDYzvVytIljWQxDjwlxZLY8C4UyeRvkHVd1C3hzbyXow-ov-AIdDRijf99d8sBsodNyU6ncfvkskwCsz2nBKhOgfRyDzkam1RirfydzwnCw/s320/Duomo+crowd+IMG_0187+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Way up in the sky, I find it curious that these architectural wonders look eye-to-eye, like man and woman, one a tall sturdy angular monument covered with geometric designs in white Carrera marble, green marble from Prato, and red marble from Sienna; the other larger architectural masterpiece, a cathedral with a massive dome covered in red brick, wearing a headpiece (“cupola”) topped with a copper globe with an unadorned cross reaching up to the heavens. I look across at the tourists standing on at the railing of the cupola and search the crowd for a ghost-like remnant of me as a child in 1958. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiV-QCpQQ2UY0ou6JDqgWONf6gDSremxleJLDOSPaGqkexh5sRQ0-ko8hZCQKOAP8NlvC801NZC3xLnFS5ubUYa9sHicUqbJZjHnkSV5r61pfcHPBTGe7dHSDpZFf4CiunpUGchThon4/s1600/panorama+IMG_0184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiV-QCpQQ2UY0ou6JDqgWONf6gDSremxleJLDOSPaGqkexh5sRQ0-ko8hZCQKOAP8NlvC801NZC3xLnFS5ubUYa9sHicUqbJZjHnkSV5r61pfcHPBTGe7dHSDpZFf4CiunpUGchThon4/s400/panorama+IMG_0184.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The ascending walk up the Campanile speaks to the body of trudging, one foot in front of the other, until muscles instinctively know the next move. With brief refrains to enjoy the sights, the legs take you upward until there is no further height to gain. The view is unexpected and you feel both the isolation and joy experienced by the bell-ringer (“campanaro”) who climbed the steps each day to ring the bells to call the townspeople to worship and watch over the countryside, signaling when danger approached. Looking out over the landscape fosters a sense of ownership as the entire kingdom is reduced to tabletop pieces of a giant board game. The descending walk is cautious, requiring slightly less physical effort, but more mental effort in navigating the narrow steps and dodging upcoming pilgrims. The bonus – your promised victorious photo in front of the monument before you move on to the local gelato shop and then to museums with more stairs.</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYa7rAsnBX4xkSrMW_ymTjFEG8LeRhl9yOQwX9Kx61t1BdMYJH9NEhGuMdFBmjUQS44Omn59dhMn2G25H25hrC5JEV0N4dW5LdVeFOPsX6xj9mCtOeECU-cu23diI72BbF3PYYybhX-io/s1600/Ing-Campanile+IMG_0211+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYa7rAsnBX4xkSrMW_ymTjFEG8LeRhl9yOQwX9Kx61t1BdMYJH9NEhGuMdFBmjUQS44Omn59dhMn2G25H25hrC5JEV0N4dW5LdVeFOPsX6xj9mCtOeECU-cu23diI72BbF3PYYybhX-io/s320/Ing-Campanile+IMG_0211+copy.jpg" width="208" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">At day’s end as the darkness walks us home, it has been a long and sticky 12 hours of sightseeing, street photography and dining al fresco. Our clothes are indistinguishable from our skin as they half hang and half cling to our bodies. I don’t have to see my reflection in a window to know I resemble a wet sheepdog. Near our apartment, we pass Marcello and Sophia walking down the street. Marcello wears his typical bright colored linen pants and white linen shirt with rolled up sleeves, but I am so tired I can barely capture his manly image in my mind. Sophia appears fresh in a floral cotton dress with straps tied over her bronze shoulders. I assume they have dined out and consumed wine because his wife acts unusually jovial and sings a repetitive verse. </span></span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Marcello’s eyes sparkle, as always, and he tips his head in our direction as if to say hello, but my exhaustion from the day has already left my body so flushed, there is no blood left for blush. “Cantare, cantare,”she says tugging on his arm, urging him to join her in singing. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEuDRBoXqVrxabECXAFIYtbYTk_vhipSyF6dlPFvdpH5OYYVuhz871G_awfs0bqf6lVJf6fRSPuDWrx4AfysMU2z4-Mqlbh4xIlRDmy7zMGo5EzQeErBRrHqczmA3JX2TZMImtWLjqVo/s1600/street+scene+Campanile+IMG_0374+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEuDRBoXqVrxabECXAFIYtbYTk_vhipSyF6dlPFvdpH5OYYVuhz871G_awfs0bqf6lVJf6fRSPuDWrx4AfysMU2z4-Mqlbh4xIlRDmy7zMGo5EzQeErBRrHqczmA3JX2TZMImtWLjqVo/s320/street+scene+Campanile+IMG_0374+copy.jpg" width="228" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">After the 800+ step Campanile trek, and a dawn to dark photo shoot, it takes longer than usual for us to make it up the final 53 stairs to our apartment. We are happy to be home where a cookie, sip of wine and shower await. In less than an hour, we turn out the lights and our freshly washed bodies drop into bed anticipating boldly painted dreams with cool strokes of Tuscan breeze. Barbra will probably dream about shutter speed and </span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Pecorino Toscano, her favorite Italian cheese</span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a second chance at fantasy in a dream-induced rerun… me tossing my freshly washed long blonde hair over my shoulder, strolling effortlessly along Via Ricasoli singing solo “</span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Funiculì, funiculà, funiculì, funiculà,” m</span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">y fingers, gently wrapped around Marcello’s muscular forearm, </span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">then me forming a compelling wet-lipped smile, coaxing him into a chorus duet, “Joy is everywhere, funiculì, funiculà!”</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-16624480023769148542012-06-02T18:10:00.000-07:002012-06-02T18:54:32.343-07:00London Calling… Intn'l Photo Fest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1BiD2YQmK01nuGMO73w3abcQbFx1Ej1YkL0cKhIcKx4vZVLKdn7Tif9GNbdFETiRhF_rAW0o809kx48kWP-qNjrDX-DdmnnEcocaihqVbdPHlQLgVjiiDU4aJV10N4iQN9SzSv7z5do/s1600/Boy+upload+1726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1BiD2YQmK01nuGMO73w3abcQbFx1Ej1YkL0cKhIcKx4vZVLKdn7Tif9GNbdFETiRhF_rAW0o809kx48kWP-qNjrDX-DdmnnEcocaihqVbdPHlQLgVjiiDU4aJV10N4iQN9SzSv7z5do/s400/Boy+upload+1726.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">A teeter totter finds its
balancing point, a ripple on the water smoothes to a calm surface, and a
photographer discovers his or her eye. "Don't worry about what to
photograph – go on – start taking photos," said our instructor Barbra
Riley.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“Easier said than done,” I thought, looking at the others who already had camera-holding
experience under their belts. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">On day one, I didn't know the band of 20 by name,
but we would spend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Five Weeks in Florence</i>
taking a photography class at the Santa Reparata International School of Art.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>By day 35, I knew their intimate passions
through their choice of photographic subject matter, food selections and the
depth of their desire to experience Italy.</span> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJcAxkSTZXMsbRKNh-6eu8V4gv8russ_sV3QMt6as0tAsShs9evW9jm0pg0JXdD42-pG3pwbbgQpqDoCpflON5Pq91tbLkWEREkPx1m0tmoI2s6LpIa0K6AT-4fHMOgGd1rhMe-5cIpg/s1600/Shadows+Greve+upload+2482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJcAxkSTZXMsbRKNh-6eu8V4gv8russ_sV3QMt6as0tAsShs9evW9jm0pg0JXdD42-pG3pwbbgQpqDoCpflON5Pq91tbLkWEREkPx1m0tmoI2s6LpIa0K6AT-4fHMOgGd1rhMe-5cIpg/s200/Shadows+Greve+upload+2482.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">To say I was nervous on our
first photo trek through Florence is an understatement. Our group was comprised
of an art history instructor, her daughter, the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>photography instructor aka my graduate school cohort, 12 art students from
a Texas university, a couple of poli-sci majors, Jennifer’s husband Joe/Jose (who
I affectionately came to call by both names), and me. I was the oddity, outranking
most of the students in age by many years and coming from California. I had always
wanted to "live" in Europe, had just purchased a digital camera, and
was ready for an adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9csFbo5kOJExcDx087cyMczjKODXBR8STVHA1GmDBezeEamI1IbWLTRSA4lIyu3sJ5e-aXC5tAkQiaJmk7m2iX44ekVex7FoJqxmi1TII6_c2m-Mn4nxK7vYXlM_QBrldmliRLg81XJ0/s1600/camera+upload+0442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9csFbo5kOJExcDx087cyMczjKODXBR8STVHA1GmDBezeEamI1IbWLTRSA4lIyu3sJ5e-aXC5tAkQiaJmk7m2iX44ekVex7FoJqxmi1TII6_c2m-Mn4nxK7vYXlM_QBrldmliRLg81XJ0/s200/camera+upload+0442.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the same way I choose a steering wheel cover, wine glasses, chef knives and paint brushes, after selecting
the brand, I make the buying decision by how the item feels in my hand. OK, I
admit it – much of my life is orchestrated around the "touch"
sensation or how I "feel" about something. Case-in-point, I don't
like the feeling/touch of suede, but I did like the imprinted thumb rest on the
body of the Cannon SX30IS. That particular camera was not too big, not too
small and fit my hands perfectly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was midmorning on a
Tuesday and the city wore haze of what "felt" like floating molecules
of translucent parchment. The photography students were prompt on this first
day of shooting and stood huddled on steps of the Baptistery, all wearing fresh
clothing imbedded with unusual creases from being packed tightly in their
suitcases for the cross-Atlantic flight. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our inaugural itinerary covered only
four square blocks, so if there was a day to get blisters or forget your bottle
of water, sunscreen or hat, this was the day. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BJJexv1u2JEK7VuTTLBbnGtZQj0XZf2ktKVv1AiFFaAQNcm3SUETzmvIMy0lYqGghOAmVbSH-AkiYDfK2g8y1rYqYrver3PdJHlxpPn3AgnHuL-n5xUpMoHapByJi0xFmIiZhgbMmH4/s1600/Bike+Greve+upload+2458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BJJexv1u2JEK7VuTTLBbnGtZQj0XZf2ktKVv1AiFFaAQNcm3SUETzmvIMy0lYqGghOAmVbSH-AkiYDfK2g8y1rYqYrver3PdJHlxpPn3AgnHuL-n5xUpMoHapByJi0xFmIiZhgbMmH4/s320/Bike+Greve+upload+2458.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Some students already knew each other
and the rest learned at least one new name or formed a quick opinion about
another student that inevitably would change in the coming weeks. I studied their
faces, wondering who would become my confidant, my exploration partner. I noted
their different styles of clothing, and their hair, and the
personality-reflecting accessories they wore. Those clad in bold colors gravitated
to the right side of the steps while the earth tones assembled at the left. Tempted
by the surroundings, the experienced travelers wandered with abandon off the
steps. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Our” group was a mix of teens, seniors, male, female, tall, short,
large and petite. In common, they all had an official looking camera either in
hand or lassoed around their neck. Jennifer, the tiniest of the bunch, had the
largest camera with the longest zoom lens. If her body was segmented, I would
guess that her equipment was equal in weight to her two arms (hands attached)
and one shoeless foot.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2n7qe33490spBic_vdF-ZC-EAEJDQecqkyBfwrvzflMQPUCHILWXKdqH3fwkKpStgFjHEKil56iFlCOdmRL-28zj88FmEcfdQidh9AWS870do0u5r0S5Kerzlc7Do_X6v2oLkeA3PD0/s1600/human+thinkerIMG_0674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2n7qe33490spBic_vdF-ZC-EAEJDQecqkyBfwrvzflMQPUCHILWXKdqH3fwkKpStgFjHEKil56iFlCOdmRL-28zj88FmEcfdQidh9AWS870do0u5r0S5Kerzlc7Do_X6v2oLkeA3PD0/s320/human+thinkerIMG_0674.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The light and air on that
particular morning had buoyancy you could almost float on. Anxious to capture
my first sight of a man sweeping a restaurant doorway, I held the viewfinder of
my new camera to my eye and in doing so, was self-conscious about not using the
display screen. Much to my surprise, on this, my first real day of
photographing, I saw only black. I had slipped the camera instructions into my carry-on
bag to read on the plane, but got sidetracked watching art movies and foreign
films. Now I was stuck. This was not like a computer keyboard where I could keep
banging on the keys until something happened. "Battery," I thought.
Yes, I had charged the battery, but maybe I put it in wrong. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrQbOEeMHqOiaBn5JhaJWSk7h0gLF9rN-NEa1cZnYHehpF6TskTL8UrZ6nm_eDZ22h-O9H2y_8hBNMfc9y3eH_svqZJTvP9PawKXdPBMSFMf5khS0Bez17lUwKWgJVCRDbYslmjFvgOU/s1600/HumanStatue+upload+0232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrQbOEeMHqOiaBn5JhaJWSk7h0gLF9rN-NEa1cZnYHehpF6TskTL8UrZ6nm_eDZ22h-O9H2y_8hBNMfc9y3eH_svqZJTvP9PawKXdPBMSFMf5khS0Bez17lUwKWgJVCRDbYslmjFvgOU/s320/HumanStatue+upload+0232.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I remembered
seeing real photographers blow on camera parts, so I slid open the battery
cover, popped the battery out, wiped it with the clean 100% cotton white cowboy
bandana tied to my camera strap, blew on it and reinserted it. With confidence,
I made the same wiping-blowing motions with the memory card.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In our clump of jet-lagged travelers,
I assumed everyone was as self-absorbed as I. Again I lifted my perfectly-hand-fitting
Canon to my eye, but hesitated to take it down as I criticized myself for not
testing the camera in the U.S., then I remembered bringing a pocket sized Canon
that used AA batteries so I rationalized I would not spend the entire trip without
a functioning camera. The overall shameful "feeling" of getting
caught as an imposter photography student generated the same anguish as being
caught faking my ability to read hieroglyphics as <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my eyes moved from left to right or bragging of
my cooking skills then being nervous about not changing the direction I stirred
while cooking the tiramisu custard on the stove.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The second vision of
blackness through the viewfinder found me doubly embarrassed and frozen in time.
I could neither think nor move when an external chill slid over my body as a shadow
grew on my shoulder. “What now,” I thought. I was already anxious at starting
off my journey as the underdog. The expanding shadow was caused by a tall
camera-savvy girl with dark hair that almost reached her waist. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Without passing
judgment and speaking in a normal tone, Kristin said matter-of-factly, "Your lens cap is on." </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">After
that I was no longer the underdog, but the welcome recipient of tips and tricks
from the other students.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolFan3bS_wQPnWiGr_Qfna2JhgJ6Degt5hNfCFgtY6g96V0Y26YupiQON2KB0CakA4qY3fsZt4I3f-h4KRRc_8LwEmhSVW8iUAvgPBiR0ycGpHqKgtMTBQsAQtdYaMbWQTlMWtnLxQbw/s1600/Bench+warmers+female+Fiesole+upload+0982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolFan3bS_wQPnWiGr_Qfna2JhgJ6Degt5hNfCFgtY6g96V0Y26YupiQON2KB0CakA4qY3fsZt4I3f-h4KRRc_8LwEmhSVW8iUAvgPBiR0ycGpHqKgtMTBQsAQtdYaMbWQTlMWtnLxQbw/s200/Bench+warmers+female+Fiesole+upload+0982.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the end, we would all be
courted by our personal fascinations. My natural calling was recording the
overlooked or unexpected moments of everyday life and I learned that this focus
actually has a name – Street Photography. As defined by the London Festival of
Photography organization it is “candid photography which captures, explores or
questions contemporary society and the relationships between individuals and
their surroundings."</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiq7TSwZJjUUGQrXHrXqwFME5zvghEJVaDFu_20jhtEfthkMnSrVmdYD2Xb_tASZolcpSBWi3VEfBGErX_SqjGFiASnVHfBK1JxgNptZpvUsHGUuR4-7sVFuTYIAc6_ebAtfAwGhIkO7Q/s1600/Window+people+upload+3588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiq7TSwZJjUUGQrXHrXqwFME5zvghEJVaDFu_20jhtEfthkMnSrVmdYD2Xb_tASZolcpSBWi3VEfBGErX_SqjGFiASnVHfBK1JxgNptZpvUsHGUuR4-7sVFuTYIAc6_ebAtfAwGhIkO7Q/s320/Window+people+upload+3588.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCY86mbYGOiuVCZZLF5HOjD7fHXJTlSRd5RBkdkieJzhy_kqTxWtTGSV2OON9Y9sgGbITTOTtKjggFwF1OZlbxwzfrNGqzkIXIehFfsOVOsFt22oSUoj3YGdCIQJy-WkuJBF-2aYaV3T8/s1600/two+people+in+train+station+upload+4142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCY86mbYGOiuVCZZLF5HOjD7fHXJTlSRd5RBkdkieJzhy_kqTxWtTGSV2OON9Y9sgGbITTOTtKjggFwF1OZlbxwzfrNGqzkIXIehFfsOVOsFt22oSUoj3YGdCIQJy-WkuJBF-2aYaV3T8/s320/two+people+in+train+station+upload+4142.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">If you'll be in London during
the month of June and you like photography - you're in for a treat as the works
of more than 2,400 international photographers are on display in the city-wide
London Festival of Photography. The 2012 theme is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inside Out: Reflections on the Public and the Private.</i> The festival
features street, documentary and conceptual photography in 18 exhibitions and
30 satellite events as well as workshops, talks and screenings. There are
digital shows and print shows throughout the city including exhibits in the <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Museum of London, British
Library, British Museum, and Tate Modern</span></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">.
All of the photographers will have a photo projected in rotation on a big
screen so if you happen to be in the right place at the right time, you might see
one of my photos. For more information, visit the London Festival of
Photography website<span style="color: #6fa8dc;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.lfph.org/"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">www.lfph.org</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-58405434141172139902012-05-12T17:53:00.000-07:002012-06-02T17:48:49.741-07:00Madonna & Child & Dutch Apple Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaz7tZMuWBdhxB64bFwRM8KmNVqnX-79Ut4X_FZLoWposswjRojYe13pwQGX-CFcwQeAKHXZOypMw6VLH_TvZi8GBrI9qZX7gXMR2z_eIfco0WVnswvVetOPTZSdZBg3X7AtWX_6nXjbE/s1600/madonna+%2526+child+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaz7tZMuWBdhxB64bFwRM8KmNVqnX-79Ut4X_FZLoWposswjRojYe13pwQGX-CFcwQeAKHXZOypMw6VLH_TvZi8GBrI9qZX7gXMR2z_eIfco0WVnswvVetOPTZSdZBg3X7AtWX_6nXjbE/s320/madonna+%2526+child+upload.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0RBPhl7EeBPioI9jZQmVNSq_sOz_yW0UmCR2-tg1jHpV4ri29fRcCa4aFVU527su8KuZqVd9NwismGvtLOT8ThaqIQ3aUmoBlVt1p-N3Cg5Z-TZf_SavurCbbDK2EnVsosieCrWykIxw/s1600/Care+and+brooke+cropped+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0RBPhl7EeBPioI9jZQmVNSq_sOz_yW0UmCR2-tg1jHpV4ri29fRcCa4aFVU527su8KuZqVd9NwismGvtLOT8ThaqIQ3aUmoBlVt1p-N3Cg5Z-TZf_SavurCbbDK2EnVsosieCrWykIxw/s320/Care+and+brooke+cropped+upload.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWreaSjWjzliFNTJwHfO_Z7W668VeTYzWkE8jNO6yTUuUQimm1Oqox-2gKoFD5ln8i7P2WQ0SNGvoFwQ9N2fq2JVvYFXmhrN9-jd5HaTdU_LtbWxUkTdRBhkGxvptDegueMBh5r0UYxf0/s1600/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWreaSjWjzliFNTJwHfO_Z7W668VeTYzWkE8jNO6yTUuUQimm1Oqox-2gKoFD5ln8i7P2WQ0SNGvoFwQ9N2fq2JVvYFXmhrN9-jd5HaTdU_LtbWxUkTdRBhkGxvptDegueMBh5r0UYxf0/s320/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">“What are your top three
favorite Madonna and Child artworks?” asked Dr. Carey Rote of the art history students
after several days of exploring<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>museums. "Or, do you have just one?" </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9Em_LBcjbmplK2QnLfNnj5GJ8iX_9nIwOuigxaksVd7tGpiBG0oLWIpsOTvI8-JEDh99ArMa4JBw-Z-nM1qh5y0726iLhbRRZTBUNNdGheEPGW9n1SxdJUPluubrUhSmsn_ZCQs-vgo/s1600/Mother+and+son4x5+MG_1402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9Em_LBcjbmplK2QnLfNnj5GJ8iX_9nIwOuigxaksVd7tGpiBG0oLWIpsOTvI8-JEDh99ArMa4JBw-Z-nM1qh5y0726iLhbRRZTBUNNdGheEPGW9n1SxdJUPluubrUhSmsn_ZCQs-vgo/s320/Mother+and+son4x5+MG_1402.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Although I was officially a
photography student, I heard the question and couldn’t erase it from my
mind. Would it be a sculpture, a painting, a tapestry, a fresco, a lithograph,
an etching? The more I thought about it, the broader the question became and
the more unattainable the answer. I decided I needed boundaries in
order to review the choices and make a decision. I looked to my photographs for
guidance in hopes to see something that truly defined the magic of the
mother/child relationship.</span> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsyndyccOkBiBLEQYspWTQwP_8BiMWBG-ZrJEj4xXG4TOBR47xOZwrxRaM374MDuF2QEOYpCpDPu1G9DAhWhdFEuylWMsDbZVfXQRPQ2s7ylFhWFT6jlVxqPEgd0YoEerhyphenhyphenKFb3q0SL4/s1600/fiesole+mom+%2526+daughter+gellato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsyndyccOkBiBLEQYspWTQwP_8BiMWBG-ZrJEj4xXG4TOBR47xOZwrxRaM374MDuF2QEOYpCpDPu1G9DAhWhdFEuylWMsDbZVfXQRPQ2s7ylFhWFT6jlVxqPEgd0YoEerhyphenhyphenKFb3q0SL4/s320/fiesole+mom+%2526+daughter+gellato.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Top of mind are a young boy
and his mother sitting peacefully on a bench, high on a hill overlooking
Florence. They’re caught up in their
own thoughts, but comfortably share the same physical space as if held together
in time by an invisible picture frame. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In Fiesole, I'm fascinated by
two women who seem to wander aimlessly, their destination random and their path uncharted. There is probably nothing out of the ordinary as they walk
across the town square, in fact it is possibly a near carbon copy of
yesterday’s walk. The obvious happiness of this mother and daughter is not stifled by
repetition, but kept fresh by the shared experience of the gelato flavor of the day.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKfwmW5lLyTWJPD_YlfOUIrFH4s3_VPkd3RMX9JWdCQPvH8JcPCYWtlJLQoDeBiYUg5BtWQMnB_VxyTG_MqfjO1di51jngZHyaHuzvwR3yaVzao2fghSjRH0SeKcLMelDyfOm8Vk2_2YI/s1600/Back+ofmom+and+son++with+gellato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKfwmW5lLyTWJPD_YlfOUIrFH4s3_VPkd3RMX9JWdCQPvH8JcPCYWtlJLQoDeBiYUg5BtWQMnB_VxyTG_MqfjO1di51jngZHyaHuzvwR3yaVzao2fghSjRH0SeKcLMelDyfOm8Vk2_2YI/s320/Back+ofmom+and+son++with+gellato.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFcFbDb2kDPwmTYyWQb4VPlL8iJZOjuBZMcidUFv-gBmWyTikrGiEgN5fPKp-G-x0lhftfCXpI4e0GwH0yiCdKLbYndXxObp5znGS0uF_DmgFjrmWBOOPpwbxSHdO6_Z029wE-hLhxvo/s1600/baby+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFcFbDb2kDPwmTYyWQb4VPlL8iJZOjuBZMcidUFv-gBmWyTikrGiEgN5fPKp-G-x0lhftfCXpI4e0GwH0yiCdKLbYndXxObp5znGS0uF_DmgFjrmWBOOPpwbxSHdO6_Z029wE-hLhxvo/s320/baby+upload.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At any age, a common means of
communication between mother and child seems to be food: nutrition as a baby,
and gelato as one grows older. My first memory of gelato was in Pisa when I
was ten years old. It was a sticky day and Pop promised we would be treated to
the chilled dessert on our way to the beach, only after Mom bought a swimsuit. Like his interest in vacation "walking" photos, Pop asked fellow tourists to take photos of our family in bodies of water. Our "Wearing swimsuits in the Mediterranean" did not make it onto the Christmas card, but was to be seen by all who had the pleasure of watching the musically choreogaphed slideshow of our 1958 European trip. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xRFK96XrwnuAYN5F4jYsFCRjrkfwTH756Jdfv1UsbmIUOgzgwNSVub0KdHJwsdDM3EZBUQkKHz8Qxj6oTJLOYtQp5a4-xTHnpamjf2vNcW3i1fOsM7g91NujAmzMeNuZUMUvepOr4o8/s1600/Mom+%2526+ing+in+Waikiki+upload++1960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xRFK96XrwnuAYN5F4jYsFCRjrkfwTH756Jdfv1UsbmIUOgzgwNSVub0KdHJwsdDM3EZBUQkKHz8Qxj6oTJLOYtQp5a4-xTHnpamjf2vNcW3i1fOsM7g91NujAmzMeNuZUMUvepOr4o8/s320/Mom+%2526+ing+in+Waikiki+upload++1960.jpg" width="251" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">First we climbed the Leaning
Tower of Pisa and then walked to a nearby department store to make the
purchase. I mention this outing because of its overall curiosity to me as an impressionable child. Mom didn’t swim; her Navy blue Italian
swimsuit was the only bathing suit I ever knew her to own and you could count on one hand the number of times it got wet. On family vacations when
we made an overnight stop at a motel with a pool, she preferred to wear her white
shorts and a sleeveless top as she sat on the edge of the pool, dangling her
legs in the water. My father, who was once picked up by the shore patrol as he
illegally swam across San Francisco Bay, was the one who believed she should own
a swim suit. Her Italian one-piece was immortalized in a souvenir
photo taken in Hawaii in 1960 - one of the few photos ever taken of Mom and me.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwivMQ8GBME84kCctv6ZSV1fXKO9m3CfJRkMgYydWjXKqkCNx7PFws7cxtG8uTwZM7Xj5BueZvo8Xcr5s2sX-yx7nnJm3pBUFusNmYAkXdLLVWveu7oOiD34V-F7RtJdC3oZuoKUtsRM/s1600/INgrid+10+weeks+old+cropped+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwivMQ8GBME84kCctv6ZSV1fXKO9m3CfJRkMgYydWjXKqkCNx7PFws7cxtG8uTwZM7Xj5BueZvo8Xcr5s2sX-yx7nnJm3pBUFusNmYAkXdLLVWveu7oOiD34V-F7RtJdC3oZuoKUtsRM/s320/INgrid+10+weeks+old+cropped+upload.jpg" width="199" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcu_Q9hhUVoboB67JDXFhsEDce2QP_EgOUl6PmxE5m-pDb0J4zUb6teWMJ2wQ-XiTcaCmnCfxt5WoKrDGMLlgTxRwK4DU1eJluPr7SeVNulVhRbfIZYDgY1RelRsFggLH4ZIgTF2ay8zI/s1600/STone+madonna+%2526+child+for+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcu_Q9hhUVoboB67JDXFhsEDce2QP_EgOUl6PmxE5m-pDb0J4zUb6teWMJ2wQ-XiTcaCmnCfxt5WoKrDGMLlgTxRwK4DU1eJluPr7SeVNulVhRbfIZYDgY1RelRsFggLH4ZIgTF2ay8zI/s320/STone+madonna+%2526+child+for+upload.jpg" width="213" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My mom died in 1994, just
weeks before a huge party celebrating her 90th birthday. She had been the volunteer wedding coordinator at her church for 35 years - she would not have cancelled the party... so the party went on,
with Mom there in spirit. Invitees sent photos, messages, and recipes which
were compiled into a book and given to the guests. My childhood friend Sheila
wrote a touching note. Here is an excerpt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I remember having tea with your mother at a
lace-covered Formica table in her kitchen. We'd talk about school, or gossip
about a teacher, or what to wear to choir practice. There was a black &
white photo of you on your bedroom wall that my mother had taken in her
photography class. I remember being surprised that my mother
"connected" with my friends. </span></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You and I both enjoyed the luxury of attending a
college away from home where we discovered art (with a capital "A")
and people with ideas that seemed good for our souls. We had been raised to be
wives, but the early 70's demanded we become Women. We fulfilled our mothers'
expectations and became ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">All of this comes to mind when I make your mother's "Dutch
Apple Pie!" It has been enjoyed by my extended family in France as well as
my new friends in Half Moon Bay. Love, Sheila” </span></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTJ7LapfYA_biscfkPkX9Ki0tD5fnY6hlodgqx_bnmdF-fnU5BULZfMrx-J08UIlOdmFWnsmQ8HzX6efOhD8W2M6Xd7SD6lQm5J8ZQG4dCr0gQ0gqtxKxSQ0CcaSqh2lSs_iRzd9uJC0/s1600/Elise_Sheila+cropped+for+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTJ7LapfYA_biscfkPkX9Ki0tD5fnY6hlodgqx_bnmdF-fnU5BULZfMrx-J08UIlOdmFWnsmQ8HzX6efOhD8W2M6Xd7SD6lQm5J8ZQG4dCr0gQ0gqtxKxSQ0CcaSqh2lSs_iRzd9uJC0/s1600/Elise_Sheila+cropped+for+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTJ7LapfYA_biscfkPkX9Ki0tD5fnY6hlodgqx_bnmdF-fnU5BULZfMrx-J08UIlOdmFWnsmQ8HzX6efOhD8W2M6Xd7SD6lQm5J8ZQG4dCr0gQ0gqtxKxSQ0CcaSqh2lSs_iRzd9uJC0/s320/Elise_Sheila+cropped+for+upload.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In looking through photos, I
have found my answer to the mother and child question prompted by Dr. Rote. My
favorite "mother and child" artwork is a photo of my dear friend Sheila and her daughter
Elise taken by Jean-Claude (husband/father/artist). The message is
unmistakable. It has nothing to do with the art form in which the moment was
captured, or the color, or the size. The magic bonded connection between mother and child is revealed in the honesty of
their interaction. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"><em>Happy Mother’s Day ~ enjoy
Mom’s Dutch Apple Pie.</em></span><br />
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<u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mom’s Dutch Apple Pie</span></u></h1>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> 8"x8" baking pan, greased with butter. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Peel
and core 3-4 tart apples - cut into 16ths.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sift 1
½ cups flour, ½ tsp salt, & 1 tsp. sugar </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> into the pan. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Combine
½ cup oil with 2 TBL milk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whip.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pour
all over flour mixture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mix with a fork.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pat
over bottom & sides of pan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Arrange
apples in pan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Make
streusel mixture of ¾ cup sugar, 2 TBL flour </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and ½ </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">tsp. salt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cut in
2 TBL butter (or a little more)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sprinkle
over top of apples (add a little cinnamon if </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> you wish)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bake 425 Degrees for 40 – 45 minutes<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-71591136101879121402012-04-29T23:30:00.000-07:002012-04-30T09:06:32.109-07:00EPIPHANY in PORTOFINO (family vacation photos)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWJasLCPsjXPmolckTZfe4_F-1jT25Qx_VMGKFsYsfR5Ra5w9Tw5iS9oX7XatHNYZky-GyNN5ksvDZDmrbgiStBAHm76kpbiXl2o2MyoRFu5diuo5Q_cZHK4SsSf_yag1HFuQ0v2eW4Y/s1600/four+legs+walking+jpg+upload+_3554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWJasLCPsjXPmolckTZfe4_F-1jT25Qx_VMGKFsYsfR5Ra5w9Tw5iS9oX7XatHNYZky-GyNN5ksvDZDmrbgiStBAHm76kpbiXl2o2MyoRFu5diuo5Q_cZHK4SsSf_yag1HFuQ0v2eW4Y/s400/four+legs+walking+jpg+upload+_3554.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirE6PecR99UDUKd3v_mcMRdfIQp1b513NgDeiG69NRY0rIvQpESCH_ZA1lxPDt0qGqERbLov_9CkXTOWTp1hyAHWft5v8tZArPRetvgi74HJb0JmvJCmblDYcrSaYiL_5r0qmvacIzMTI/s1600/Dock+at+Portofino+IMG_3608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirE6PecR99UDUKd3v_mcMRdfIQp1b513NgDeiG69NRY0rIvQpESCH_ZA1lxPDt0qGqERbLov_9CkXTOWTp1hyAHWft5v8tZArPRetvgi74HJb0JmvJCmblDYcrSaYiL_5r0qmvacIzMTI/s1600/Dock+at+Portofino+IMG_3608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirE6PecR99UDUKd3v_mcMRdfIQp1b513NgDeiG69NRY0rIvQpESCH_ZA1lxPDt0qGqERbLov_9CkXTOWTp1hyAHWft5v8tZArPRetvgi74HJb0JmvJCmblDYcrSaYiL_5r0qmvacIzMTI/s320/Dock+at+Portofino+IMG_3608.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;">The
rain fell in short light bursts on the dock in Portofino. It was like any other
drippy day in a quaint town on the Italian Riviera. And for that matter, I can’t
even say for sure if being in Portofino had anything to do with my epiphany, or
if it was just mere coincidence that what I heard and what I saw changed
forever the way I looked at holiday cards boasting family vacation photos. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLxTLYR_JO_uMhtSrbjNo9rAQtmF-xfcXn2P0gzvPS1ypCgIrJ8QNpwM4hZ95dDo7t9TI6mV8B7c10ev2jFLOZYJMm8LVMuu7GkM9GMvsZdCqJkZqO0w3lD5DzPO8uCZJiVW6cwXJgdg/s1600/Greece+mom+%2526+pop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLxTLYR_JO_uMhtSrbjNo9rAQtmF-xfcXn2P0gzvPS1ypCgIrJ8QNpwM4hZ95dDo7t9TI6mV8B7c10ev2jFLOZYJMm8LVMuu7GkM9GMvsZdCqJkZqO0w3lD5DzPO8uCZJiVW6cwXJgdg/s1600/Greece+mom+%2526+pop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLxTLYR_JO_uMhtSrbjNo9rAQtmF-xfcXn2P0gzvPS1ypCgIrJ8QNpwM4hZ95dDo7t9TI6mV8B7c10ev2jFLOZYJMm8LVMuu7GkM9GMvsZdCqJkZqO0w3lD5DzPO8uCZJiVW6cwXJgdg/s320/Greece+mom+%2526+pop.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">We
traveled a lot when I grew up and my Pop always asked strangers to take our
family vacation photo, which often became the annual Christmas card. To
complicate matters, he liked us to be walking in the photos. Asking a stranger
to snap a photo of what would live in the family album to mark that specific year
is one thing. Asking a stranger to snap a photo of your family walking is a far
more complicated request.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mFxkSlRD4kgxjn3w03acEB2r1EVypKUnyrdGFdsK3p5bzwS03yGO0_bairTF67eAUXEA7mm7k2V3-5a9hAAPHI9WC2yHCm-EfOJDxGdiNBEylSqjxqH7FgZGJt2V5-WnJ_GLP6wJQZU/s1600/man+and+woan+walking+IMG_3484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mFxkSlRD4kgxjn3w03acEB2r1EVypKUnyrdGFdsK3p5bzwS03yGO0_bairTF67eAUXEA7mm7k2V3-5a9hAAPHI9WC2yHCm-EfOJDxGdiNBEylSqjxqH7FgZGJt2V5-WnJ_GLP6wJQZU/s1600/man+and+woan+walking+IMG_3484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mFxkSlRD4kgxjn3w03acEB2r1EVypKUnyrdGFdsK3p5bzwS03yGO0_bairTF67eAUXEA7mm7k2V3-5a9hAAPHI9WC2yHCm-EfOJDxGdiNBEylSqjxqH7FgZGJt2V5-WnJ_GLP6wJQZU/s200/man+and+woan+walking+IMG_3484.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">One
of my favorite Christmas card vacation photos was taken on a trip after my
brother and I were off in college. It is a walking photo of my folks in Greece.
I love the juxtaposition of the elements in this photo and always wondered what
the stranger/photographer thought about Mom in high heels and Pop with a
briefcase walking amid the ancient ruins. “Yes, they're from United States, Cali-fornia,” I imagine the
stranger/photographer/Greek tour guide thinking, “Elena and I must buy business suits to wear
when we go to visit Cousin Adelfo in Santa Cruz."</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWSzSnmoS4GOR_o5qWfs6AFYfAa0W0mmeQ2qJuU3dVfwsB1UG6VMzKNmuV16xP70zBrn_r8nTxO0oWyp_tSV5GBV-MPINIuUD131QbfRCyQ7EKwLRPhhqnU0M9p7V3EJqgns6NNJMrbg/s1600/Stranger+photog+IMG_3606.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWSzSnmoS4GOR_o5qWfs6AFYfAa0W0mmeQ2qJuU3dVfwsB1UG6VMzKNmuV16xP70zBrn_r8nTxO0oWyp_tSV5GBV-MPINIuUD131QbfRCyQ7EKwLRPhhqnU0M9p7V3EJqgns6NNJMrbg/s1600/Stranger+photog+IMG_3606.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWSzSnmoS4GOR_o5qWfs6AFYfAa0W0mmeQ2qJuU3dVfwsB1UG6VMzKNmuV16xP70zBrn_r8nTxO0oWyp_tSV5GBV-MPINIuUD131QbfRCyQ7EKwLRPhhqnU0M9p7V3EJqgns6NNJMrbg/s200/Stranger+photog+IMG_3606.tif" width="123" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Tourists milled around the dock waiting for the next ferry. “Let’s stand over here against the wall,” says the father of four to his wife. I watch as he approaches a man explaining camera settings to his son. “Hello,” he says holding his arm out, red digital camera dangling from a tie dye strap around his wrist. “Will you take our picture?” He says opening his mouth wide to form perfect English words and adding eye motions and pleading face gestures as he hands the camera to the stranger. He holds the index finger and thumb of his left hand in front of his face as if grabbing a king size bar of ivory soap as his right index finger moves up and down as if pushing the trigger button on the camera. The stranger nods. He understands from the pantomime that he is being asked to take a photo.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOJP48QRwkXqku_AvLXHuwiubIxRBflW464ChoHjqIa7o5SVHAgYFCT7MVbvccFJ39ueBHfbAyAywxIQR4nKtPlY6EgQM4VOavrR35R-oHCvP0X4vJBHqav_-MshnKEWLnpIyEC4RvU4/s1600/Family+photo+in+Portofino+IMG_3498.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOJP48QRwkXqku_AvLXHuwiubIxRBflW464ChoHjqIa7o5SVHAgYFCT7MVbvccFJ39ueBHfbAyAywxIQR4nKtPlY6EgQM4VOavrR35R-oHCvP0X4vJBHqav_-MshnKEWLnpIyEC4RvU4/s1600/Family+photo+in+Portofino+IMG_3498.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOJP48QRwkXqku_AvLXHuwiubIxRBflW464ChoHjqIa7o5SVHAgYFCT7MVbvccFJ39ueBHfbAyAywxIQR4nKtPlY6EgQM4VOavrR35R-oHCvP0X4vJBHqav_-MshnKEWLnpIyEC4RvU4/s320/Family+photo+in+Portofino+IMG_3498.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The American father flaps his arms to position his clan against the wall and turns to the stranger. The stranger examines the camera. As expected, the stranger does not speak the same language. From the glare off the water, the stranger cannot see the image on the screen and the camera appears to have no viewfinder. He aims the camera in the general direction of the posed family and snaps a photo, then another. He extends his hand as if to return the red camera indicating he is done. The family is already posed so I snap a similar photo they will never see. My photo ignores their faces and captures their body language, the defining moment caught as the two smallest children strike moonwalk poses. </span></span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UVpSU22cUPIsS4uxdNSv54BlzFz-3wi2w6jwGsexXhKoItHbcCRg6fZYRccgf6FcoFwxn196QfB66dJe4OLtMW6dHyvk-bQVioWKa7WUwGoXVnbntYixMV5l2Elz00TFvWlF2KLjoGU/s1600/man+resting+on+boat+ramp+IMG_3555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UVpSU22cUPIsS4uxdNSv54BlzFz-3wi2w6jwGsexXhKoItHbcCRg6fZYRccgf6FcoFwxn196QfB66dJe4OLtMW6dHyvk-bQVioWKa7WUwGoXVnbntYixMV5l2Elz00TFvWlF2KLjoGU/s320/man+resting+on+boat+ramp+IMG_3555.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">“No
please, please, a few more,” the mother says in rapid voice, unaffected by the
fact that the stranger does not speak her language. The stranger tries to hand
the camera back to the husband a second time, but the husband makes the trigger
finger motion again, this time more rapidly. “Tell him to leave extra room at
the top or bottom so we’ll have space to write Happy Holidays from the Jasper
Family, Portofino 2011.”</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAW3aIHD31iiEArAPb6vFz4a38607haB5rrfQpuUW4ub9DnuXYtVksl2SrhlnNTE-DwqvdlZQTxZqb6bnNxmMOHzazlViluWsFMpsF3HEPBAZtgVly2tpfi4vGhW1jGZYPzK_6_XuIadY/s1600/sitting+in+Protofino+IMG_3482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAW3aIHD31iiEArAPb6vFz4a38607haB5rrfQpuUW4ub9DnuXYtVksl2SrhlnNTE-DwqvdlZQTxZqb6bnNxmMOHzazlViluWsFMpsF3HEPBAZtgVly2tpfi4vGhW1jGZYPzK_6_XuIadY/s320/sitting+in+Protofino+IMG_3482.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The husband acknowledges her, full well knowing he will not try to use hand signals to interpret his wife’s holiday inscription as she will surely change it several times before the card is printed. “Another day in paradise” it might read if it weren’t raining, or “Celebrating our 20<sup>th</sup> with the kids in Portofino where we honeymooned. WooHoo!” Whatever the message, there is no need to attempt a verbatim translation. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In
sign language, the father has no idea how to say leave more space at the top or
bottom. He instinctively reaches above his head as if picking apples from a
tree, then makes a back and forth waving motion, next with both hands at waist level
he pushes his hands downward in a motion that’s a cross between air sit-ups and
rinsing a bed sheet in a stream. He repeats the motions indicating to leave
room at the top or bottom, but his movements are misinterpreted by the on-looking
crowd. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMvjLOrsOre5IP6PQ0Azgr-0dfw6aTfU_JcCpZElm_cSp2QQ5ITQrmfDxSyrmtfX2BgXFkAKqw79tI6dHvK8rJlRjnFO_azymjIvAtsDhwc6-4ddE-SO6Kq8Jg_Jc_9EC73msqCq6O9g/s1600/bare+legs+IMG_2287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMvjLOrsOre5IP6PQ0Azgr-0dfw6aTfU_JcCpZElm_cSp2QQ5ITQrmfDxSyrmtfX2BgXFkAKqw79tI6dHvK8rJlRjnFO_azymjIvAtsDhwc6-4ddE-SO6Kq8Jg_Jc_9EC73msqCq6O9g/s320/bare+legs+IMG_2287.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Apple
picking, window washing, sheet rinsing, trigger finger, >repeat<, apple
picking, window washing, sheet rinsing, trigger finger – the gestures take on a
rhythm that are accompanied by a local teenage boy slapping his open palms
against the sides of a tin garbage can. First to step out of the staged photo is
the oldest son, then the daughter joins in, next a buzz-cut tourist in shorts
and his tattooed girlfriend, then the ticket taker by the gang plank – soon everyone
on the dock is in syncopated motion: fingers high - reach the sky, fingers
spread proud – wipe the cloud, hands down - push the ground, wiggle the tip - snap
the pic, and with that, the new<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> vacation
photo Macarena </i>hits the cobbles of Portofino like American Bandstand come
home to roost. The crowd is in motion, young and old moving, twisting and gyrating
in unison as if under a spell. When the ferry boat horn sounds, the crowd, just
having participated in an Italian style unrehearsed flash mob, stops as quickly as it started and cues up
for the voyage to the next port of call.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKxZHu1uAh6zccYGB7USrZtBYBeip8090A12yUx9fP1Z2Tc9W4y5TqnI02XgzZyCiHheNqn_agZTZaHOZhVAiL9rMkmLl3EBN2Yz67W1SWOPXRevRFF9Coj_MyZbLn8zuDjkF-1yyXLw/s1600/many+feet+verticle11x17+IMG_2353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKxZHu1uAh6zccYGB7USrZtBYBeip8090A12yUx9fP1Z2Tc9W4y5TqnI02XgzZyCiHheNqn_agZTZaHOZhVAiL9rMkmLl3EBN2Yz67W1SWOPXRevRFF9Coj_MyZbLn8zuDjkF-1yyXLw/s200/many+feet+verticle11x17+IMG_2353.jpg" width="129" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD-jB7DII5Z7xQRfCc5sC0jcR4RXDi3muZrFAZXNlDyvzLO_zbAdhXxxlbo4I8HnEnwLi36TJjYU1yILeGrE1Ze1zATGME6uIj8kEGPXdL-uEycBx_vs6ALMBcX0hCEQMGyjzFT9eCIc/s1600/Paris+tarmac+1958+original+color.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD-jB7DII5Z7xQRfCc5sC0jcR4RXDi3muZrFAZXNlDyvzLO_zbAdhXxxlbo4I8HnEnwLi36TJjYU1yILeGrE1Ze1zATGME6uIj8kEGPXdL-uEycBx_vs6ALMBcX0hCEQMGyjzFT9eCIc/s320/Paris+tarmac+1958+original+color.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMvjLOrsOre5IP6PQ0Azgr-0dfw6aTfU_JcCpZElm_cSp2QQ5ITQrmfDxSyrmtfX2BgXFkAKqw79tI6dHvK8rJlRjnFO_azymjIvAtsDhwc6-4ddE-SO6Kq8Jg_Jc_9EC73msqCq6O9g/s1600/bare+legs+IMG_2287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD-jB7DII5Z7xQRfCc5sC0jcR4RXDi3muZrFAZXNlDyvzLO_zbAdhXxxlbo4I8HnEnwLi36TJjYU1yILeGrE1Ze1zATGME6uIj8kEGPXdL-uEycBx_vs6ALMBcX0hCEQMGyjzFT9eCIc/s1600/Paris+tarmac+1958+original+color.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">O</span>n
many occasions I push myself on traveling families if I recognize a setting that will serve as
a good keepsake image. I do the finger trigger pantomime and reach for their
camera. It makes tourists smile and I feel good knowing they will have at least
one happy snapshot to share on their holiday card… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like the 1958 Christmas card memory I hold dear of my beret-clad family snapped
by a stranger with my Pop’s camera on a Paris tarmac in August of 1958. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3duo9oGk9eLN0wm4S_FNjRUNRFB_uzSLP-1Ezy8tKxLYgTlUeIxpYS_5-jyjr1iBSn4Pi3dWrrRJUe9gehduUgPm_-IV8ENTUhr7S9i-3JqR-3uQFBlOIc3cNq1dzsJx1itXRG9Dvvtk/s1600/yellow+shoes+with+words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0hhRn2TB3tQYhLr_ZJYWagPR68wigIni72kw7FUFugggVBsTjvvXiGwa0eqjpWV8KWpBCSzeuaGX7yyUQMo-reGKthMbPCD7FMEywtjrOzGAsZUUJfSMKwNutt9KtPSAfZj63BFtQfE/s1600/Yellow+shoes+with+words+in+Portofino+IMG_3543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0hhRn2TB3tQYhLr_ZJYWagPR68wigIni72kw7FUFugggVBsTjvvXiGwa0eqjpWV8KWpBCSzeuaGX7yyUQMo-reGKthMbPCD7FMEywtjrOzGAsZUUJfSMKwNutt9KtPSAfZj63BFtQfE/s320/Yellow+shoes+with+words+in+Portofino+IMG_3543.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> So,
as I said in the beginning, while waiting on the dock in Portofino, I had an epiphany
and adopted the role of stranger/photographer taking my own curious photographs of
tourists posing for their family photos – those all-telling potentially incomplete
photos snapped in an instant by a stranger that, back home, might make you think… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s not exactly how I remembered it</i>. </span></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3duo9oGk9eLN0wm4S_FNjRUNRFB_uzSLP-1Ezy8tKxLYgTlUeIxpYS_5-jyjr1iBSn4Pi3dWrrRJUe9gehduUgPm_-IV8ENTUhr7S9i-3JqR-3uQFBlOIc3cNq1dzsJx1itXRG9Dvvtk/s1600/yellow+shoes+with+words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">As
for these taken-by-a-stranger vacation photos, maybe I saw something
interesting in their pose that would be better enlarged and displayed on an art
gallery wall than short lived on a holiday card. My faux vacation photos were
never intended to be used as holiday cards… unless you are from California
where the norm is abstractly translated or you happen to be a stranger who
photographed my family on vacation or you plan to bring a briefcase when you visit
relatives at the beach in Santa Cruz. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3duo9oGk9eLN0wm4S_FNjRUNRFB_uzSLP-1Ezy8tKxLYgTlUeIxpYS_5-jyjr1iBSn4Pi3dWrrRJUe9gehduUgPm_-IV8ENTUhr7S9i-3JqR-3uQFBlOIc3cNq1dzsJx1itXRG9Dvvtk/s1600/yellow+shoes+with+words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><br />
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-316709555861593382012-04-14T18:41:00.000-07:002012-04-14T18:41:34.308-07:00The New Last Supper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgjjjSMZvAo-mjXie69sMrFV6eYskDKloVgQVBkln436BLEgSYcSuDAB5dn1HhpmawWEzO3dtIg2j3-4oB2L0Bxmci_01_hnIFdjBcBHpFlT_-9fglbHX2UI8k4MH_adAReOI2ske7OY/s1600/Upload+jpg+the+new+last+supper+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgjjjSMZvAo-mjXie69sMrFV6eYskDKloVgQVBkln436BLEgSYcSuDAB5dn1HhpmawWEzO3dtIg2j3-4oB2L0Bxmci_01_hnIFdjBcBHpFlT_-9fglbHX2UI8k4MH_adAReOI2ske7OY/s640/Upload+jpg+the+new+last+supper+cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGX71J9l_slenHEeEPXynN4tNO4pDYsXIHldAwBMX64E7V-J5GmLcb8i95M4JkhmgJcFfjmRLrvTu55Y-XhA8JCtN588tBWoImKzYfW5jrOFI2Fx7a1nQ4XeShPrdiIXFPnk0eMXpxYZM/s1600/upload+jpg+Mom%2527s+volkswagon+IMG_5201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGX71J9l_slenHEeEPXynN4tNO4pDYsXIHldAwBMX64E7V-J5GmLcb8i95M4JkhmgJcFfjmRLrvTu55Y-XhA8JCtN588tBWoImKzYfW5jrOFI2Fx7a1nQ4XeShPrdiIXFPnk0eMXpxYZM/s1600/upload+jpg+Mom%2527s+volkswagon+IMG_5201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGX71J9l_slenHEeEPXynN4tNO4pDYsXIHldAwBMX64E7V-J5GmLcb8i95M4JkhmgJcFfjmRLrvTu55Y-XhA8JCtN588tBWoImKzYfW5jrOFI2Fx7a1nQ4XeShPrdiIXFPnk0eMXpxYZM/s200/upload+jpg+Mom%2527s+volkswagon+IMG_5201.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My parents encouraged education through experience and took my brother, age 14, and me, age 10, for a European vacation in 1958, a time when traveling overseas was not commonplace as it is today. Pop ordered a coral colored Volkswagen which we picked up from the factory in Germany, drove around Europe, and had shipped back to the United States at the end of our summer adventure. It was the first coral Volkswagen in our county and Mom drove it until she passed away at age 89. Niece Christine is now its caretaker.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlPvLNLpOuBz12IZ-4pfGuZVnqYN3C3l7KW4cgb-DHrT6zOR2ocubQ5kWJqarI71K87UJGRdISJ1obzu3qkriJZjosoT6HHZWkfrSKBShaMu4mZknAm9tLx5_bmzFdFgO7GNuFllQPgM/s1600/upload+jpg+Golden+Gate+Bridge+IMG_5397.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlPvLNLpOuBz12IZ-4pfGuZVnqYN3C3l7KW4cgb-DHrT6zOR2ocubQ5kWJqarI71K87UJGRdISJ1obzu3qkriJZjosoT6HHZWkfrSKBShaMu4mZknAm9tLx5_bmzFdFgO7GNuFllQPgM/s1600/upload+jpg+Golden+Gate+Bridge+IMG_5397.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlPvLNLpOuBz12IZ-4pfGuZVnqYN3C3l7KW4cgb-DHrT6zOR2ocubQ5kWJqarI71K87UJGRdISJ1obzu3qkriJZjosoT6HHZWkfrSKBShaMu4mZknAm9tLx5_bmzFdFgO7GNuFllQPgM/s200/upload+jpg+Golden+Gate+Bridge+IMG_5397.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We visited landmarks and cathedrals, but the experiences that made the biggest impression on my young mind came from seeing massive paintings in heavy ornate frames and statues of people balanced on pedestals. Second to the museums, I adored the fountains and public art, a concept that was new to me having been raised in California where few things were older than a hundred years. I already adored the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, and became equally fascinated with the Eiffel Tower and Leaning Tower of Pisa. There is no doubt in my mind that our travels influenced my interest in art, architecture and color.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy2U8RqJh1HuHsaK5_Drvv8qfppJhoda05ia9TaG6WnjTqsd5KG6KXNqjRT3wL2s0FMO6m05sUVXZealR7lLOQQlHTyz4ukbWfEXiYngIi2HAP_sOtpOsvnNLMgEpoOpITdLYd0y01mio/s1600/upload+jpg+cloudy+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy2U8RqJh1HuHsaK5_Drvv8qfppJhoda05ia9TaG6WnjTqsd5KG6KXNqjRT3wL2s0FMO6m05sUVXZealR7lLOQQlHTyz4ukbWfEXiYngIi2HAP_sOtpOsvnNLMgEpoOpITdLYd0y01mio/s320/upload+jpg+cloudy+sky.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSM2lRPrbAT-S8T-Re5cBdFk7-vuyOul2mJrQRLqkwtP9oDKpcP5mxjpZdgBQxBo_OOKxkyz-ARb326hkhC5wc_I0dhkXFfI4d-XPhNlEaOUbH1zL2xvqAkM2FZtSAcEHIgIPaDQfM0hY/s1600/upload+jpg+orange+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSM2lRPrbAT-S8T-Re5cBdFk7-vuyOul2mJrQRLqkwtP9oDKpcP5mxjpZdgBQxBo_OOKxkyz-ARb326hkhC5wc_I0dhkXFfI4d-XPhNlEaOUbH1zL2xvqAkM2FZtSAcEHIgIPaDQfM0hY/s320/upload+jpg+orange+sky.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On Thursday night last week I drove beneath thunderous Northern California clouds to an event in a neighboring city. The clouds resembled those painted by the masters, the reflective quality of their colors and purposeful brushstrokes clashing waves of orange on the sky. For the thunderous appearance overhead, it was unusually calm, neither warm nor cold. There was no rain when I left my car and walked toward the door leading to the upper room. It was quiet inside the little Methodist Church. Rows of people represented a mixture of ages and races, large and small, young and old. From the choir loft, a baritone voice spoke and one-by-one, 13 costumed men rose from their positions scattered throughout the congregation, walked to the apse, and took their position at a long table covered with a white cloth. The church lights dimmed and for the next 30 minutes, each of the 12 Apostles rose and, in the spotlight, told their story. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0KDbu4Pxt7YRvzgnD3U5rqCDdNq6D7gQQCh5j90XN-NEClQF0ZGbYO1AmrYXAI6erQRrAd4bkEdukCOSty4If_k9hJXgZgFDUifK1ZH9ST3SDB9QjH_niEeG64YgkUeAP7DlJX0nT5w/s1600/Last+supper+with+iphone+IMG_0334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0KDbu4Pxt7YRvzgnD3U5rqCDdNq6D7gQQCh5j90XN-NEClQF0ZGbYO1AmrYXAI6erQRrAd4bkEdukCOSty4If_k9hJXgZgFDUifK1ZH9ST3SDB9QjH_niEeG64YgkUeAP7DlJX0nT5w/s320/Last+supper+with+iphone+IMG_0334.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Although my mother was a founder of the Presbyterian Church in my hometown and I attended church until I went away to college, my limited understanding of religion is not based on sermons or scriptures, but primarily on experiences, movies, festivals, and art. Every Easter season after all the church activities, mom and I watched the silver screen spectacles on television, one-after-another. Most years they were scheduled chronologically, ensuring that the parting of the waters came before the burning bush. My first one-on-one interface with art and religion came when mom’s church commissioned an artist to create a wood carving to serve as the focal point in the church. Mom signed me up for art classes and on Saturday mornings we made the pilgrimage to his studio. We children sat around a work table, our little hands positioning colorful tiles on Masonite creating mosaic pictures, while our parents spoke to the artist about the personalities of the 13 life size figures he meticulously chiseled from a monstrously large block of wood. Before leaving the studio, adults and kids alike collected bits of wood shavings from the floor as if gathering mementos from a shrine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLK5MjEKJmD6wfj-PYw_GnTQeABELav0wyrPvHAa_TaCkNptgDnX8QYwxtN1QnBurvtsV_x5ILDOyHtFotQa5iXbr9u-4D1c229cUJQhlQfQ3Tzm4m3bSL_EBekAg-5S28TOtBmt9IqqU/s1600/upload+jpg+after+the+last+supper+IMG_0336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLK5MjEKJmD6wfj-PYw_GnTQeABELav0wyrPvHAa_TaCkNptgDnX8QYwxtN1QnBurvtsV_x5ILDOyHtFotQa5iXbr9u-4D1c229cUJQhlQfQ3Tzm4m3bSL_EBekAg-5S28TOtBmt9IqqU/s320/upload+jpg+after+the+last+supper+IMG_0336.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In Florence when told there were four “Last Suppers” within a few blocks of Santa Reparata International School of Art, my face must have expressed astonishment. “Really,” I said to Dr. Carey Rote, the art history professor. The look on her face indicated that she thought I certainly must be kidding. How I made it through art history class in college many years ago is a mystery because until her comment, I subconsciously considered the Leonardo DaVinci painting to be “the only” Last Supper. In the little Methodist church that stormy night, I faced another realization. I always imagined the 13 gesturing figures at the dinner table as two-dimensional and never thought of them as people sitting right next to me, who got up and walked to the table as these 13 did. When the dramatization was complete, the disciples helped pass the communion trays and then returned to sit in the pews to participate in the closing hymn and prayer, just like ordinary people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The other perplexed art history related facial expression was Barbra’s at my response to the question she posed after we visited five or six Florentine art collections, “So, how do you like the paintings?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m really impressed with the techniques and the color and the size,” I replied with excitement, “but I’m getting sort of tired of the religious theme.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I can just imagine her thinking, “What did she expect? Artists were commissioned to paint Bible stories.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Fortunately, neither of these art experts scolded me for my ignorance of history, that without religion, art would not have flourished.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIb-FF7lBTQGagTwvWdA-BAOXwlmdxR4CC90MQ4v3i4vdiHXxTgi2i11totgIdtT8jVZIzoj0VLXH8r1v4kfzT7Jz9xgPlkE91M7HLTK7SkSC4pxZMVfrnTIh43uItYZF7iqszzws9Dg/s1600/upload+jpg+sunrise+landscape+IMG_0484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIb-FF7lBTQGagTwvWdA-BAOXwlmdxR4CC90MQ4v3i4vdiHXxTgi2i11totgIdtT8jVZIzoj0VLXH8r1v4kfzT7Jz9xgPlkE91M7HLTK7SkSC4pxZMVfrnTIh43uItYZF7iqszzws9Dg/s320/upload+jpg+sunrise+landscape+IMG_0484.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUkjZMXy-AIkmY0FQhY8zRKjyrRz84PAQqg4OLPHdAHbxfXQ7x6LF5cvfYWDu-WF3LS68yfT-wDKon84eauV4xL8gmA4hw2OxxIAAvRSVyzJGgiW0VEUwqQ8MgmM95sE5wek-GTv4fT4/s1600/upload+jpg+crowd+at+sunrise+IMG_0478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUkjZMXy-AIkmY0FQhY8zRKjyrRz84PAQqg4OLPHdAHbxfXQ7x6LF5cvfYWDu-WF3LS68yfT-wDKon84eauV4xL8gmA4hw2OxxIAAvRSVyzJGgiW0VEUwqQ8MgmM95sE5wek-GTv4fT4/s320/upload+jpg+crowd+at+sunrise+IMG_0478.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">This past Sunday morning, I woke early and drove to the neighborhood lake where “Digger,” the local undertaker, and his family have presided over the nondenominational Easter Sunrise Service for more than 35 years. Dressed for the chill and holding steaming mugs of coffee and cocoa, a different group of young and old sat quietly in lawn chairs. We listened with interest as Digger spoke and sang, and we watched the sun glide upward from the other side of the lake, illuminating the mountains with a blush of tangerine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgG6H0Q_jIr4ql_libwLScyU6zZrDWGyGqLq0s1lQOV7rZZ0Liij__mXhUgT_Jp1A_4L_E2AbpkllK-EgQKpZguSpRCdEyQqs_76j04-yJVugujoWf8Ao6LwuXTE8u0Cxuw1yxgysAmI/s1600/upload+jpg+sunset+at+ponte+vecchio+IMG_0452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgG6H0Q_jIr4ql_libwLScyU6zZrDWGyGqLq0s1lQOV7rZZ0Liij__mXhUgT_Jp1A_4L_E2AbpkllK-EgQKpZguSpRCdEyQqs_76j04-yJVugujoWf8Ao6LwuXTE8u0Cxuw1yxgysAmI/s320/upload+jpg+sunset+at+ponte+vecchio+IMG_0452.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_iehjveqWEtAfpGvjnjIBNqPnNgRcUQBGyeUd1bEvR9Wj1jwPyzYvih2aD-XC-rVyPCHlx2Pvy2WPoA75Uqq_AgcM5wFHY-VCAiAgVKXtyyMEu9gxzLQfMsV42dpP6rDZeuiVwyYR8iM/s1600/upload+jpg+people+standing+by+lake+after+sunrise+service+IMG_0492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_iehjveqWEtAfpGvjnjIBNqPnNgRcUQBGyeUd1bEvR9Wj1jwPyzYvih2aD-XC-rVyPCHlx2Pvy2WPoA75Uqq_AgcM5wFHY-VCAiAgVKXtyyMEu9gxzLQfMsV42dpP6rDZeuiVwyYR8iM/s320/upload+jpg+people+standing+by+lake+after+sunrise+service+IMG_0492.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Later at home, I recognized an uncanny resemblance between the sunrise photos I had just taken and a photo I snapped at dusk of the Ponte Vecchio spanning the Arno River thousands of miles away. Both shared a translucent orange quality I find irresistible – the colors I tested with 24”x24” paint samples on my house until I was satisfied one was as close to an ethereal and unearthly tone as my eye could imagine. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03zxEmgksVRMTztf_fn4CE8ocG7ajbyeb33i3MBQ1-wikwIfG7ywcLsD4ZeF8GJa-yIL7Rh3Xb-vT_SSfigv5SZ6CPuTU3K4SfR74bqDJA7jZPy4UnX84KB7k6yKQSPrnbkHbq0KgKy4/s1600/upload+jpg+breezeway+orange+IMG_0644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03zxEmgksVRMTztf_fn4CE8ocG7ajbyeb33i3MBQ1-wikwIfG7ywcLsD4ZeF8GJa-yIL7Rh3Xb-vT_SSfigv5SZ6CPuTU3K4SfR74bqDJA7jZPy4UnX84KB7k6yKQSPrnbkHbq0KgKy4/s1600/upload+jpg+breezeway+orange+IMG_0644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCL9aPLAUaohoCqVwhoQW9GYOhHonx3GOVfYpmDWY3TSvZT4rGUG6Ykzv3sbKMFPpUhyphenhyphen39uv-4UvUpe8sFD8DXhrDA0bCovBPJlRd8SL1udrtqf4yXVcAUKbKUB71ayCLJykfDxO_OcQs/s1600/upload+jpg+bud+break+IMG_0616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCL9aPLAUaohoCqVwhoQW9GYOhHonx3GOVfYpmDWY3TSvZT4rGUG6Ykzv3sbKMFPpUhyphenhyphen39uv-4UvUpe8sFD8DXhrDA0bCovBPJlRd8SL1udrtqf4yXVcAUKbKUB71ayCLJykfDxO_OcQs/s320/upload+jpg+bud+break+IMG_0616.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03zxEmgksVRMTztf_fn4CE8ocG7ajbyeb33i3MBQ1-wikwIfG7ywcLsD4ZeF8GJa-yIL7Rh3Xb-vT_SSfigv5SZ6CPuTU3K4SfR74bqDJA7jZPy4UnX84KB7k6yKQSPrnbkHbq0KgKy4/s1600/upload+jpg+breezeway+orange+IMG_0644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03zxEmgksVRMTztf_fn4CE8ocG7ajbyeb33i3MBQ1-wikwIfG7ywcLsD4ZeF8GJa-yIL7Rh3Xb-vT_SSfigv5SZ6CPuTU3K4SfR74bqDJA7jZPy4UnX84KB7k6yKQSPrnbkHbq0KgKy4/s320/upload+jpg+breezeway+orange+IMG_0644.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The same fleeting orange haze that claims the beginning and the end, the tumult and the calm, provides a delicate nourishing balance… its glow embracing us with a soft farewell at sunset and a warm hello at sunrise. In reflection, I see orange as a significant color repeated throughout my childhood, the primer color for the canvas of my life, the color that keeps me safe and hopeful. Even on my home it serves as a promising backdrop for renewal – last week’s Primitivo bud break predicts a grand season of growth leading to a fruitful 2012 harvest. </span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-7218009581439158742012-03-24T21:22:00.000-07:002012-03-24T21:22:46.375-07:00First Maria's Mussels then Vinci & San Miniato<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzCV_4U_OzvpjjIqDPU5hqqq2jWD-bOVTiD6dJfDBPCWQpAmn3b07RVECunlbMyft3_VVuYEqWpXOq2QQIgpkFTLeEezWpomqzbCFymKqXLvIIoIHuXARnsC7PqZ8rETaS9KbUuLMt4w/s1600/Maria's+mussels+jpg+upload+IMG_4420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzCV_4U_OzvpjjIqDPU5hqqq2jWD-bOVTiD6dJfDBPCWQpAmn3b07RVECunlbMyft3_VVuYEqWpXOq2QQIgpkFTLeEezWpomqzbCFymKqXLvIIoIHuXARnsC7PqZ8rETaS9KbUuLMt4w/s400/Maria's+mussels+jpg+upload+IMG_4420.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwSsS7D0FaaKC2hLAcdBRr0a28slhyphenhyphenALEw-gS0BggrOdHb5nDAMHvM43TwRYXU0wV9UPRZqlUCUsisZdnT5edkHCtaUO9MgEx-Ybu2tzD0RnMztDd4QQR8Dg4RTp7xpciMMnZ50UVTF8/s1600/Ingrid+%2526+Alex+cropped+jpg+upload1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwSsS7D0FaaKC2hLAcdBRr0a28slhyphenhyphenALEw-gS0BggrOdHb5nDAMHvM43TwRYXU0wV9UPRZqlUCUsisZdnT5edkHCtaUO9MgEx-Ybu2tzD0RnMztDd4QQR8Dg4RTp7xpciMMnZ50UVTF8/s320/Ingrid+%2526+Alex+cropped+jpg+upload1984.jpg" width="244" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXqgt6-V5WVrh6xENtvbsLbnI-x6oJ3g1-5qiC8T0E-sdoi35R-fzPnCuPqzYpLIR3GRbqylEa5189k6ZanXWc0nM6XMG5md1EvMG_r6_oWK8f1bC3-ycNoY3e1EZ3HixkRv8QR3vIOk/s1600/mussel+with+spoon+close+V+jpg+upload+MG_0103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Tall and thin with a huge smile and bright sparkling eyes...</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> it's curious how first impressions create lasting memories. Alessandro was a summer house guest of an Old Sacramento attorney. The attorney met "Alex" while vacationing in Piombino, Italy, located on the coast near the island of Elba. Alex, age 17, was a waiter at the Hotel Esperia, owned by his parents. He mentioned to the American tourists that he planned to visit United States, and a few months later arrived to experience the summer of 1984 in California. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXqgt6-V5WVrh6xENtvbsLbnI-x6oJ3g1-5qiC8T0E-sdoi35R-fzPnCuPqzYpLIR3GRbqylEa5189k6ZanXWc0nM6XMG5md1EvMG_r6_oWK8f1bC3-ycNoY3e1EZ3HixkRv8QR3vIOk/s1600/mussel+with+spoon+close+V+jpg+upload+MG_0103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXqgt6-V5WVrh6xENtvbsLbnI-x6oJ3g1-5qiC8T0E-sdoi35R-fzPnCuPqzYpLIR3GRbqylEa5189k6ZanXWc0nM6XMG5md1EvMG_r6_oWK8f1bC3-ycNoY3e1EZ3HixkRv8QR3vIOk/s200/mussel+with+spoon+close+V+jpg+upload+MG_0103.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I ran my public relations company from an office located in the law firm. Between the lawyers, staff, spouses, private investigator and me, 10-12 of us assumed the role of Alessandro's American family. He was charming and welcomed into our clan immediately. We taught him about California, life in America, and shared our favorite pastimes. We were there for him at a critical time in his development, when learning experiences would last a lifetime. In 1986, our "adopted Italian son" returned for another summer, and a few years after that, I lost track of him. Christmas cards to Italy were returned with no forwarding address. His folks had retired from the hotel, and by now, Alex had certainly grown out of his carefree adventurous teenage years.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CmKY3o56T7yaC7X67I84vMws4qvYwszj3KFTQ22i5UafVBjE7CDZkO8pMOPblEAaDNynjVkSJJZJSBmnLV4qpWoYshg0DIhjEWS9LuUrokHMkU2ytVhBAQqtsJaVwq0KYd-CYm1g8Mk/s1600/INg+%2526+ALex+2011%25232+pg+upload+DSC7666.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CmKY3o56T7yaC7X67I84vMws4qvYwszj3KFTQ22i5UafVBjE7CDZkO8pMOPblEAaDNynjVkSJJZJSBmnLV4qpWoYshg0DIhjEWS9LuUrokHMkU2ytVhBAQqtsJaVwq0KYd-CYm1g8Mk/s200/INg+%2526+ALex+2011%25232+pg+upload+DSC7666.jpg" width="141" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Fast forward to 2011. The decision is made I will go to Italy with Barbra and take her photography class at the Santa Reparata International School of Art in Florence. Coincidently, Alex received a misplaced card from me that had been mailed to the hotel several years prior, given to his parents, who still live in Piombino, and then forwarded to him. After many years of no communication, he easily found me via the internet. Imagine my surprise to hear from him and learn that he lived with his wife and two sons about 25 minutes outside of Florence. He invited Barbra and me for a Saturday visit. We would take the train.</span></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLqenszm8S4LxWtkHWEIiOFhwkPQcYDHKpPUPb-1VjiBK3-xzEFAZ6B_xbGy0lCwlNziHRzV6JPMPQM-WpfP5cr7776Cw7Y5htDuKtNZ42N4ek1dt7DyzBV6zeV3_eqmutUe0miqfV2g/s1600/mussel+pot+IMG_0095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLqenszm8S4LxWtkHWEIiOFhwkPQcYDHKpPUPb-1VjiBK3-xzEFAZ6B_xbGy0lCwlNziHRzV6JPMPQM-WpfP5cr7776Cw7Y5htDuKtNZ42N4ek1dt7DyzBV6zeV3_eqmutUe0miqfV2g/s200/mussel+pot+IMG_0095.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Their house is in Fucecchio, between the San Miniato and Empoli train stations. I was excited as well as anxious about this meeting. After 25years, would I recognize this boy turned man? He had emailed a photo of his family and his oldest son was a carbon copy of the young Alex I knew. Would he still speak English? His recent emails had been quite understandable and delightful. What would we talk about? Somehow we always found something to talk about, I guessed we would again. Those uncomfortable feelings passed as soon as the train stopped in Empoli shortly after noon. </span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmV8hdqDiB9IK8kOKA-nlhGpj-eGmwK-ZRnJ5OZsBw7SWQETG6Y44ZgSi2XRCNQWQU_RL1Moua6VC4ApXVMiyIxzI-ccPhk2V9DdmrEC5O6Dz9KYXsp0brpA9hfEA2_sQCBGyNy8gy5Ck/s1600/Maria+with+mussels+jpg+upload+IMG_4417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmV8hdqDiB9IK8kOKA-nlhGpj-eGmwK-ZRnJ5OZsBw7SWQETG6Y44ZgSi2XRCNQWQU_RL1Moua6VC4ApXVMiyIxzI-ccPhk2V9DdmrEC5O6Dz9KYXsp0brpA9hfEA2_sQCBGyNy8gy5Ck/s320/Maria+with+mussels+jpg+upload+IMG_4417.jpg" width="256" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyvSus1bL0IWhkSY_EJepHF1-zoEvYbe7ZBIcSNYPT1e-WKheFwIOHcdndgrr9XrKrpZ_MhA98wERaRLeCbr0yO2pOBEhemLOYatbd4MkZHGn7qezs3nkkfnIbiEWrZpJUUJWQUWOkFk/s1600/pink+dress+in+store+doorway+jpg+upload+IMG_4676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyvSus1bL0IWhkSY_EJepHF1-zoEvYbe7ZBIcSNYPT1e-WKheFwIOHcdndgrr9XrKrpZ_MhA98wERaRLeCbr0yO2pOBEhemLOYatbd4MkZHGn7qezs3nkkfnIbiEWrZpJUUJWQUWOkFk/s200/pink+dress+in+store+doorway+jpg+upload+IMG_4676.jpg" width="104" /></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A tall thin man stood on the station platform as close as he could get to the incoming trains. He waved with joy when my head popped out the train door - and just then, a pleasant calm came over me, as if I was coming home, home to a place I had never been, and in a way I was. Alex and I shared experiences and relationships with several loved ones who have since passed. We are part of each others' history. Alex embraced Barbra and me with a pure sigh of relief and joy often reserved for long lost relatives. We drove through the streets in the town where 17th Century artist Jacobi da Empoli painted his masterpieces and we drove by a large industrial looking building with the words PRADA in big bold letters. Soon we reached the home of Alex and Maria and their sons, Andrea and Fabio.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4M1C68ZmFBR7gFIrT6Ac8BPNp0Le6XZPgX3TGw5snwmI5OFLciA9JSk26ObjimayjweP9Xd6K9N57uBnWSNzuNGwBAcLO0Fso8YlChSbJAxvQWWCbnb7ExG-WD2Mmm_dfveUjHZqPrc/s1600/Dinner+table+with+Andrea%252C+Alex+%2526+B+jpg+upload+IMG_4418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4M1C68ZmFBR7gFIrT6Ac8BPNp0Le6XZPgX3TGw5snwmI5OFLciA9JSk26ObjimayjweP9Xd6K9N57uBnWSNzuNGwBAcLO0Fso8YlChSbJAxvQWWCbnb7ExG-WD2Mmm_dfveUjHZqPrc/s320/Dinner+table+with+Andrea%252C+Alex+%2526+B+jpg+upload+IMG_4418.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YhJzKUO6gQDllarTHV-SHSale8tyCQprF9hTlnE0SLFSfx2jClwJ8EaXpU_CT6VMtvM_nsNXog_j5fajmZbV2p2mQCMaRzhFAktlkFcMV1SsKLRLdYOlzmej7xy8Z5kqciEWGnZglkg/s1600/Ingrid%2527d+mussel+plate+with+bread+jpg+upload++IMG_0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YhJzKUO6gQDllarTHV-SHSale8tyCQprF9hTlnE0SLFSfx2jClwJ8EaXpU_CT6VMtvM_nsNXog_j5fajmZbV2p2mQCMaRzhFAktlkFcMV1SsKLRLdYOlzmej7xy8Z5kqciEWGnZglkg/s1600/Ingrid%2527d+mussel+plate+with+bread+jpg+upload++IMG_0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YhJzKUO6gQDllarTHV-SHSale8tyCQprF9hTlnE0SLFSfx2jClwJ8EaXpU_CT6VMtvM_nsNXog_j5fajmZbV2p2mQCMaRzhFAktlkFcMV1SsKLRLdYOlzmej7xy8Z5kqciEWGnZglkg/s320/Ingrid%2527d+mussel+plate+with+bread+jpg+upload++IMG_0115.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A symphony of flavors floated from the mussel pot on the stove, through the living room, and out the front door. Maria was busy in the kitchen preparing lunch. She wore a pretty sunflower blue cotton sundress with its hem hiked up every 10 or so inches creating a scalloped billowing effect. She said this was her "house dress", but she looked pretty enough to go to a party. She was inherently warm and hugged me as one hugs an old friend. I was, in fact, an old story come to life.</span></span><br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">There was no hesitancy in Maria's manner as she manipulated the pots and pans, sliced and stirred, and brought out one dish after another for placement on the kitchen table. The photos here show only part of our lunch. The table was quickly layered with so much food that it read like a feast in a 17th Century still life: sliced grilled eggplant, skinned potatoes, cheeses, cold meats, fresh green salad, breads… so many plates that after the meal, some were wrapped and returned to the refrigerator untouched. Our individual bowls of mussels were refilled from a seemingly endless supply on the stove. Alex encouraged us to use the garlic toasted bread to soak up the sauce - his suggestion did not need repeating. </span></span><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifu08aedKEGlUuclE7YE7ZSB2Ot6OTvXZ91MO7jMTOJ0PAhQmX7Agc9fAvYE97P2rBnINeVSyPMWXt8MiLoVNG1vNtYzIyDzc09811e9M7fYYKd3ktASjP0k-ogIdVsg1WxnUPo0716RY/s1600/Arno+valley+V+j%255Bg+upload++IMG_4427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YhJzKUO6gQDllarTHV-SHSale8tyCQprF9hTlnE0SLFSfx2jClwJ8EaXpU_CT6VMtvM_nsNXog_j5fajmZbV2p2mQCMaRzhFAktlkFcMV1SsKLRLdYOlzmej7xy8Z5kqciEWGnZglkg/s1600/Ingrid%2527d+mussel+plate+with+bread+jpg+upload++IMG_0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__ZDT97z0coAC02O2IMT8eeYbo1ETzwRvw708G25SmlkIKz4ErVp1z6fzWFltYe0hx0_QP2NegtToyo4Ckrd3zUqp6a4SBxYDh_-I3cdgsbAW5lKhRyI78dFmkFtzCMVy5_OLSZMXOLM/s1600/San+Miniato+tower+jpg+upload++IMG_4451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__ZDT97z0coAC02O2IMT8eeYbo1ETzwRvw708G25SmlkIKz4ErVp1z6fzWFltYe0hx0_QP2NegtToyo4Ckrd3zUqp6a4SBxYDh_-I3cdgsbAW5lKhRyI78dFmkFtzCMVy5_OLSZMXOLM/s200/San+Miniato+tower+jpg+upload++IMG_4451.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhfdrGJuEczCzQXUNShXj3rORl-C2hCh0AB64jynTUlGmuE9U8BLvpfN6flkCD3pWHq63GRlChyek497pFjAi7t8equrmuV_XiJpsWKuudiieEWnDQ9AU-hHP5VhLL9pQAcz4tJDEZqxc/s1600/Empoli+building+jpg+upload++IMG_4438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhfdrGJuEczCzQXUNShXj3rORl-C2hCh0AB64jynTUlGmuE9U8BLvpfN6flkCD3pWHq63GRlChyek497pFjAi7t8equrmuV_XiJpsWKuudiieEWnDQ9AU-hHP5VhLL9pQAcz4tJDEZqxc/s200/Empoli+building+jpg+upload++IMG_4438.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifu08aedKEGlUuclE7YE7ZSB2Ot6OTvXZ91MO7jMTOJ0PAhQmX7Agc9fAvYE97P2rBnINeVSyPMWXt8MiLoVNG1vNtYzIyDzc09811e9M7fYYKd3ktASjP0k-ogIdVsg1WxnUPo0716RY/s1600/Arno+valley+V+j%255Bg+upload++IMG_4427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifu08aedKEGlUuclE7YE7ZSB2Ot6OTvXZ91MO7jMTOJ0PAhQmX7Agc9fAvYE97P2rBnINeVSyPMWXt8MiLoVNG1vNtYzIyDzc09811e9M7fYYKd3ktASjP0k-ogIdVsg1WxnUPo0716RY/s1600/Arno+valley+V+j%255Bg+upload++IMG_4427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifu08aedKEGlUuclE7YE7ZSB2Ot6OTvXZ91MO7jMTOJ0PAhQmX7Agc9fAvYE97P2rBnINeVSyPMWXt8MiLoVNG1vNtYzIyDzc09811e9M7fYYKd3ktASjP0k-ogIdVsg1WxnUPo0716RY/s320/Arno+valley+V+j%255Bg+upload++IMG_4427.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Maria was scheduled to work that afternoon and Alex would be our driver. He drove us to meet Maria’s brother and pick up sister-in-law Barbara, (spelled with three a's, unlike photographer Barbra spelled with two a's) who enjoyed practicing her English while serving as our tour guide. Her delightful stories of the countryside, history, and travel kept us entertained and laughing all afternoon. The relationship between the family members was impressive in its unusual ease. They were all happy individuals and happy together.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our private tour took us to the villages of Vinci, home of Leonardo daVinci, and San Miniato, built on three hills overlooking the lower Arno Valley, a primary route between Europe and Rome in the Medieval times. On the train ride back from the coastal towns in Cinque Terre, we saw a tall watch tower perched atop a hill like an angel on a Christmas tree. That was San Miniato and the walk up the inclined pathway to the tower, although only a few blocks long, caused every calf and thigh muscle to burn and beg for mercy. At the top of the hill, couples lounged on the grass under the shade trees. The spectacular views and serenity provided an outdoor sanctuary for lovers in the early stages of discovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__ZDT97z0coAC02O2IMT8eeYbo1ETzwRvw708G25SmlkIKz4ErVp1z6fzWFltYe0hx0_QP2NegtToyo4Ckrd3zUqp6a4SBxYDh_-I3cdgsbAW5lKhRyI78dFmkFtzCMVy5_OLSZMXOLM/s1600/San+Miniato+tower+jpg+upload++IMG_4451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8YcZqR-1gp1hQsPSKcst4NMMgcYDsayhltgO8vqO1UvpsA9IQfNNNKMA0JRiZEmTmLsy6wha0nf1ZODi7uJuRkDQP_wqlyPmWGkS3F3ppo4LU7uQ-n9vBUzfdLZWJUKsQeQT7MnNhXg/s1600/vinci+roftop+landscape+H+jpg+upload++IMG_4463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8YcZqR-1gp1hQsPSKcst4NMMgcYDsayhltgO8vqO1UvpsA9IQfNNNKMA0JRiZEmTmLsy6wha0nf1ZODi7uJuRkDQP_wqlyPmWGkS3F3ppo4LU7uQ-n9vBUzfdLZWJUKsQeQT7MnNhXg/s1600/vinci+roftop+landscape+H+jpg+upload++IMG_4463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8YcZqR-1gp1hQsPSKcst4NMMgcYDsayhltgO8vqO1UvpsA9IQfNNNKMA0JRiZEmTmLsy6wha0nf1ZODi7uJuRkDQP_wqlyPmWGkS3F3ppo4LU7uQ-n9vBUzfdLZWJUKsQeQT7MnNhXg/s320/vinci+roftop+landscape+H+jpg+upload++IMG_4463.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our stop in Vinci was nothing short of awe inspiring.<span style="color: red;"> </span>Walking on the hills Leonardo knew so well just made you want to breathe deeply, with eyes wide open, in hopes of being infected by the surroundings that fed his genius.<span style="color: red;"> </span>We arrived at the end of day after the museum closed. This provided a good excuse to return on another trip. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOjsm_12DLoJe4X1a2EONGytE848WZJk7mJDAfk5uKQCsEgZh3WIWeM-s5ZX6_l6IGdj0ehg6EDfp2Rofkpms5pKZcYxsAJZoCdXyTHoo617OUpL1953Bq0M-qwHLJzaCKiS4-i_MGGg/s1600/DaVinci+sidewalk+museum+jpg+upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOjsm_12DLoJe4X1a2EONGytE848WZJk7mJDAfk5uKQCsEgZh3WIWeM-s5ZX6_l6IGdj0ehg6EDfp2Rofkpms5pKZcYxsAJZoCdXyTHoo617OUpL1953Bq0M-qwHLJzaCKiS4-i_MGGg/s320/DaVinci+sidewalk+museum+jpg+upload.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgaq6zdd8s-tnorsD8xNlmGjJCQTq1_kH3gFPoudavVdAniMSdV753DCLBkTKyIIBTo07xMRkwLgnZMnQUxlS2K-F6DaZCYO8Y1xmn57JWFc0WXXHNSqZviTYOOMgsZpQ6jRcco5FAj4/s1600/vinci+wall+with+shutters+jpg+upload++IMG_4499.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The street, however, exposed a fascinating built-in outdoor museum. The strange angles and shapes embedded in the ground enabled viewers to examine the thought pattern of daVinci’s mind.<span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Back at Alex and Maria's, Maria had returned from work and was preparing a second remarkable meal - dinner (those recipes will be shared in another story.) After dinner Maria gave Barbra and me each a bookmark to remember our day. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mine is a frog which is taped to the monitor of my computer.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was dark when they drove us to Empoli to catch the last train back to Florence. Inside the train, I took a final look out the window to capture a lasting memory of the day. Both Alex and Maria stood on the platform as close to the train as possible. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Maria wiped her eyes. Alex smiled that big Italian smile and his eyes twinkled as if to say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don't worry - we'll all be together again, but this time it won't be 25 years.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">……</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you Maria for sharing your recipes! <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">In California we can buy shell fish in months that contain an "r" (January, February, March, April, September, October, November, December). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Here's what Alex said when I asked him about seasons in Italy. "We don’t really have a season for shell fish, let’s say that during wintertime we find mussels from Sardinia, Liguria and Adriatic sea, while in summertime we find mussels from Spain, but at the end we have mussels all the year !"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">NOTE: I considered rewriting the recipe as you might see a recipe in a cook book, but decided it's best in Alex’s own words - in reading his explanation you'll share the warmth of Maria’s kitchen.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">MARIA's MUSSELS</span></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpo1ZnLQ4NDfeL3JbLeKBwaR5QKZkJXlEha9s74qsh7HN5sNZ91jjK33sYN1yKhKs9_Zpb9ALh0CfQi2v-dz8tPPQSncsteooraVDqObJLLuYnbC1qXjNrVdZ2vlGqwKvpAkvFPGC3ZE/s1600/Alex+%2526+Mariajpg+upload+IMG_4514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpo1ZnLQ4NDfeL3JbLeKBwaR5QKZkJXlEha9s74qsh7HN5sNZ91jjK33sYN1yKhKs9_Zpb9ALh0CfQi2v-dz8tPPQSncsteooraVDqObJLLuYnbC1qXjNrVdZ2vlGqwKvpAkvFPGC3ZE/s200/Alex+%2526+Mariajpg+upload+IMG_4514.jpg" width="142" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Let’s speak about mussels…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well take couple of Kg. of mussels that must be cleaned, wash them and put them inside a pot, then put a little bit of extravergine olive oil, parsley and cut garlic, half a lemon (squish it), and a little of hot pepper (chilli peppers), (do not put any salt in the pot ) then cover the pot and lite the fire with a low flame; after about ten minutes, open the pot and put in half a glass of white wine, and let cook for other 10 minutes; taste if they are cooked at the right point and serve them. It is also good with the water that they produce, to put some toasted bread that can be rubbed with some garlic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRI4VfvnWkRQIDCZxKl2vTnqbOx0dIeS7_gETmSSbhvDIaavdoOKUpR0raApsN4av37FBvP33YCSDMMmosPV7I-84OAVpxbrFaMU7A5Q1pW07fl1RFKGSNyntLvMvwWeDRTHPtlPAhpEw/s1600/frog+bookmarkjpg+upload+IMG_0323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRI4VfvnWkRQIDCZxKl2vTnqbOx0dIeS7_gETmSSbhvDIaavdoOKUpR0raApsN4av37FBvP33YCSDMMmosPV7I-84OAVpxbrFaMU7A5Q1pW07fl1RFKGSNyntLvMvwWeDRTHPtlPAhpEw/s200/frog+bookmarkjpg+upload+IMG_0323.jpg" width="179" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Hope they are clear enough, but please tell me for any doubt.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Maria is happy that the frog bookmark watches over you !!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Good appetite !!!!!!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Love, </span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Alex and Maria<o:p></o:p></span>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-70768229015643403032012-03-03T15:41:00.000-08:002012-03-03T15:41:58.606-08:00Excess of Accessories… the Street Market at Piazza San Lorenzo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSutj6z0opAEaRAWpBVEf8QEK3cbuTG7Zuyxr_czuwpTqHB9a2L9MANPGN6EnmVwTihJx56pDQpJFiYUsLvcz5rFe5v9ZkmargeBinEjKuFiWaTgFkNl78Fy0Ax4zgi0_w0GQBhw9ah78/s1600/cropped+silk+scarves+jpg+upload+IMG_0740.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSutj6z0opAEaRAWpBVEf8QEK3cbuTG7Zuyxr_czuwpTqHB9a2L9MANPGN6EnmVwTihJx56pDQpJFiYUsLvcz5rFe5v9ZkmargeBinEjKuFiWaTgFkNl78Fy0Ax4zgi0_w0GQBhw9ah78/s400/cropped+silk+scarves+jpg+upload+IMG_0740.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XjJOeEFmMW_2CPj4mK9Gj_fyk4Na2MCCJ_u-Wgb0BL74jCmJwdCvY2rbtBfX8RxGRG98CSJ3Zkkp9ysFtk32U2CN_ayu6cwDVOrxB8T5M3MlQroLCMJhJzvGaGU5x5IIioFA0gzP2TY/s1600/handbags+upload+jpg++IMG_4693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XjJOeEFmMW_2CPj4mK9Gj_fyk4Na2MCCJ_u-Wgb0BL74jCmJwdCvY2rbtBfX8RxGRG98CSJ3Zkkp9ysFtk32U2CN_ayu6cwDVOrxB8T5M3MlQroLCMJhJzvGaGU5x5IIioFA0gzP2TY/s200/handbags+upload+jpg++IMG_4693.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-no-proof: yes;">You can never have enough… what? To some it's jewelry, money, romance, or chocolate, but ask another person and the answer might be travel, museum passes, or fast shiny cars. I like color. To this end, I wander the street markets in hopes to pass close enough to the rows of hanging scarves that residue from the dye slips into my pores, changing my Scandinavian white skin to the pearl pink of an oyster shell with the iridescent quality of the woven silk. I walk the streets of the market place often, not looking for a trinket to take home or yet another unnecessary accessory, but rather for a color rush. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEhpimorkEbgNItFzH6-5Q73NIX4hWoXn1rp3WkAlcmVN7TftW8z5eiDDl5nfJ-vWY6d_7koie12dy_E2G91C1AUknXVCAKemgpG8Ivd2MaAZEUhxo8ywfZIOgqDzTHbjAov7WUOMwNB4/s1600/colored+rain+boots+upload+jpg+IMG_4696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEhpimorkEbgNItFzH6-5Q73NIX4hWoXn1rp3WkAlcmVN7TftW8z5eiDDl5nfJ-vWY6d_7koie12dy_E2G91C1AUknXVCAKemgpG8Ivd2MaAZEUhxo8ywfZIOgqDzTHbjAov7WUOMwNB4/s320/colored+rain+boots+upload+jpg+IMG_4696.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-no-proof: yes;">The street market is perhaps the perfect visual representation of the phrase “organized chaos.” The abundance of items are showcased by clever display techniques and offer an advanced lesson in structural engineering. The two primary display methods used are to hang and to lay. Scarves are systematically knotted, draped, and layered, right next to purses which hang one overlapping another like crackers neatly spread on a cheese plate. The soft hanging items play the clear proper notes like the string and horn sections in the orchestra while the rigid table top items bang together with the calamity of the percussion section.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The outdoor market guarantees the opportunity for discovery – my second favorite reason for wandering the streets. “You’ve got to get those,” I overhear a college student with a purple stripe in her waist length chestnut hair say to her friend with braids, “Get those fuchsia colored ones. No the tangerine.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I just couldn’t,” replies the blond girl, adjusting the strap on her gingham sundress, “Momma will just kill me when I get home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“No she won’t,” says the first girl, tugging at the waist of her red leggings, “Trust me, she’ll just be glad you made it home and didn’t move in with that cute waiter at the Old Stove,” she says referring to the local pub in Piazza Signoria, a favorite beer drinking karaoke haunt of students abroad.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDc4NX7xFXT4dHv0CTtpznIEANgqDS_yvtZ_784ZkzSV53tm7LoDoMvJXUxAiGQipfknF7e3EEPrn34P_NdtumZYat1SZDr1L1pm1x04NwatkacoyUq6dYMmSaA_e2XASNQhaLDeMoPs/s1600/Vert+streetvendor+upload+jpg+IMG_4694.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDc4NX7xFXT4dHv0CTtpznIEANgqDS_yvtZ_784ZkzSV53tm7LoDoMvJXUxAiGQipfknF7e3EEPrn34P_NdtumZYat1SZDr1L1pm1x04NwatkacoyUq6dYMmSaA_e2XASNQhaLDeMoPs/s320/Vert+streetvendor+upload+jpg+IMG_4694.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">There are blocks of stalls set-up in the streets around Piazza San Lorenzo, the closest street market to my home on Via Ricasoli. I have learned to walk each block in six different ways. I don’t zigzag back and forth but rather walk from one end to the other, either on the right side, left side, or down the center – and then repeat the process from the other end. As I approach from different directions, the ever-changing color stories of the stalls provide new sources of inspiration. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The colors show in patches: larger items popping like ornaments on a Christmas tree, and smaller trinkets blending together mosaic-style. Vendors take full advantage of the space by hanging goods from the 10’ tall cross bars of the “porta stalls,” which are actually wagons. In the morning, the petals of the wagon open outward creating stalls with a kaleidoscope of surprises for the tourists. In the evening, the remaining products, along with the hinged canvas awning, fold neatly back into the wagons and are rolled into nearby warehouses for overnight storage and restocking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGtEjoQSKXGXmKaegKqdUI0e5gzFhrKNu5mHBetot5kbU7jGeSE5IKoOD9CEG7M4bRGrI-gYBXKMuEIS1CnnfqCWmeQzPoNB8vC8IL6PaVQBvBjbrEDx6aRlMWxvZo2VvEtfRQqwriUqI/s1600/copper+men%2527s+pants+upload+jpg+IMG_4695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGtEjoQSKXGXmKaegKqdUI0e5gzFhrKNu5mHBetot5kbU7jGeSE5IKoOD9CEG7M4bRGrI-gYBXKMuEIS1CnnfqCWmeQzPoNB8vC8IL6PaVQBvBjbrEDx6aRlMWxvZo2VvEtfRQqwriUqI/s320/copper+men%2527s+pants+upload+jpg+IMG_4695.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Next to the souvenir stall (magnets, bottle openers, key rings, etc.) is a stall with men’s clothes. Today, just above my eye level, a white shirt hangs with pair of papaya colored linen pants. “Ah Marcello” I say out loud, imagining his strong bronze arms extending through the rolled sleeves and his bare legs rubbing against the nub of the linen. He wears bright colored pants, I have determined, so that I can easily identify him in a crowd. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxYJEG0BWm5B-CWdQcf7xsd0K2W-Ek7qT04ZdUflB4uvOJEMI9T3kHST9IuPNWxy4oK8UUMsFjlvVmkJq3tXIHdAWw6wgBtKE1PCoyJiemMCkK6Tj5XB8k9H-rAjfYtEZW4i3Hk5CUJY/s1600/market+crowd+upload+jpg+IMG_4692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxYJEG0BWm5B-CWdQcf7xsd0K2W-Ek7qT04ZdUflB4uvOJEMI9T3kHST9IuPNWxy4oK8UUMsFjlvVmkJq3tXIHdAWw6wgBtKE1PCoyJiemMCkK6Tj5XB8k9H-rAjfYtEZW4i3Hk5CUJY/s200/market+crowd+upload+jpg+IMG_4692.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I have not seen him for days and now, imagining him wearing those papaya pants, my eyes scan the crowds in hopes to catch a glance of my Marcello. I search the crowd until finally, my wish is granted – I see a man from behind – red shoes, red shirt and short pants in color called chartreuse. </span><br />
<div style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ciao Bella,” I hear him say to a girl and I am jealous. “Bella, Bella, youa coma herea and Ia giva youa extra special.” His words to her make me even more jealous. I can’t see his face as he speaks to the girl, so much younger than I that she is certainly inexperienced with real men, men like Marcello. She seems plain and ignores him. I want her to go away. I won’t ignore him. “Bella, Ciao Bella” he says again and this time she walks away, leaving room for me to get closer. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghTlG4vwSz812FsE04FTW4idTdHRI1DVsx00cZs58LMK15cYyMk1yuAyMK8eCDSBjlPygKKI0pFqdwytFeFhYLK85XcqRBwsvPJ6gghyphenhyphen23dItz70A-JzS3juRyHFCiqFNj5noh17JRFVo/s1600/marcello+upload+jpg_4767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghTlG4vwSz812FsE04FTW4idTdHRI1DVsx00cZs58LMK15cYyMk1yuAyMK8eCDSBjlPygKKI0pFqdwytFeFhYLK85XcqRBwsvPJ6gghyphenhyphen23dItz70A-JzS3juRyHFCiqFNj5noh17JRFVo/s320/marcello+upload+jpg_4767.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m here Marcello,” I think so loudly that my face flushes crimson. “I’m here for you Marcello,” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I think even more loudly as I approach in hopes that my thoughts speak to his manly desire. And then, as I anticipate our eyes meeting with passion, he turns and like a wind-up toy repeats “Ciao Bella, youa coma herea and Ia giva youa extra special.” </span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yikes,” I gasp, my body responding with such shock that I almost lose my footing on the cobble street. It’s not my Marcello at all – it is a buffoon waving a rainbow colored duster at some leather jackets. Having caught me blatantly excited, he smiles even bigger with delight. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Bella, Bella, wherea youa go, Bella. Coma backa Bella, Ia hava something special fora youa,” I hear him say as I quickly turn and scoot down the street, away from the marketplace, away from the color fix of my day, away from my dream of a chance meeting with Marcello. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVEcsryuxgUgY42Dqg2uN3WHKygGm4r8YLMewH7wFwzprLqfWwEksaYbplCkiSb33P-oR-3eI7eyBxNHn34o2bbAOVWz2ZjTt-PT7VVXvG3ywR5WIYmFY3Jh-Db68pNTYt91gaVUjW7c/s1600/closed+stalls+upload+jpg+IMG_4729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVEcsryuxgUgY42Dqg2uN3WHKygGm4r8YLMewH7wFwzprLqfWwEksaYbplCkiSb33P-oR-3eI7eyBxNHn34o2bbAOVWz2ZjTt-PT7VVXvG3ywR5WIYmFY3Jh-Db68pNTYt91gaVUjW7c/s200/closed+stalls+upload+jpg+IMG_4729.jpg" width="156" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueBUgbWkIFb3GowjYS__1YiA1NTidfr2CA44l7RyWZtA-wR7gqCPnJsuEdmk2iSal8nnmtJf7R3xoiDuuuHKB9hjuZed6KCxUiQ2J-OYK5s_4RoS9A2DQqW6HAoO66igLw5XDWxukxqs/s1600/street+mkt+at+night+upload+jpg+IMG_4731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueBUgbWkIFb3GowjYS__1YiA1NTidfr2CA44l7RyWZtA-wR7gqCPnJsuEdmk2iSal8nnmtJf7R3xoiDuuuHKB9hjuZed6KCxUiQ2J-OYK5s_4RoS9A2DQqW6HAoO66igLw5XDWxukxqs/s320/street+mkt+at+night+upload+jpg+IMG_4731.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The stalls are starting to close and the sun is going down. The festival atmosphere of the street market quickly slips away when the daylight dims. I’m shaken by my aborted search and the heart pounding anticipation, followed by the jolt of disappointment. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I plod indifferently from street to street until I reach my home, my safe haven on Ricasoli. I aim my key toward the shoulder high keyhole just as someone inside pulls the door open. Dulled by my sadness, I don’t want to speak Italian right now, so I don’t raise my eyes. My head hangs down as I brush against a large figure in the doorway and step into the long dark hallway leading to the stairs to my apartment. “Ciao Bella,” says Marcello as he pulls the heavy door closed behind him and walks out into the golden glow of the Florentine sunset.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-21591079158154768572012-02-19T19:29:00.004-08:002012-03-03T15:41:16.006-08:00Naptime in Riomaggiore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJR94nhBTKjlX47rRJL5-ordyjjsim6uLbLqFeSdkyh3LRAUuYPh1qnc5bGbuNF471HPYzRd7OBp5ndS_NoAQltpFiy9Z02Ciehwf2naqjC2s66r8Bw7yqhmBZnf-ANHzBRFfes6-48Oo/s1600/boat+-+lead+photo+upload+jpg+IMG_4164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJR94nhBTKjlX47rRJL5-ordyjjsim6uLbLqFeSdkyh3LRAUuYPh1qnc5bGbuNF471HPYzRd7OBp5ndS_NoAQltpFiy9Z02Ciehwf2naqjC2s66r8Bw7yqhmBZnf-ANHzBRFfes6-48Oo/s400/boat+-+lead+photo+upload+jpg+IMG_4164.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheNzCh_BnL9c9yN8wGaSCvEKwjQES57lXdIg4F6QXYaVfkPZxmK4eisMuZ6Rnt0p_4ertYtZGz2BKkqTzGFdctVXGk-PRbbdiRTUGXmwa0hqtyx8s-_ph0dDlFMO2fUc6yfsvf3-788ho/s1600/funnel+shot+upload+jpg+IMG_4159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheNzCh_BnL9c9yN8wGaSCvEKwjQES57lXdIg4F6QXYaVfkPZxmK4eisMuZ6Rnt0p_4ertYtZGz2BKkqTzGFdctVXGk-PRbbdiRTUGXmwa0hqtyx8s-_ph0dDlFMO2fUc6yfsvf3-788ho/s320/funnel+shot+upload+jpg+IMG_4159.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Riomaggiore, a 40 minute train ride from Monterossa, is the fifth and southernmost charm in the Italian coastal bracelet called Cinque Terre. The word Riomaggiore means “river gorge” and describes the town built into the side of a mountain once cut open by water. It is a medieval commune with tower homes, tall houses with two or three rooms on each floor, terracing their way to water’s edge. The natural steep wedge in the landscape creates a funnel shape, allowing the town to start at the hilltop and gently pour itself into the clear blue waters. Slabs of alabaster and marble form a sea wall which shelters a tiny calm harbor reminiscent of a child’s bathtub filled with toy boats. Both the hilltop elevation and seaside access provide breathtaking vantage points.</span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mixH3_7zRxzn4Jx2PD84L-a1Rc2JeyS2WApte0-Gtp4fB9TqVdCHkWnGqld7UD2CYe5ZBtLshmd6fYuz7HznrviIf2uy5zIruycgW5xJ_6pZ9-vQs3Pc8LnIOkZpQnjQpi-fRtntGm0/s1600/overhead+of+boats+upload+jpg+IMG_4195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mixH3_7zRxzn4Jx2PD84L-a1Rc2JeyS2WApte0-Gtp4fB9TqVdCHkWnGqld7UD2CYe5ZBtLshmd6fYuz7HznrviIf2uy5zIruycgW5xJ_6pZ9-vQs3Pc8LnIOkZpQnjQpi-fRtntGm0/s1600/overhead+of+boats+upload+jpg+IMG_4195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mixH3_7zRxzn4Jx2PD84L-a1Rc2JeyS2WApte0-Gtp4fB9TqVdCHkWnGqld7UD2CYe5ZBtLshmd6fYuz7HznrviIf2uy5zIruycgW5xJ_6pZ9-vQs3Pc8LnIOkZpQnjQpi-fRtntGm0/s320/overhead+of+boats+upload+jpg+IMG_4195.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">With the exception of five or six tourists, on this particular day the little village sits lifeless, like a perfectly outfitted movie set anticipating the arrival of the actors and film crew. A side street waits patiently for the Hollywood scouts scouring Italy for locations to double as scenes for a remake of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It Started in Naples</i>. I look down the alleys to catch a glimpse of Clark Gable in shirt sleeves, suit jacket slung over his arm. I look into doorways in hopes to catch a peek of Sophia Loren wearing Italian housewife garb, circa 1960, using a straw boom to sweep dust out onto the street. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQqJD2svE_KKytnxTGpHoeCEHiOejMlKBlal2rF5haIZRtYqsTHY9TfKIRVC6HMYoLqRzhG4_Ix4kDAKeSk29FFu7suJXmOnlTL9oXp4cQCwANSAXuA6aEh1UpHMLNxqhxOy48Nzgsdg/s1600/restaurant+with+dry+docked+boats+jpg+upload++IMG_4169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQqJD2svE_KKytnxTGpHoeCEHiOejMlKBlal2rF5haIZRtYqsTHY9TfKIRVC6HMYoLqRzhG4_Ix4kDAKeSk29FFu7suJXmOnlTL9oXp4cQCwANSAXuA6aEh1UpHMLNxqhxOy48Nzgsdg/s320/restaurant+with+dry+docked+boats+jpg+upload++IMG_4169.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hey Mister,” I think I hear from the next block and look to see if Nando, a preteen boy, is begging for cigarettes as in the movie. “Hey Mister, I carry your bag,” I imagine him saying, grinning and nodding his head. There is no one there, but I have a vivid imagination fueled by the big screen and my travels. My folks brought me to Italy when I was eight. I was mesmerized and, as a hyper-impressionable child, I absorbed the colors of the real and celluloid scenes of Italy to be used later as the backdrop for my adult life.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyfnBvd_cIWcOopw6FZkHr4VSanRd-BZZxyUXc7KsI9H8W742yz0hpidAaDrF7GPXkikMDbb9xcPzrBz4jZk4W63hEOZB_XjOvYmlwu0Kx-FlS7WNdqlvF7oTCotvWzECgkEBYb6MTI-E/s1600/pink+building+full+frame+jpg+upload+IMG_4235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyfnBvd_cIWcOopw6FZkHr4VSanRd-BZZxyUXc7KsI9H8W742yz0hpidAaDrF7GPXkikMDbb9xcPzrBz4jZk4W63hEOZB_XjOvYmlwu0Kx-FlS7WNdqlvF7oTCotvWzECgkEBYb6MTI-E/s320/pink+building+full+frame+jpg+upload+IMG_4235.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Visiting Riomaggiore is a déjà vu experience. I’ve been here before, if not to the streets of this exact village then to the purposeful streets of another where my lazy meandering turns the scrapbook pages of the towns which draw breath from the sea air and where the sun functions as a camera flash. Here time stands still: brightly painted row boats and stacks of pastel buildings instinctively know how to pose for photos. The abundance of everyday props, in the way of small fishing boats and fishing paraphernalia, reinforce the fact that there is nothing pretentious about this painter’s pallet of a town – there is no time to be pretentious while tending to the daily chores. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6znfwDeu6wZInwGbfkKPBu8lCM4K65A2meUZq22Xgfn1CcgwD9NYUxWGXhFcp6U_auLX3v7fdUXPmYNWioecWNMdtvg0DZG6AmV6YewbdA_Vaa5_4x-lpDXR1efsyAlQr8mThndhnGQ8/s1600/spaghetti+lady+full+frame+jpg+upload+IMG_4225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6znfwDeu6wZInwGbfkKPBu8lCM4K65A2meUZq22Xgfn1CcgwD9NYUxWGXhFcp6U_auLX3v7fdUXPmYNWioecWNMdtvg0DZG6AmV6YewbdA_Vaa5_4x-lpDXR1efsyAlQr8mThndhnGQ8/s200/spaghetti+lady+full+frame+jpg+upload+IMG_4225.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The absence of people, on one hand, causes the heart pounding excitement of taking a private behind-the-scenes tour and on the other causes the queasy uneasy feeling of walking through a ghost town. Up another street, laundry dries on clothes lines hanging innocently over the heads of tourists. In the quiet, even leather sandals sound loud brushing against the cobble stones and the air whooshes with a thickness like walking through veils of sheer curtains. Although, everything appears to be in stop action, left exactly as it was when the heat of the day forced a mass retreat from the streets, the boats bobbing in the water and the wet sheets flapping in the breeze offer every indication that human beings lurk behind the thick paint-peeled walls. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfQWKkUt-nT9UoK8dBzJaXMExmIFGiT-W9DQcmwL5KpnRZBII1K9TNNGysYEGG6QdqEeDunstoshGg_K0h2MNHH_NAsaPoFCTeRxzM0CbEyb9z6LuHIuWYu8y5HlABEPHdzdHpClYsnA/s1600/mural+full+frame+upload+IMG_4209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfQWKkUt-nT9UoK8dBzJaXMExmIFGiT-W9DQcmwL5KpnRZBII1K9TNNGysYEGG6QdqEeDunstoshGg_K0h2MNHH_NAsaPoFCTeRxzM0CbEyb9z6LuHIuWYu8y5HlABEPHdzdHpClYsnA/s400/mural+full+frame+upload+IMG_4209.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On the hill I find signs of activity. A lady holding the spaghetti-like curtain at the entry to the butcher shop could have been the inspiration for Sophia Loren’s movie character. Higher on the hill, and o</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">ff the beaten track, there is a piazza where a few townspeople gather and older children play. A huge mural covers the entire side of a building; it has a man with the face at least 6’ tall. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyFu1PaQWdki-EeNUA1cC_qK9UmHQ_W6O_KzD-IdsDmTqB8xrDVAedPssEKlW7g4vYwdJuzqDzj-ugKbbXDC021Eo4FAlUWO9fkTjw48uYIIg44R5RbgupgMxshS-RhGZnyCxK3v47yQ/s1600/kids+bikes+jpg+upload+IMG_4207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyFu1PaQWdki-EeNUA1cC_qK9UmHQ_W6O_KzD-IdsDmTqB8xrDVAedPssEKlW7g4vYwdJuzqDzj-ugKbbXDC021Eo4FAlUWO9fkTjw48uYIIg44R5RbgupgMxshS-RhGZnyCxK3v47yQ/s320/kids+bikes+jpg+upload+IMG_4207.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Between the children counting coins on the steps and the larger than life artwork, there are signs of younger children. I snap a photo of a still life I call “Bikes with Training Wheels Abandoned at Naptime.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The photo is part of the invitational show entitled “The Art of the Bicycle” at the Milk Gallery in Sacramento, CA. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbEf95aKx1XRY5E40u2R5_kCTKQ7xwpOp4sWK0jH1T1gEkjo7C2NC_TsfLsLRJn99bPUTCOZFqrsyyM7zSJWsyoXW8dZLU2MG8_WgV33We_uExG7U9zq_zSInR_QXmTabD1vCEEhie7E/s1600/teens+on+steps+jpg+upload+IMG_4193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbEf95aKx1XRY5E40u2R5_kCTKQ7xwpOp4sWK0jH1T1gEkjo7C2NC_TsfLsLRJn99bPUTCOZFqrsyyM7zSJWsyoXW8dZLU2MG8_WgV33We_uExG7U9zq_zSInR_QXmTabD1vCEEhie7E/s320/teens+on+steps+jpg+upload+IMG_4193.jpg" width="251" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the day rolls on, I’m just happy to linger in an outdoor café, savoring the fresh catch of the day, sipping a glass of the local</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> sweet wine called Sciacchetrà, and listening to </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the soft shuffle of rope soled shoes as the fishermen drift up the cobbles toward the hilltop train station. I’ve heard stories of tourists caught up in the calm of Riomaggiore and missing the last departing train. Next trip, I plan to be one of those people hypnotized by the easiness of the solitude in this little fishing village built in the river’s gorge. </span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hear a whistle and look over the rim of my wine glass to the street. “Hey Lady,” says the young boy in a red cap who I saw earlier counting coins, “I carry your bag.”</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes,” I respond impulsively as if playing a role in that 1960s movie. I’ll catch a train tomorrow… or maybe I’ll just stay here and paint.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">……………………….</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Side note: A trivia site on the internet mentions that the young boy who played Nando in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It Started in Naples</i> was born Carlo Angeletti or Marietto Angeletti and a</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ccording to director Fred Zinnemann's 1992 autobiography, Marietto, who also appeared in Zinnemann's "Behold a Pale Horse", grew up to become a physician in Italy.</span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-42569024527157327452011-12-31T19:35:00.000-08:002012-01-01T21:04:07.338-08:00Wanted: Travel Scribe with Markers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C1ExsRWpZ78/Tv-j5S-XvwI/AAAAAAAAApo/JFx5FYa36Zk/s1600/human+thinkerIMG_0674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C1ExsRWpZ78/Tv-j5S-XvwI/AAAAAAAAApo/JFx5FYa36Zk/s400/human+thinkerIMG_0674.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At the end of the year, I spend a lot of time thinking and reflecting on the unexpected that happened in the previous year - the “markers” as my friend Lynn calls them. Incidents in your life that imprint you, not like a calendar or a clock marks time, but an activity or maybe even just a thought that impacts you in such a way that your life is changed from that point forward. This discussion came up over the topic of certifications and awards. The physical certificate or trophy being the marker of recognition and no matter how recently you were proclaimed the winner, or how far removed you are from that time and place, or whatever you did to achieve the recognition... its existence is a “marker” of excellence. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UkflXhqlWyw/Tv-kAfpxe1I/AAAAAAAAAp0/YJolh3UcstI/s1600/Sketch+artist+IMG_0465.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UkflXhqlWyw/Tv-kAfpxe1I/AAAAAAAAAp0/YJolh3UcstI/s200/Sketch+artist+IMG_0465.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I slyly scoot by the unpleasant markers of 2011, trying only to ponder those episodes as learning experiences, and move by the pleasant markers with equal speed, knowing that I've already basked in the glory for an extended period of time. My primary focus on is hope. I always hope the next year brings wonderful eye-opening experiences and I hope I’ve learned enough from the rough times behind me to confront those ahead. I have no doubt that there will be lots of surprises in 2012.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D01tFqP5rD0/Tv-kmRgQEHI/AAAAAAAAAqY/uS9CbDI0qxc/s1600/cathedral+door+cleaner+IMG_1857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D01tFqP5rD0/Tv-kmRgQEHI/AAAAAAAAAqY/uS9CbDI0qxc/s400/cathedral+door+cleaner+IMG_1857.jpg" width="317" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S5xROoQ4nLg/Tv-kXmWfb2I/AAAAAAAAAqM/ql2rRDJioZc/s1600/Cropped+Bell+tower+ringer+IMG_0200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S5xROoQ4nLg/Tv-kXmWfb2I/AAAAAAAAAqM/ql2rRDJioZc/s400/Cropped+Bell+tower+ringer+IMG_0200.jpg" width="223" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Something I always consider is my personal growth in the work aspect of my life. In high school I wanted to own a motel or work on a train. In college I started out as a journalism major, but saw that the cool students hung in the art department. In adult life I owned a handmade clothing store, a public relations firm, and then settled into special events, my natural niche. I never had a job with an easy one word description where the profession indicates what you do - like a lawyer, teacher, doctor, or chef. Even when I told people I was an artist, they said, “You’re a what?” in a tone as if asking if it was contagious, or sometimes they’d say, “An arborist - do you know my uncle, he works in Golden Gate Park.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAZLkOzA_K0/Tv-kyFOboQI/AAAAAAAAAqk/6kMKYuFL_3c/s1600/Paparazzi+IMG_0176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAZLkOzA_K0/Tv-kyFOboQI/AAAAAAAAAqk/6kMKYuFL_3c/s320/Paparazzi+IMG_0176.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At gatherings where I am a stranger, another stranger often asks that fatal question, “What do you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m a professional event designer and producer,” I respond.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh, I see,” they’d reply and then ask, “So what do you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I design and produce events.” I’d repeat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gT35ptSlkJQ/Tv-k_ZLh0hI/AAAAAAAAAqw/Ed46IahPlPA/s1600/Chalk+artist+IMG_4667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gT35ptSlkJQ/Tv-k_ZLh0hI/AAAAAAAAAqw/Ed46IahPlPA/s400/Chalk+artist+IMG_4667.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Usually their face remains blank and thinking I might snap them into the moment and catch their attention, I’d add, “I win international awards.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d think I would know better, but no<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>–<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they didn’t get it the first or second time, and no variety of changes or additions to the words will cause them to understand how a person could be in the business of special events. I might then try <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the shortest resume</i>, "President,” a position I have held on several occasions, but really, who cares about a title. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So where’s this all going – to jobs and titles... during my public relations years, my office was in a building with a law firm. I often found myself perusing the newspaper classified ads for interesting sounding jobs. One that caught my attention was “Skip Tracer.” I liked the sound of the words as they played off each other. I liked the mystery of recognizing each word independently, but not together. One day the private investigator looked over my shoulder and asked, “Why are you reading the classified ads for jobs?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u1Ejse-XWT0/Tv-lIJq5b0I/AAAAAAAAAq8/BiVUO2Krq1A/s1600/Nine+and+a+half_0366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u1Ejse-XWT0/Tv-lIJq5b0I/AAAAAAAAAq8/BiVUO2Krq1A/s320/Nine+and+a+half_0366.jpg" width="171" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Just dreaming,” I said. “I don’t know what they are, I just like how they sound."<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“How what sounds?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“The names of the jobs,” I said. “Like skip tracer. I’ve seen a lot of jobs for a skip tracer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The PI was quiet and then asked, “Do you know what a skip tracer is?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“No,” I replied, “I just like the sound of it. Skip-tracer," I whispered. "And it says high pay, no experience necessary.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">(At this point in the story we’ll leave out the part about me eventually dating him, him carrying a pistol in his boot, and always sitting with his back to a wall and face to a door, and we’ll move on to the current job titles that fascinate me.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jU1YNpjay6M/Tv-lYihivBI/AAAAAAAAArU/axxQ7P7NyUo/s1600/Human+statue+IMG_0237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jU1YNpjay6M/Tv-lYihivBI/AAAAAAAAArU/axxQ7P7NyUo/s320/Human+statue+IMG_0237.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AwjJqqO7P08/Tv-nS9nteOI/AAAAAAAAAr4/GiqGuJtnt9Y/s1600/Human+statue+with+friend+IMG_0232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AwjJqqO7P08/Tv-nS9nteOI/AAAAAAAAAr4/GiqGuJtnt9Y/s320/Human+statue+with+friend+IMG_0232.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Spending time in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region> continues to reveal lots of new job possibilities. There are cobblers, window dressers, pasta makers, book binders, fish merchants, bakers, and craftsmen. I could get a job as a chalk artist, or street musician... or maybe a human statue by the Uffizi, a paparazzi, or a bell ringer in a really high tower. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A movie director might discover me leaning against a lamp post and give me a role as a street walker in a Felini-esque film, or I could pose nude for a sculptor as he chiseled a marble bust, or maybe I could climb up on the scaffold to polish the cathedral doors. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e9gUnbaNds8/Tv-lpr1aC5I/AAAAAAAAArs/wCAZyPaMXmE/s1600/female+violin+player+IMG_4712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e9gUnbaNds8/Tv-lpr1aC5I/AAAAAAAAArs/wCAZyPaMXmE/s400/female+violin+player+IMG_4712.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As we exit 2011, interesting job titles recently advertised on the internet include: Master Resiliency Trainer, Fit Tester, 100% Chinese Egg Donor, Part-time Sperm Donor, <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Lego® Engineering Instructor,</span> and Relief Manager. But, the job I really want is Travel Scribe. Hey, I can travel and I can scribe (if those are the credentials needed.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moses was a travel scribe; Marc Antony certainly had a scribe recording his trysts with Cleopatra; Lewis and Clark had scribes on the wagon train, but I'm not seeing any current job opportunities for travel scribes, much less travel scribes with markers. Just imagine, how cool would it be to travel and have someone record you trip – ok it wouldn’t be exactly how you remember the experience, but that would make it all the more fun – a travel scribe could transform that “not pasta again meal”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to sound new and fresh every time. Or maybe I could be a travel scribe for a company to excite people about visiting a particular country or interest them in taking a particular tour – face it – the folks who write travel brochures are writers… they’re not scribes… they don’t let you feel the stickiness of the damp clay soil underfoot, or see the rising reddened bulge on your ankle from a toxic insect bite, or even smell the springtime air, thick with the lemon perfume of the Femminello Ovale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tq9T1q_T0Qg/Tv-lifb06AI/AAAAAAAAArg/VYk3JJtX-0o/s1600/ingrid%2527s+1971+painting+IMG_6133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tq9T1q_T0Qg/Tv-lifb06AI/AAAAAAAAArg/VYk3JJtX-0o/s400/ingrid%2527s+1971+painting+IMG_6133.jpg" width="380" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hello 2012</i> – as I set my sights on the future – what surprises do you have in store for my two one-word answers to the question, “What do you do?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Depending on the crowd, I might answer “writer” or “photographer” and I'd add freelance just to let them know I was available. Never would I dare say “photojournalist” because even though it’s just one word - I can already hear the response… “Oh, photosynthesis – yes," and then they’d smile that all-knowing smile and add, “Do you like it?” or worse yet, “How long have you been doing it?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-85075602832094283782011-12-24T17:00:00.000-08:002011-12-24T17:00:33.425-08:00Nativity for the Common Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-78nTOYx8gKc/TvZidy-QFZI/AAAAAAAAAYw/PD77-__m2hc/s1600/cropped+navity+with+sponges+IMG_0504+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-78nTOYx8gKc/TvZidy-QFZI/AAAAAAAAAYw/PD77-__m2hc/s320/cropped+navity+with+sponges+IMG_0504+%25281%2529.jpg" width="198" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iSn2G9BfBes/TvZkE745-PI/AAAAAAAAAbU/QEUH3cgFx1E/s1600/Three+wise+men+CIMG2073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iSn2G9BfBes/TvZkE745-PI/AAAAAAAAAbU/QEUH3cgFx1E/s320/Three+wise+men+CIMG2073.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rs-JDpkL0e4/TvZng3jbWNI/AAAAAAAAAdA/mJ8AEkM20UE/s1600/BG+nativity+IMG_6114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rs-JDpkL0e4/TvZng3jbWNI/AAAAAAAAAdA/mJ8AEkM20UE/s320/BG+nativity+IMG_6114.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As a child, I remember a spot light shining on a manger next to life size painted plywood cut-outs of people by the entrance to our church. At home, Mom placed three 12”candles shaped like the wise men on the buffet near the decorated tree. These were indications of the Christmas season. We didn’t have a “crèche,” which now I understand to mean a set (like a stage set) on which the nativity figures were placed, so I didn’t practice telling and retelling the story of the nativity while positioning the miniature dolls and animals into the scene. As an adult, I notice nativity scenes in December when blinking lights outline the rooftops and on front yards, the molded plastic father, mother and baby glow from inside. This year was different as my first nativity sighting occurred on July 6th when I opened the cabinet door under the sink at Aldo, 17 Ricasoli, Florence, IT. Accompanied by a sleeve of unused colored sponges, the crèche (complete with glued down Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, and some animals) rested peacefully beneath silver drain pipes. I took finding the “Nativity Scene with Sponges” as an omen of good things to come. I did not know at the time that my mission for the 2011 holiday season would turn into a search for the nativity scene representing the common man.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PZ99fQh9EGU/TvZpHjGhsII/AAAAAAAAAdk/wCNI9-HvzSE/s1600/Crech+cropped+3-D+IMG_0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PZ99fQh9EGU/TvZpHjGhsII/AAAAAAAAAdk/wCNI9-HvzSE/s320/Crech+cropped+3-D+IMG_0026.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_lyc7_xGxWs/TvZok6sZu_I/AAAAAAAAAdY/thvNFh0bFNs/s1600/ornament+creche+Torngren+IMG_6127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_lyc7_xGxWs/TvZok6sZu_I/AAAAAAAAAdY/thvNFh0bFNs/s320/ornament+creche+Torngren+IMG_6127.jpg" width="248" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rf6CUtFFP2E/TvZoC3AvYNI/AAAAAAAAAdM/ZIcAdLxTSBc/s1600/Sue%2527s+plaster+creche+IMG_0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rf6CUtFFP2E/TvZoC3AvYNI/AAAAAAAAAdM/ZIcAdLxTSBc/s200/Sue%2527s+plaster+creche+IMG_0028.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0fdo3S6SgIc/TvZlkWNdZII/AAAAAAAAAb4/7iNYwsHNgRI/s1600/Jackies+favorite+creche+IMG_6126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0fdo3S6SgIc/TvZlkWNdZII/AAAAAAAAAb4/7iNYwsHNgRI/s200/Jackies+favorite+creche+IMG_6126.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Near my home, at the Church of the Latter Day Saints, there is an annual display of nativity scenes. I had never seen it so this year, with camera in hand, I stopped by to snap some photos. At the entrance, I learned photos were only allowed of the choir and family photos, so my camera went back in the car and I went inside. More than 400 nativity scenes were displayed on draped tables throughout the church. Some were ornate as if made by a master craftsman, others childlike. All had a baby with his parents and beyond that, the scenes grew to contain as many as 60 to 75 figurines and props from animals and palm trees to bridges and ox carts. The largest scenes were life size and the smallest would fit easily in a measuring cup. They were carved from mother of pearl, exotic wood, stone, metal, bone, and drift wood. They were crafted from buttons, wash cloths, cut tin, glass, wire, beads, and one of my favorites was made of tightly rolled paper. </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m45tHltNwGM/TvZpftCChdI/AAAAAAAAAdw/MQmsqCb3V08/s1600/the+pilgrimage+IMG_5965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m45tHltNwGM/TvZpftCChdI/AAAAAAAAAdw/MQmsqCb3V08/s320/the+pilgrimage+IMG_5965.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">They were sewn of patchwork fabric, hand embroidered, machine stitched, crocheted, and cut of felt. They were painted, molded, glued, formed of modeling clay and assembled with Legos. A tree was covered with nativity ornaments and there was a collector series of porcelain figures, the type you might find in a stationary store. One scene was intricately carved inside a section of a tree branch and next to it, a set of painted egg shapes nestled one egg inside the other. Several crèches were mounted on hinged sides that closed into a storage box. In the corner of one room was a four foot tall 3-D landscape complete with fish swimming in a pond and an electronic star filled sky. Many of the displays had cherubs, people and animals, all with elongated necks representing the artistic style of their country of origin. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LsA3wetJqLk/TvZprm4U4XI/AAAAAAAAAd8/b0JWX5uu5TM/s1600/cresch+round+on+wall+IMG_0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LsA3wetJqLk/TvZprm4U4XI/AAAAAAAAAd8/b0JWX5uu5TM/s320/cresch+round+on+wall+IMG_0021.jpg" width="282" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In the main hall, local children’s choirs sang as people of all ages, economic backgrounds, and races wandered through the display filled rooms. Tears unexpectedly filled my eyes when I peeked into a tiny room barely larger than a coat closet, which had been transformed into a stable. “Try this on,” said the lady shepherd passing tunics to a young man and his wife. “Place your baby here in the manger,” she said adjusting the husband’s headpiece and motioning them to sit on the bales of hay. The next family in line had already been handed the young couple’s camera and took photos of the costumed family in the Bible story setting. (Now I understood what the greeter meant by "family photos.") In the South American room, colorful tissue flowers and shiny ornaments hung from the ceiling. In another room, the walls were covered with a black silhouette of an ancient Middle Eastern skyline and a short video reenactment of the nativity played on a loop on a big TV set. There was no charge for the viewing and although I felt it was a shame I couldn’t take photos, I would probably have had to be pulled away while the event was being dismantled, saying “But I need to take more photos!” I was mesmerized by the variety of sculptural pieces from 50 countries as I asked myself, “How did they all know the same story?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lQDEhJmCmto/TvZsGr25kwI/AAAAAAAAAe4/5zmw9Te54GY/s1600/Nativity+neon+sign++IMG_6044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lQDEhJmCmto/TvZsGr25kwI/AAAAAAAAAe4/5zmw9Te54GY/s320/Nativity+neon+sign++IMG_6044.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bU-XEeCK3Wg/TvZr5Rkl2EI/AAAAAAAAAes/WY-J3oJpHsw/s1600/vehicle+signs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bU-XEeCK3Wg/TvZr5Rkl2EI/AAAAAAAAAes/WY-J3oJpHsw/s320/vehicle+signs.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WQsgBsKhUfA/TvZrhQ72d_I/AAAAAAAAAeU/3CY4DwpbOSM/s1600/Pastor+Jon+IMG_6057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WQsgBsKhUfA/TvZrhQ72d_I/AAAAAAAAAeU/3CY4DwpbOSM/s320/Pastor+Jon+IMG_6057.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Reading has always been a challenge for me, but overload me with visuals and I’m happy... hence, the drive-through nativity staged by the local 7<sup>th</sup> Day Adventist Church was the next activity on my quest. When it was my turn in line, I rolled down my window and a man named Jon (the pastor at the church in shepherd garb holding a warm cup of soup – did I mention it was 38 degrees outside), welcomed me as well as all the cars in front and behind me. Next another shepherd helped me turn my car headlights to parking lights. Then a woman and her son, dressed as townsfolk, took the census, “How many people in your car and how did you learn about this.” I’m sure her son looks forward to one day playing the role of the innkeeper or a wise man. Finally another shepherd handed me a CD and explained that the CD would tell the story of each scene and indicate when it was time to drive to the next scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-po4esppbY9o/TvZs9DDlTEI/AAAAAAAAAfk/ATyeCPiC-Lo/s1600/Angel+with+___+and+sphinxIMG_6059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-po4esppbY9o/TvZs9DDlTEI/AAAAAAAAAfk/ATyeCPiC-Lo/s320/Angel+with+___+and+sphinxIMG_6059.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k_GyxAYQsPI/TvZs1WxxIEI/AAAAAAAAAfY/HNxhOrhuGqQ/s1600/ANgel+with+star+of+bethlehem+in+the+background+IMG_6067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k_GyxAYQsPI/TvZs1WxxIEI/AAAAAAAAAfY/HNxhOrhuGqQ/s320/ANgel+with+star+of+bethlehem+in+the+background+IMG_6067.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Like the Duomo, against the darkness of the nighttime sky, the vignettes shown as brightly colored pages from a child’s picture book. The sets glowed with just the right amount of theatrical lighting and just the right amount of wind and fog to make each scene believable. The flat backdrops and draped curtains were simple in form and, graciously accepted shadows cast upon them by the movement of the actors. Camels, sheep, donkeys, and roosters performing in unscripted roles provided the added touch to bring the scenes to life. Painted billowing canvas created the cave-like space containing the nativity scene. It was very much like the actual birthing cave in Bethlehem that I saw when I was 27 when my mom, dad and I went to Israel. <span style="font-size: small;">Wher</span>e the baby was born in the stable was a confined space, a small cave. Instead of the closeness making me feel too large like Alice in Wonderland, I felt quite tiny. If I had been there at the actual birth, I imagine I would have fit into the little hand of the newborn baby Jesus. <span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2C98RdOnbxE/TvZxvw0h3_I/AAAAAAAAAiA/RpjPj-UUFQI/s1600/The+Innkeepers+IMG_6071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2C98RdOnbxE/TvZxvw0h3_I/AAAAAAAAAiA/RpjPj-UUFQI/s200/The+Innkeepers+IMG_6071.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5X6RVuq7AUc/TvZwvjDO9iI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/iDf2kfwFi64/s1600/Fields+outside+Bethlehem+with+shapherds+IMG_6075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5X6RVuq7AUc/TvZwvjDO9iI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/iDf2kfwFi64/s320/Fields+outside+Bethlehem+with+shapherds+IMG_6075.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pKJzBCNIHoo/TvZuUqNROII/AAAAAAAAAf8/8cGofwOQ-oY/s1600/No+Room+at+the+Inn+IMG_6072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pKJzBCNIHoo/TvZuUqNROII/AAAAAAAAAf8/8cGofwOQ-oY/s200/No+Room+at+the+Inn+IMG_6072.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I visited neighbors the next day and mentioned how impressed I was with the staging and props, and how the cars dimmed their lights and it really felt like a private showing, and that maybe now I was beginning to understand the nativity story. The conversation was not interactive, just me recalling in elaborate detail the drive-through experience, complete with a weather report on the temperature and a short commentary about what the pastor might have worn under the shepherd outfit. Bill’s head tilted down as he looked over his half glasses reading the Sunday paper; Jeanette hummed as she wrapped holiday sweets in the kitchen; and Jennifer sat by the fireplace with her feet on an ottoman, hand stitching a very large needle point. I jabbered on describing the life size sets one by one, “And there was a real camel, and sheep, and at the end there was heaven and it was all foggy and there was with a band of angels with white-mittened hands standing on a truckload-of-cotton-balls cloud and blowing songs of praise out their horns, and then an exit sign.”</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MiZt62rAaVs/TvZx7e-kMAI/AAAAAAAAAiM/-JLt15uG1R0/s1600/Angel+at+exitIMG_6108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MiZt62rAaVs/TvZx7e-kMAI/AAAAAAAAAiM/-JLt15uG1R0/s200/Angel+at+exitIMG_6108.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Ah,” said Jennifer without skipping a stitch, “the back door to heaven.” </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cdWmbDlxDvw/TvZyoNGFv_I/AAAAAAAAAiY/QMuicyR-Zow/s1600/Joseph%252C+Mary+and+Baby+Jesus+MG_6082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cdWmbDlxDvw/TvZyoNGFv_I/AAAAAAAAAiY/QMuicyR-Zow/s320/Joseph%252C+Mary+and+Baby+Jesus+MG_6082.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The CD continued after the tour was over which gave me something to listen to on the ride home. Pastor Jon talked about how much his church liked to stage the free drive-through nativity scene and he said something I had never heard put into words before, “Think of it – how could a Jew of humble birth who lived only 33 ½ years, never went to college, who never traveled more than 200 miles from his birth place, never wrote a book, and who when he died possessed nothing but the clothes he wore, have influenced the societies and the cultures of the world so profoundly that time itself is divided before and after his birth. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">And that brings this story of my search for the “Nativity for the Common Man” to a close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, I was intrigued by the interpretation of artists from around the world as they recreated the story of a man whose wife had a baby in a stable on a star lit night in Bethlehem many, many years ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy Holidays to all – may you each find the nativity story presented in manner that speaks to you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-23861395699032585812011-12-10T20:16:00.000-08:002011-12-10T20:35:46.070-08:00Canon and the International Organization of Postcard Image Pickers (IOPIP)<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz31pYeXfiO-kqF2NX8zGftL4kK2o-YmqdMjjgoYKAWerygiJ6qso2f6hmgBSbVZTB9T-LT3FOwKsM6iCc5zlsHM74xbX5x0IHPm_IiGMrKU2PQXMwLAfEJFJNoxgKI_fugkUK_Hxp2j0/s1600/Weeding+at+DeYoung+jpg+upload+IMG_5511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz31pYeXfiO-kqF2NX8zGftL4kK2o-YmqdMjjgoYKAWerygiJ6qso2f6hmgBSbVZTB9T-LT3FOwKsM6iCc5zlsHM74xbX5x0IHPm_IiGMrKU2PQXMwLAfEJFJNoxgKI_fugkUK_Hxp2j0/s400/Weeding+at+DeYoung+jpg+upload+IMG_5511.jpg" width="317" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Photo left: "Weeding the Palms" 2011, volunteer gardeners on a Monday at the de Young Museum, San Francisco, CA </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 7.5pt;">..................................................................................................</span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the United States during the 1950s, a popular means of vacationing was the road trip. My family lived in Northern California and we made the eight hour drive to Southern California to visit my aunt and uncle who owned a candy factory in Palm Springs. Pop packed the trunk of our Chrysler New Yorker with suitcases and wedged a green Coleman cooler filled with sandwiches on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Between her feet, Mom balanced a tan metal thermos of steaming Hills Bros. coffee, which they drank from red plastic cups at the highway rest stops. Pop announced our seating positions – even though they always started out the same – and we were off on an adventure. The last stop before hitting the open road was the gas station where the attendant filled the tank, washed all the car windows, and waved goodbye as the sedan pulled away. We weren’t even out of town when my brother and I started singing television commercial jingles, the predecessor to calling out road signs, spotting convertibles, and collecting postcards from roadside attractions. <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-TKtGpuSeFmlhHbsD6UkhvSPs-PsksF0dE4g8zoSVCmgVzoH_MadVTQjnWBCJ4C7wgIbi8GpFdi02gbgMunjADxaI8VQhQ7Opd9iSoXKIIO9IxpmIECUUD-AvU9fPPs9hyphenhyphenH7NmKFKU0/s1600/palm+tree+and+Duomo+IMG_1410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-TKtGpuSeFmlhHbsD6UkhvSPs-PsksF0dE4g8zoSVCmgVzoH_MadVTQjnWBCJ4C7wgIbi8GpFdi02gbgMunjADxaI8VQhQ7Opd9iSoXKIIO9IxpmIECUUD-AvU9fPPs9hyphenhyphenH7NmKFKU0/s400/palm+tree+and+Duomo+IMG_1410.jpg" width="120" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As in Italy, or probably anywhere except the Sahara desert, when you travel on land for eight hours the scenery changes. Southern California didn’t have big buildings in a financial district or cable cars or the Golden Gate Bridge like San Francisco, but it had its own icons – gigantic palm trees. Some lined both sides of long country driveways and some stood at attention in large groups like a platoon of restless soldiers. Other palms clustered four or five together in an Oasis setting where their wide green fronds blew in the breeze as if shaking their hair dry from an early morning swim. There was something awe-inspiring about these trees. They were larger than life and as child, I wondered if they would grow to touch the heaven, their fronds overlapping into a cushioned carpet for the angels. In the barren Southern California landscape, the palm tree served as the icon of the bottom half of the state: its likeness was found in every postcard rack right next to the other So.CA iconic images of oil wells, grapefruit trees, bathing beauties on the coastal beaches, and odd roadside attractions like a life size cement dinosaur and the giant orange – a juice stand that no father could drive by without hearing shrieks of horror from the kids he thought were asleep in the back seat. The 1950s postcards had an unusual look as if the images were not real, not actual photos, but they were. They looked old and although clear in focus, they seemed muted or slightly distorted. Maybe this had something to do with the printing process, the paper stock, or maybe it was a design trend. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1oWDgZ0J8gDrndgFuvPz4NO_0hRVKY-7ZMM-fjdpmgvarch8Ts44ZKwAofBzuh1JHqy2OkJMueaZlWAaYchkGlRbBq5Y5PXsFWsAZNwJk_t22xdQoXHX9UacwJtslTBesytBTSZNq3HM/s1600/City+of+Florence+long+shot+from+St+Mineato+jpg+upload++IMG_1410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1oWDgZ0J8gDrndgFuvPz4NO_0hRVKY-7ZMM-fjdpmgvarch8Ts44ZKwAofBzuh1JHqy2OkJMueaZlWAaYchkGlRbBq5Y5PXsFWsAZNwJk_t22xdQoXHX9UacwJtslTBesytBTSZNq3HM/s320/City+of+Florence+long+shot+from+St+Mineato+jpg+upload++IMG_1410.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before the postal rates rise in the United States in January, I submit my photo (volunteer gardeners on a Monday morning at the deYoung Museum) to the Postcard Makers Image Advisory Board in hopes to be placed in the annals of favorite postcard images under the category of <em>looks-like-an-old-postcard</em>. “Weeding the Palms,” has been selected from 385 entries to be in a juried show of 78 photographs called "Parallel" at the Viewpoint Gallery in Sacramento. The show opens today, Saturday, December 10, 2011 and the photographs will be on display through Saturday, January 7, 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (see <a href="http://www.viewpointgallery.org/"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">www.viewpointgallery.org</span></a> 2015 J Street</span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, Sacramento, CA 95811-3124) </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjls7rRKZQWDBRdVQog0jOAQccru6zLvlz_t0BXApCaQS4d4FvnBMwl7Tzbv0hjyf4QXISPSKRQsJo2pjewQnGuXGCFSZYCFGNJuiUuIcVTTS2bdDIFCPRx2Cv2jiE5O-W5XL_HcqyEEhs/s1600/Duomo+dome+detail+jpg+upload+IMG_4823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjls7rRKZQWDBRdVQog0jOAQccru6zLvlz_t0BXApCaQS4d4FvnBMwl7Tzbv0hjyf4QXISPSKRQsJo2pjewQnGuXGCFSZYCFGNJuiUuIcVTTS2bdDIFCPRx2Cv2jiE5O-W5XL_HcqyEEhs/s320/Duomo+dome+detail+jpg+upload+IMG_4823.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6onmeP6V_-idjr0oKckYYH1jaM6CFQReqRQHUTPFHz63SGNup20k6nMWPAH6VvH5fj09kYHiOoPEVyxSzZnfS-nKisnA7JARzM-O-U8hM3T7Bu4vkKoEEX8frnURy1LsxpUrPEFiFSVM/s1600/Duomo+daylight++jpg+upload+IMG_4809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6onmeP6V_-idjr0oKckYYH1jaM6CFQReqRQHUTPFHz63SGNup20k6nMWPAH6VvH5fj09kYHiOoPEVyxSzZnfS-nKisnA7JARzM-O-U8hM3T7Bu4vkKoEEX8frnURy1LsxpUrPEFiFSVM/s320/Duomo+daylight++jpg+upload+IMG_4809.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">People remarking that the palm tree image (taken with my not-so-big-camera-with-a-really-long-zoom, Canon SX30IS) resembled an old time postcard started me thinking about postcard photo images and the postcard as it relates to the travelers experience, and, the Canon (camera) recording the canon (journal) of the trip, and the artistic canon (icons) of the city. It turns out t<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">here are so many varied definitions and applications of the word canon that I decided to create my own – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the real deal </i>– that’s it plain and simple; genuine and honest examples of greatness in any given field requiring an artistic endeavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOU3AWpNXp6ivEKGzpE3BHE7CkykFLNHQZ8_aGmKgNjVDjEN1SRqC80HVhwqL5d73SrFCy-H5Epk64ixWI6gmJvY-W9ZBHhG1vBkg9JPkIFtaZmniolXN3ZJRg1B54WFwDGcD1Z71OKM/s1600/abstract+shot+Duomo+daylight+jpg+upload+IMG_1113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOU3AWpNXp6ivEKGzpE3BHE7CkykFLNHQZ8_aGmKgNjVDjEN1SRqC80HVhwqL5d73SrFCy-H5Epk64ixWI6gmJvY-W9ZBHhG1vBkg9JPkIFtaZmniolXN3ZJRg1B54WFwDGcD1Z71OKM/s320/abstract+shot+Duomo+daylight+jpg+upload+IMG_1113.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So, is there an International Organization of Postcard Image Pickers? Has some advisory board developed rules or a series of grading tips on how to pick the image that will appeal to the broadest audience? It seems that there is a universal similarity in the choices that reflect the heartbeat of cities around the world and that the knowledge of “the right image” is an unspoken canon (list of rules) in postcard land. For each city, there are six or seven mandatory shots. 1) a longshot that offers perspective of the placement of the city’s icon; 2) a closer look at the icon as a whole; 3) an isolated detail of a portion of the icon – all taken in best light, usually during the day; 4,5,6) the same or similar shots taken at night; 7) an optional shot taken from an unusual angle. The culmination is a composite postcard created using several city images with the name of the city on a banner. <span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWaurXrrg2FOHNCaC8-Qc4rHMB9hMUigx2x-CBjKC1H2mHT0WfFjoZzz593r9d8NlSwEGcF0h4M0TcgetmtZ1M357AL3aCg8_TsWp0L5NWw3rofKeLyhx26o22WUxhkfKEjOqXKiesoQE/s1600/Campanile+at+night+jpg+upload++IMG_1771.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWaurXrrg2FOHNCaC8-Qc4rHMB9hMUigx2x-CBjKC1H2mHT0WfFjoZzz593r9d8NlSwEGcF0h4M0TcgetmtZ1M357AL3aCg8_TsWp0L5NWw3rofKeLyhx26o22WUxhkfKEjOqXKiesoQE/s320/Campanile+at+night+jpg+upload++IMG_1771.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizh2YpMR8HbXD66jP1dBkXa2piIBDoPphCmeFsV4jiZlUutDOpahCKQabRugg32fyUHDGPrZfu6DDRsNZEqsFPC_DD-dVExWZHixTdEqck0ufwXgWd5dJkiER6PZzrlkcfNL86VmZzDCM/s1600/Duomo+at+night+jpy+upload++IMG_4838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizh2YpMR8HbXD66jP1dBkXa2piIBDoPphCmeFsV4jiZlUutDOpahCKQabRugg32fyUHDGPrZfu6DDRsNZEqsFPC_DD-dVExWZHixTdEqck0ufwXgWd5dJkiER6PZzrlkcfNL86VmZzDCM/s320/Duomo+at+night+jpy+upload++IMG_4838.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the Duomo at the English speaking Saturday Mass, the priest recites a canon from religious papers; in the Uffizi Museum the canon of artistic masterpieces graces the walls; and at the newsstands, the canon photos of Florence fill the racks with picture perfect images to send back home. Against a clear sky, the photos of the Duomo (the iconic church in Florence) looks like a sticker pasted onto blue construction paper, and at night against the darkness, the church takes on the role of giant theatrical prop… painted plywood, cut-out and staged in front of an indigo velvet backdrop. The crisp postcard images take on a “beyond reality” quality when applied to cardstock with a blank backside awaiting a stamp, an address, and a hand written note that most likely will be covered with postmarks rendering part of message illegible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But, yet, there is something undeniably sensual about holding a postcard. You often don’t know the name of the photographer and can only guess why he or she snapped the particular image, why the postcard company picked it from hundreds of options to print, why your special someone selected that specific card, and why you react with such joy when you see the image resting in your mail box, then magnetized to the frig, and finally pasted into a scrapbook or lost in the back of a drawer… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>only to make you smile with delight when you find it years later while cleaning out the dresser. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSJ592ZPe0n6fi1xEmGOuP9cjJ8Q6HTLKVW7a1ZqePDd8XrFtwwmDQ8re44zpY14B-H6TEDHLzHtdufiLvOPfTsouIl-Txw3a1gRNlTHo_BCZwXkt6or49n8OMJT1FSFPc3iTX2n2tl8/s1600/Duomo+with+cross+jpg+upload+IMG_2646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSJ592ZPe0n6fi1xEmGOuP9cjJ8Q6HTLKVW7a1ZqePDd8XrFtwwmDQ8re44zpY14B-H6TEDHLzHtdufiLvOPfTsouIl-Txw3a1gRNlTHo_BCZwXkt6or49n8OMJT1FSFPc3iTX2n2tl8/s320/Duomo+with+cross+jpg+upload+IMG_2646.jpg" width="240" /></a> <span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whatever credentials are required to hold the title of the official city postcard image picker, everyone who has ever taken a snapshot, at one time or another, has thought, “This would make a great postcard.” Be it blowing on Polaroids to make them dry quicker, sorting prints from rolls of film, seeing images appear on wet sheets of photo paper in the dark room, or the watching the slideshow on your computer – there is no denying the personal satisfaction of discovering that you alone have captured that one particular postcard-worthy moment in time. "Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still," said </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">American documentary photographer Dorothea Lange (1895-1965), a woman with many postcard-worthy images. Welcome to the world of postcards where images in real photos seem unreal, canon is a measure of excellence, and going to a museum on a Monday (the day it’s closed) resulted in a surprisingly charming photo of an unusual roadside attraction. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong><u>Pachelbel's Canon.</u></strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5mX1y27EFmxFGY5nnRzcW84aPc1kvLDQ9DOBcC5E5BAU40nsIc9gBMo7j44_8jvkebyrLw1-iHdxXz7b2J0YntHfwQHpNAzHu7QnY3hClaS3OZRs5W0EszPWU7890Pc8G4PanbkrZ4Q/s1600/Pacabel+accordian+player+1+jpg+upload+IMG_0838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5mX1y27EFmxFGY5nnRzcW84aPc1kvLDQ9DOBcC5E5BAU40nsIc9gBMo7j44_8jvkebyrLw1-iHdxXz7b2J0YntHfwQHpNAzHu7QnY3hClaS3OZRs5W0EszPWU7890Pc8G4PanbkrZ4Q/s200/Pacabel+accordian+player+1+jpg+upload+IMG_0838.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlrFUWjEY_2GYMS9C3e_9J9TLTXLC0wjGI3AYnJbthIqnRJh5YFn1a7Rx6D7gal4Bt8bFBtW4UdReJWYDa9EKG7EEN71PINqwjC2WQt7Rzcnk-K1rtbOxZa2Ixy2X0sjWNX_Z7wfsxnY/s1600/Pacabel+accordian+player+2+IMG_0837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlrFUWjEY_2GYMS9C3e_9J9TLTXLC0wjGI3AYnJbthIqnRJh5YFn1a7Rx6D7gal4Bt8bFBtW4UdReJWYDa9EKG7EEN71PINqwjC2WQt7Rzcnk-K1rtbOxZa2Ixy2X0sjWNX_Z7wfsxnY/s200/Pacabel+accordian+player+2+IMG_0837.jpg" width="150" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One night walking home from dinner in Monterossa, I heard a familiar tune echoing through the block long tunnel. The musician sat alone holding his accordion as it oozed the melody of Pachelbel's </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN">Canon in D Major</span></i><span lang="EN">. You know the tune. It’s often played at weddings and memorials. The series of notes triggers the melody and you find yourself anticipating the refrain. Whether played with bells, a full orchestra, or just hummed in your head – there’s a reason it is called a canon – it captures in song a universal beauty, a memorable simple musical tune. I laid a pocket full of coins at the feet of this musician and then quietly snapped the photos, still walking so as not to interrupt the magic passing through his fingers. The photos are blurry, but think about the tune and you can actually see from his body language the sequence of notes he is playing. Here are some links to other street performers playing the “Pachelbel’s Canon” in Barcelona, Munich, Koln and San Francisco. Enjoy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-48305092112566576722011-11-19T20:31:00.000-08:002011-11-19T20:31:25.172-08:00Global Power Drives Train of Thought<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYsZ2exXyFLMalb_QyeL1EZJu5_zP2XbsLmqQZVGyM3RS1qRyRC07XMEzGAcdVg7XAf8GWKRJPzUiJo35e3Pt-hU9Zs_u5ww8G4x_h8rZizEQ-rbc91JJqTAAoBd4sCphWJQ89DqiSIk/s1600/white+art+balls_0680.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYsZ2exXyFLMalb_QyeL1EZJu5_zP2XbsLmqQZVGyM3RS1qRyRC07XMEzGAcdVg7XAf8GWKRJPzUiJo35e3Pt-hU9Zs_u5ww8G4x_h8rZizEQ-rbc91JJqTAAoBd4sCphWJQ89DqiSIk/s320/white+art+balls_0680.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYwJ8Nnk4ioOa7BGdCpj8k926R4_-CsXI6jGge341gs241fX05KNHpLDllXhPEvIJ-K1pzi1jR-1bb2KXvPbN0xXRxZQH65xDPyljygh_M9FvEuw81n_hwUr00W9YoylrIKtwz3_-TnE/s1600/Fishing+rope+IMG_3776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYwJ8Nnk4ioOa7BGdCpj8k926R4_-CsXI6jGge341gs241fX05KNHpLDllXhPEvIJ-K1pzi1jR-1bb2KXvPbN0xXRxZQH65xDPyljygh_M9FvEuw81n_hwUr00W9YoylrIKtwz3_-TnE/s320/Fishing+rope+IMG_3776.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRewQ-I_rnpm-8S6AUjrQZlpeuiqtIK6nf5Vjw71ATkoecRSNUn4P2bx0RQntrmWrW7AzaxDB3I7Gkmp4fOpOB6D2epoAlBaCtDpakhgrGAh3t7ZF_GqmwtbXhO-_h0JyPp6uURL3stg/s1600/Yatch+in+Portofino+IMG_3490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRewQ-I_rnpm-8S6AUjrQZlpeuiqtIK6nf5Vjw71ATkoecRSNUn4P2bx0RQntrmWrW7AzaxDB3I7Gkmp4fOpOB6D2epoAlBaCtDpakhgrGAh3t7ZF_GqmwtbXhO-_h0JyPp6uURL3stg/s320/Yatch+in+Portofino+IMG_3490.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Just take photos of anything,” echo Barbra’s words of assignment from our first day of photography class. How many times do I over-think that statement and question how one goes about taking photos of anything? A photo of a building speaks of architecture, a photo of sunset shows a glow of a painted sky, and a photo of dancers documents grace in motion. But what do the rest of these “photos of anything” say and more importantly – why do I take them? A hedge, empty chairs, a police man (well, a cute policeman), feet, shadows… what does this all mean? Am I subconsciously selecting details from the real world to create my own make-believe world? </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Today’s mission started innocently enough with me wandering through my photos in search of similarities and answers to the mystery. I pulled some seemingly unrelated shots to explore their relationships in an effort to learn more about what drives my eye to capture one moment in time and not another. Sincere as my intention was, I got sidetracked. The result is a train of thought experience… follow along with the story as I connect the dots or just look at the photos and see if you recognize the connections. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTZ5f3F9GQRTgIlXekl7gBURPdWPLzAYxexRvfdSRG_7eqt78wmOKV6aHmNsOA4_sT7C4kAR9Jd3duD7ZBHfZq6mS1cuVmSAW0P4pteroEhmFHBbVJhHXjQoYr9gGxvdndNAAqaSvdyI/s1600/Round+fruit+IMG_0223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTZ5f3F9GQRTgIlXekl7gBURPdWPLzAYxexRvfdSRG_7eqt78wmOKV6aHmNsOA4_sT7C4kAR9Jd3duD7ZBHfZq6mS1cuVmSAW0P4pteroEhmFHBbVJhHXjQoYr9gGxvdndNAAqaSvdyI/s320/Round+fruit+IMG_0223.jpg" width="220" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The globe is a powerful shape in that its rounded form suggests movement even when it's still. The trigger photo is of basketball size white globes with a red umbilical cord, a contemporary art installation in a white-walled gallery in the Palazzo Strozzi in Florence. The long narrow gallery with door openings on each end, encourages, requires, or merely tempts you to walk into and through the installation. Step over the cord, over the globe, walk against the wall – no matter how you do it, it’s a personalized art experience. That umbilical cord and starkness reminded me of the elongated black globes hanging from a mega-yacht in Portofino. Rather than tempting people to come close, these shapes repel and serve as a cushioned barrier to keep the ship safe from being bumped by another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sea water reminded me of seeing piles upon piles of fishing gear all lined up in a row at the dock where we boarded earlier in the day bound for Portofino. One particular pile had red misshapen globe-like shapes that resembled squat heirloom tomatoes with wrinkled skin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFCxosAUrKBj2s_JweiiJLTCi0bAexrvNbnidkNbrrg6x1Dwn-ixaOtc5BC82pQWH1zHiMl-mcYd6X6s2olol6ulgcYsd9q3DtopCyKAizSmE8v79juckmJ0KMscRNG2P2aTgHZVOhHY/s1600/SUn+dried+tomatoes+IMG_1049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFCxosAUrKBj2s_JweiiJLTCi0bAexrvNbnidkNbrrg6x1Dwn-ixaOtc5BC82pQWH1zHiMl-mcYd6X6s2olol6ulgcYsd9q3DtopCyKAizSmE8v79juckmJ0KMscRNG2P2aTgHZVOhHY/s200/SUn+dried+tomatoes+IMG_1049.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course the red of the tomato floats hanging on the fishing ropes made me think of nature and full plump round red fruit hanging from a tree. And fruit hanging from a tree that grew from the earth made me think of the sky. After the fruit is picked, it is often dried by the sun and sold in the marketplace. On one particular day in the marketplace, dried red cherry tomatoes (yes, the tomato is the fruit of the tomato plant) were displayed in a circular bin – certainly the cousin-shape to the globe. The green lining in the bin against the deep red of the tomatoes mimics the just picked fruit in the fresh produce aisle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErOOWs4hglOguUGoj7ygJBbuPvMbmv8tht9zIgvleLNxoU6381ZVnDo4DP0VqTE3-e8xKERj2A5sSFVRYHJVfwuJCwyBSJnHyG0_4Ps2y4D9zmlPiMu3hVFeznDl3WGmi31mJUYN0V80/s1600/Bicycle+close-up+IMG_1084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErOOWs4hglOguUGoj7ygJBbuPvMbmv8tht9zIgvleLNxoU6381ZVnDo4DP0VqTE3-e8xKERj2A5sSFVRYHJVfwuJCwyBSJnHyG0_4Ps2y4D9zmlPiMu3hVFeznDl3WGmi31mJUYN0V80/s320/Bicycle+close-up+IMG_1084.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSE3dEV3cKAefbmt4c9tVi6kumx3Pt7_CS0YoDAzdniStb9_3jvescaeiYqmZfIj_8BQSdDMaB0dbyEw2n2NTNmXVg_Zc6ry6S3oyWfDJkviAf-cGPgTOZ2fGTMH9Kc4t1ibBeWx6F37Q/s1600/Salt+%2526+pepper+shakers+cropped++IMG_2453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSE3dEV3cKAefbmt4c9tVi6kumx3Pt7_CS0YoDAzdniStb9_3jvescaeiYqmZfIj_8BQSdDMaB0dbyEw2n2NTNmXVg_Zc6ry6S3oyWfDJkviAf-cGPgTOZ2fGTMH9Kc4t1ibBeWx6F37Q/s200/Salt+%2526+pepper+shakers+cropped++IMG_2453.jpg" width="143" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The colors of growth and the warmth of the sun and thinking of tomatoes takes my mind to salt, an earthly mineral, and the neatly arranged salt shakers with their shiny circular silver lids at a café in Greve in Chianti where you can sit outside and watch the townsfolk ride by. Of course, that made me think of the shiny circular rims on the bikes lined up on the street and one with a red frame standing out in the crowd. And, the street of stone beneath the bikes led me to remember the circular shape of the hewn stone amphitheater in Fiesole, which also wears an accent patch of red carpet on the stage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir74ZCXPyXvPmqETjR15tYY1hy1rlT43KEj5zrPTamEPyrdAXJpgWTfVh19zoO2orcj4WfHOy15VOHjwuEWaEKa-Skn3sYieVtM_5POM41l2aUBBHLDTPybyECTM6-vrsib8ObtbYOzL8/s1600/Fiesole+ampha+theater+IMG_0795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir74ZCXPyXvPmqETjR15tYY1hy1rlT43KEj5zrPTamEPyrdAXJpgWTfVh19zoO2orcj4WfHOy15VOHjwuEWaEKa-Skn3sYieVtM_5POM41l2aUBBHLDTPybyECTM6-vrsib8ObtbYOzL8/s320/Fiesole+ampha+theater+IMG_0795.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In the blink of any eye, my mind has wandered from the initial visual attraction of the white gallery globes, to shapes extracted from the globe, to an ordinary piece of red carpet in a circular setting. The photos serve as visual examples for this story, but with the exception of the art installation, they are of ordinary fleeting scenes and common objects found most any day in Italy. Although I find the photos interesting, there is really nothing spectacular (oops, the mega-yacht WAS spectacular) about any of the individual topics. The images are no less or no more important than before they caught my attention, but I realized that the “photos of anything” topics are unknowingly elevated to a level permanence by simply having been captured through the lens of my camera... so yes, I am creating my own make-believe world.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ-6rKzItp2D_5Yn2rHjLLxNjrzCzSnXfZt1V9lKGswIW-HMH0TzXfWZrZCjFtXdYpcnbo4iOBEf-f55OpC_pTw6IDo6kdFKdNwK2XtsoGgKnxXb9CEXIsimiw2qptArJtQJvuFH26oU/s1600/Satin+Stones+jewelry+store+window+IMG_0388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ-6rKzItp2D_5Yn2rHjLLxNjrzCzSnXfZt1V9lKGswIW-HMH0TzXfWZrZCjFtXdYpcnbo4iOBEf-f55OpC_pTw6IDo6kdFKdNwK2XtsoGgKnxXb9CEXIsimiw2qptArJtQJvuFH26oU/s320/Satin+Stones+jewelry+store+window+IMG_0388.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It seems only fitting that after dragging you through all this train of thought thinking from things that are round, things connected with cords, things with red, things by water, things that grow, things that are dried, things that shine, and things that are made out of stone… that I stop short of a whirling dervish at today’s final photo selection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Rod Serling, might have said, “Take note. All is not what it seems to be in this world beneath the waves. Is it real or a freak accident of nature? Look closely at the golden lures linked together, falling over satin river rocks where discarded jewel encrusted starfish pose proudly in the dimension of imagination.” He pauses, tips his head forward, cocks an eyebrow, and knowingly says, “Next stop, The Twilight Zone.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-17461057302019562582011-11-11T16:28:00.000-08:002011-11-11T17:26:57.592-08:00Boar from Sant’ Ambrogio Framed in Northern California, Tina’s Italian Dining Tips & Ingrid’s Tapenade<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtf7_BAqZYT1GrvZH8rRKP4LujQRKDy4QigSk6b3KafLGgF0qj673jyFQ6NG6QFf4nt8ELFJZDTgFQaeqr6kxSVOA_E4DF-CrvgO-ZdDnAw-39RAbSWTncIXyVnJgIwVl4KcalRZShmY/s1600/Boar+and+bread+color+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtf7_BAqZYT1GrvZH8rRKP4LujQRKDy4QigSk6b3KafLGgF0qj673jyFQ6NG6QFf4nt8ELFJZDTgFQaeqr6kxSVOA_E4DF-CrvgO-ZdDnAw-39RAbSWTncIXyVnJgIwVl4KcalRZShmY/s400/Boar+and+bread+color+blog.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_i9YAocFtZCMJQQlj8aYkRNAc-pOnAxh-u9C3z9dN8_twhAhH-AdoSHWgMjJ3ScwA1akF-MfawXXph1uTk7elT2V5FrSZZySgQw1xeapDwgQoyeZp6eWmKhE77HiQgVTuioZtqgt-bU/s1600/hands+boar+carving+blog+IMG_0700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_i9YAocFtZCMJQQlj8aYkRNAc-pOnAxh-u9C3z9dN8_twhAhH-AdoSHWgMjJ3ScwA1akF-MfawXXph1uTk7elT2V5FrSZZySgQw1xeapDwgQoyeZp6eWmKhE77HiQgVTuioZtqgt-bU/s320/hands+boar+carving+blog+IMG_0700.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t a jealous lover that started this dialogue about being framed, but rather a boar – jealous from being upstaged by a story about some oranges on a doorstep. Remember <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sidewalk Still Life</i>, the photo of oranges and bicycles that jurors selected for a gallery show in Auburn, CA? Well the boar, actually a framed photo of a boar’s head, was also selected for the same show and is on display through Tuesday, November 15th. (<a href="http://www.placerarts.org/"><span style="color: #f9cb9c;">www.PlacerArts.org</span></a>). </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">But the real reason the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boar from Mercato Sant’ Ambrogio</i> takes the headline position here is because a holiday feast is soon approaching and a food story seemed appropriate. Here’s a photo from a different perspective of the boar in the outdoor marketplace. He's huge! The chef carved off a slice from the boar’s midsection and, let me tell you, it was moist and filled with the full-bodied flavors of Tuscany – it was the real deal!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzD687E2DPBZq1AFqFAuOaAyQ6OcJTQav6JTJPyK3nhGne6JnHgFaIlvWiDbMav1DSKlzRy0TYEkaXfd6vYC1T2hu64gFFQygsrvy3Rq2sQ8PypdJa72DTre8H7Hc6DjHmu_YDmeiQHDo/s1600/vegie+sculpture+blog+IMG_0224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzD687E2DPBZq1AFqFAuOaAyQ6OcJTQav6JTJPyK3nhGne6JnHgFaIlvWiDbMav1DSKlzRy0TYEkaXfd6vYC1T2hu64gFFQygsrvy3Rq2sQ8PypdJa72DTre8H7Hc6DjHmu_YDmeiQHDo/s200/vegie+sculpture+blog+IMG_0224.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaExmZu8vGUBUYOCFl9yA-U-Z52cJKmIGx7yPzsbtx5s_kzUQDqjSuS9J2hj4UOKBz-5vXtFAOVz4fX-DU0zzgM3k1Q4ifZQie1pGO1E6nFwRjYxNqg08r4QsCnlS1ZhXZTUEj63vdQ5Q/s1600/shopping+at+neighborhood+outdoor+vegetable+stand+IMG_0215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaExmZu8vGUBUYOCFl9yA-U-Z52cJKmIGx7yPzsbtx5s_kzUQDqjSuS9J2hj4UOKBz-5vXtFAOVz4fX-DU0zzgM3k1Q4ifZQie1pGO1E6nFwRjYxNqg08r4QsCnlS1ZhXZTUEj63vdQ5Q/s320/shopping+at+neighborhood+outdoor+vegetable+stand+IMG_0215.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Shopping is the start to</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> all good meals and the Italians are fortunate to have huge indoor/outdoor farmers markets like the Mercato Centrale and Mercato Sant’ Ambrogio in Florence, as well as neighborhood grocers with fresh produce spilling out onto the street to tempt the casual passer-by. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The produce displays seem to match the personality of the shopkeepers. Some arrange the fruits and vegetables by shape and size, some by colors, and others mound unlikely combinations as if creating a sculpture. The abundance of readily available and beautiful fresh fruits and vegetables makes cooking a joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1IR699LpCSytKgaSPTBYVMKTwvKwFps4PEi4dSYM0mcFaDdlJASiJmYGnC0Owo8s3bV7Wa5UbC4e1P49WKr0HGc34HMuX4ncEj3iQbEzJQTtfXKX2goqgEDQQ5p9gyHuyodmVzTuKDw/s1600/Dressing+on+macedonia+blog+IMG_0625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1IR699LpCSytKgaSPTBYVMKTwvKwFps4PEi4dSYM0mcFaDdlJASiJmYGnC0Owo8s3bV7Wa5UbC4e1P49WKr0HGc34HMuX4ncEj3iQbEzJQTtfXKX2goqgEDQQ5p9gyHuyodmVzTuKDw/s200/Dressing+on+macedonia+blog+IMG_0625.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduZK2MO3Ct8vCXy0qPbywWveWk9B_eyA3sEzscmqnrtCiAbXRXUMvopYHNqRZLjGmoQzqz5MCXWbNkLZlF8hEYxQDbCOC7RJxzZe4e8XHuipG0c3VhJA0PEhInbahx4vIAQErU7WjMhI/s1600/Macedonia+for+blog+IMG_0627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduZK2MO3Ct8vCXy0qPbywWveWk9B_eyA3sEzscmqnrtCiAbXRXUMvopYHNqRZLjGmoQzqz5MCXWbNkLZlF8hEYxQDbCOC7RJxzZe4e8XHuipG0c3VhJA0PEhInbahx4vIAQErU7WjMhI/s200/Macedonia+for+blog+IMG_0627.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">When a group of artists visited the home of Santa Reparata International School of Art founder Dennis Olsen (printmaker) and his wife Meredith Dean (painter), Meredith allowed me into her kitchen for a look behind-the-scenes. She cut ripe selections of fruit into chunks for a favorite home style Italian dessert called “Macedonia di Frutta.” Lemon juice and sugar are added to the fruit and sometimes it’s laced with liqueur like lemoncello or grappa. The dessert is served in a bowl or cup, often with a dollop of whipped cream or zabaglione, the classic Italian custard flavored with liqueur or wine – a tasty refreshing treat at the end of a meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7126wKbauUFzjG0mXzcOOqmxoWTwIPbPX3nTRcWcSzfCmMza2cRklXvxxW9tHEd-h00Y1uMk2IBL0uZcS-61npAxZUqUIy4xQcDV1NVmHO8i0h7juBS08bXfKgvXAKrXAhw4rOjVCzY/s1600/Tapenade+platter+for+blog+IMG_0585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7126wKbauUFzjG0mXzcOOqmxoWTwIPbPX3nTRcWcSzfCmMza2cRklXvxxW9tHEd-h00Y1uMk2IBL0uZcS-61npAxZUqUIy4xQcDV1NVmHO8i0h7juBS08bXfKgvXAKrXAhw4rOjVCzY/s320/Tapenade+platter+for+blog+IMG_0585.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwKGFx3BPCFBtUpFYLKsErs8l4KdTskQkv60KBX_R5KAisL8UAk_T5yloQ749yLyrHhJc-z5y839Ak1Own2OL7PCPBhGf-Fp4S1B3be18oqZc9pe6drOcItVlx4T8P_wu7WXX0SknAcSM/s1600/olive+oil+blog+IMG_0613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwKGFx3BPCFBtUpFYLKsErs8l4KdTskQkv60KBX_R5KAisL8UAk_T5yloQ749yLyrHhJc-z5y839Ak1Own2OL7PCPBhGf-Fp4S1B3be18oqZc9pe6drOcItVlx4T8P_wu7WXX0SknAcSM/s320/olive+oil+blog+IMG_0613.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Her kitchen was a hive of food prep activity. For appetizers, she took a long slender loaf of bread called a baguette and sliced “crostini” (literally translated in Italian to mean small bread slices.) The slices were toasted or grilled and ready to use as the bed for a topping. “Bruschetta” is the term for the toasted bread (rubbed with garlic and coated with olive oil) topped with a variety of combinations of finely chopped ingredients including tomatoes, olives, cheese, meats, beans, basil and other herbs. Just about anything tastes good atop those little grilled toasts. Meredith plated the appetizers like color fields on a palette. Seeing these reminded me of </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">the appetizers on little rounds of bread that mom served to guests when I was young. There’s something really satisfying and home-spun about a crunchy piece of bread loaded with a tapenade, a chopped mixture with an olive and caper base. Tapenade originated in the Provence region of France, but anywhere you find olives – you’ll find a local version.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYnmO3-PsXAtdQR6VuW6o1pNM9yKY1aVIroBWfCNIYRrZHxh7ldMkjanBiRoPewcTy1J8pWkKBB7vYPuPbSxV9ZtD7NJ-9DwAMEOKserGGbfmITydihpTA68P8SIzix4Zseko1yuuBGo/s1600/vegetable+colors+in+boxes+IMG_0635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYnmO3-PsXAtdQR6VuW6o1pNM9yKY1aVIroBWfCNIYRrZHxh7ldMkjanBiRoPewcTy1J8pWkKBB7vYPuPbSxV9ZtD7NJ-9DwAMEOKserGGbfmITydihpTA68P8SIzix4Zseko1yuuBGo/s320/vegetable+colors+in+boxes+IMG_0635.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My <strong>“Whatever’s-in-the-Fridge Tapenade”</strong> is always a winner. It’s quick (about ten minutes to prepare). You can make it thick and pile it high, or loose and let the juices soak into the crostini, and you can change the color by changing the ingredients. Spice it up or down to suit your current attitude. Chop and mix the ingredients, or toss them in the food processor and press pulse. How much? A handful, a dash, a dab – there’s no right or wrong way to measure for this tapenade. Don’t be afraid – just keep mixing the ingredients a little at a time until you find your favorite flavor of the day. Then chill an hour to let the flavors merge. When you’re ready to serve, spoon the mixture into a pretty bowl and set by the crostini (yes, if you’re short on time it’s ok to use store bought crostini) so your guests can fix their own appetizer or make up a colorful party platter.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ingrid’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whatever’s-in-the-Fridge Tapenade</i></span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Olives (I like the color of big green martini olives with pimento)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Capers (drained)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Minced garlic (optional)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lemon juice</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Olive oil</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tang-it-up with red wine vinegar</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sweeten-it-up with a dab of honey</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Flavor-it-up with a splash of brandy<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bulk-it-up with grated parmesan</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4GvxskXB3t9iu5kWz3RZm9waUcnCZiKkjMJf37bupUMkVDItAh7u9UjhOm4cfhQeAD4h0Py-92aB8iPCHPE6VK6IFHkarXukcuPExdbznFEO0koVx0MqfHYKHQiEL_Cbv9PH9HxweEk/s1600/flowers+from+the+garden+IMG_0615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4GvxskXB3t9iu5kWz3RZm9waUcnCZiKkjMJf37bupUMkVDItAh7u9UjhOm4cfhQeAD4h0Py-92aB8iPCHPE6VK6IFHkarXukcuPExdbznFEO0koVx0MqfHYKHQiEL_Cbv9PH9HxweEk/s320/flowers+from+the+garden+IMG_0615.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Tina’s Italian Dining Tips</span></b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">: Planning a trip to Italy during the holidays and expect to be invited to a private home?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dinner table is the center of Italian family life and a great deal of time is invested in selecting the ingredients and preparing the meal. Enjoy the food, enjoy the company, and enjoy the lively conversation. Tina Fallani (cooking instructor, Italian film expert, and great hostess) has a long list of tips for dining with Italians – here are a few.</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Nobody eats until everyone is seated, unless the person who is serving insists. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Different courses are served on different plates not on the same plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Italians don’t drink milk with meals.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">You don’t put grated cheese on a pasta dish with seafood.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">There is usually fruit and or cheese at the end of the meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">There is almost always red wine at the lunch and dinner table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Remember to allow plenty of time to enjoy the feast in an Italian home. It’s guaranteed to be an unforgettable experience. “Salute!”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (good health)</i></span><br />
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-25133007792963440342011-11-04T15:37:00.000-07:002011-11-05T08:20:32.973-07:00Two-by-Two, Italian Style<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPwvo-tvzGxSg48_Ib0G2VZJQon2P1YfqwFJq_wCVU88bPEWSKlQfjLMkyEclrvZ1iFsJsusBb1eYVAF7iDRorW7oxtiFQn3S7Ya0d-ZynRPPC-LRptdJzvBwMOkE4Zi6TDMHJQTHx8w/s1600/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPwvo-tvzGxSg48_Ib0G2VZJQon2P1YfqwFJq_wCVU88bPEWSKlQfjLMkyEclrvZ1iFsJsusBb1eYVAF7iDRorW7oxtiFQn3S7Ya0d-ZynRPPC-LRptdJzvBwMOkE4Zi6TDMHJQTHx8w/s1600/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPwvo-tvzGxSg48_Ib0G2VZJQon2P1YfqwFJq_wCVU88bPEWSKlQfjLMkyEclrvZ1iFsJsusBb1eYVAF7iDRorW7oxtiFQn3S7Ya0d-ZynRPPC-LRptdJzvBwMOkE4Zi6TDMHJQTHx8w/s1600/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tclOtSf2g0kKz2R9Sa2zAL-5yAKJVxyKAY58w6Y9mCaxvNZ-iqKGZwSst5khrwhVuDOgBsR9hjMgkA-7E4XhbXVANMO74NmcPgswd_ELMDRhtJGINAhFTMKlspQtONgLv4841w-1ucY/s1600/Bench+warmers+male+Fiesole+5x7+IMG_0986.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tclOtSf2g0kKz2R9Sa2zAL-5yAKJVxyKAY58w6Y9mCaxvNZ-iqKGZwSst5khrwhVuDOgBsR9hjMgkA-7E4XhbXVANMO74NmcPgswd_ELMDRhtJGINAhFTMKlspQtONgLv4841w-1ucY/s400/Bench+warmers+male+Fiesole+5x7+IMG_0986.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Remember “Where's Waldo” - the visual game where Waldo, a cartoon character in a striped hat, is hidden in a crowd of people and you have to find him? This photo at the piazza in Fiesole is the inspiration for “Two-by-Two, Italian Style.” Do you see two benches, two statues of horses, two cars, and five sets of two people? </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The photo was taken because I was amused by the two gentlemen in their daily routine of watching the world pass by. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I imagined them in their youth with white patches of flour in their slick dark hair, and muscular forearms bulging as they balanced long paddles and pulled hot leaves of bread with golden crusts from the wood burning oven. Their youthful laughter caused the happy creases along the sides of their mouths and their eyes sparkle today, remembering the beauty of the olive skinned women before them. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB51X3isrgVb454CZYsKhZbCYeU7YW1if2jLNbwykp7IGMc6s4DdUqGIgG6_bA4LJ9d-W-QMHNZQJrXAcNFKGDLl69vSuiEVtzCIuQRCVc_JVskB-1wvSbLtdNqHYBfKF0FzZ_MWqcYE/s1600/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB51X3isrgVb454CZYsKhZbCYeU7YW1if2jLNbwykp7IGMc6s4DdUqGIgG6_bA4LJ9d-W-QMHNZQJrXAcNFKGDLl69vSuiEVtzCIuQRCVc_JVskB-1wvSbLtdNqHYBfKF0FzZ_MWqcYE/s200/Mon+and+daughter+evening+walk+Fiesole+5x4x+horz++IMG_0970.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The retired waitresses, from the local café, parade by with confidence knowing that their womanly allure smolders beneath their once-taught skin. They feign disinterest, but glance in their admirers’ direction to confirm they are still being watched by the older men who, through the ladies eyes, are the same virile teenage boys from the neighborhood bakery. During the early evening, this Italian ritual of strolling two-by-two through the piazza, rekindles fond memories of youth and maybe even minor indiscretions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the sun sets and darkness fills the sky, the townsfolk return home to a night of hopeful dreams, then a new day, and another lazy stroll. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSyCEm4SB0NYxeuw8bdFV4Dkc3sPDsmyccggvlvhs_pihP6r-DiSNgyROoWlsfcLDUEiVg7wp4EvIKdgYC6cOYGBAEo4n7luP8JHkDA1HYUQV9u0P4sQnMGJX7q0kHRK6JJ9UIWjsfz8/s1600/two+people+in+train+stationIMG_4142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSyCEm4SB0NYxeuw8bdFV4Dkc3sPDsmyccggvlvhs_pihP6r-DiSNgyROoWlsfcLDUEiVg7wp4EvIKdgYC6cOYGBAEo4n7luP8JHkDA1HYUQV9u0P4sQnMGJX7q0kHRK6JJ9UIWjsfz8/s200/two+people+in+train+stationIMG_4142.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In airports, train stations and bus terminals, it’s easy to entertain yourself by watching the people waiting patiently in the boarding area. I make up stories about the passengers - who they are, where they’re going, and why. I don’t ever presume to be right nor do I care about being right as my concocted stories are probably far more interesting than the real truth. Imagine the story of two people sitting silently by the train track. My version … <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Siblings abandon American roots to raise water buffalo for mozzarella in Naples … </i>has much greater intrigue than the possible reality of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sally and Ben take a day-long train trip. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkonwQYwVIB2r4e-anqPi2gZA0IMcZRB7UzBUR2uhboDgFVh0qWYU54N082xqUMs6rr4luKJzcQVDDoUHMo08Rpq40A-SiRp17gejfVAU1YVCC2QLzb5cs6veTf3NRWleUJqUCYG33W4/s1600/Mother+and+son4x5+MG_1402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkonwQYwVIB2r4e-anqPi2gZA0IMcZRB7UzBUR2uhboDgFVh0qWYU54N082xqUMs6rr4luKJzcQVDDoUHMo08Rpq40A-SiRp17gejfVAU1YVCC2QLzb5cs6veTf3NRWleUJqUCYG33W4/s320/Mother+and+son4x5+MG_1402.jpg" width="256" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Jv_ISghQzPL0iPY2f68viIpnJt38e8Vu5ejoed0wzWB5SFjLX1KMhkvkfqhKM-3UW0NYPf4kcNAppXKNJz40bq0zk_1vpSB5KmqcgtSeV_75mZpm7ZpqqjpTs9wjKzPMpFjAQ0d11oA/s1600/Father+and+son+with+matching+sandals+IMG_0687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Jv_ISghQzPL0iPY2f68viIpnJt38e8Vu5ejoed0wzWB5SFjLX1KMhkvkfqhKM-3UW0NYPf4kcNAppXKNJz40bq0zk_1vpSB5KmqcgtSeV_75mZpm7ZpqqjpTs9wjKzPMpFjAQ0d11oA/s320/Father+and+son+with+matching+sandals+IMG_0687.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Evidence of trust between parent and child are most telling in the often unrecorded scenes where the younger and the older interact without drama. On a park bench, mom looks one direction, lost in thought, as her like-minded son gazes in another. Both are content with the view in their site lines; neither relies on the other for approval; neither questions what the other is seeing. These are the sacred parent/child bonding moments you can never quite recall with clarity, but which leave an indelible mark on your soul. Just as calmly, a man and boy sit on a door step engrossed in the images on an electronic devise. The ease with which their bodies mingle suggests they are related. They’re looking at a photo a young girl with a red nose, perhaps it’s the boy’s sister or a classmate who missed the afternoon outing due to a cold. Even at his young age, the boy patterns himself after his father, wearing the same style sandal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzQQUynkYfqY7axTIhFasIuRKNc46oXxSevfbbWmOk80bZWx_ZZSvDhhyphenhyphencbUN4ZPZKo9rPZ1Hfzzb2ibF7o9MdRjPL5ejqV0HZWe3TpN8CMqYRMKwhlPvwpTqoj4zHVxaCH8uzRV4RkA/s1600/2+Bench+warmers+female+Fiesole+4x5++IMG_0982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzQQUynkYfqY7axTIhFasIuRKNc46oXxSevfbbWmOk80bZWx_ZZSvDhhyphenhyphencbUN4ZPZKo9rPZ1Hfzzb2ibF7o9MdRjPL5ejqV0HZWe3TpN8CMqYRMKwhlPvwpTqoj4zHVxaCH8uzRV4RkA/s320/2+Bench+warmers+female+Fiesole+4x5++IMG_0982.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6QSJxUF_4tamHRICWRnLnb6K_Jo9ApeAA9q1r1ua2TU1YZVADTQVhuMvnkC-Dx0wz3ZNxxAR0uSHjVGVC-bZFYIRHE89W9e516FcZXXRFiJ3eul3ZqTcCMLN_6i6BuqrfFZKLXrSGO8/s1600/sis+ter+and+brother+at+water+fountain+4x5+IMG_4649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6QSJxUF_4tamHRICWRnLnb6K_Jo9ApeAA9q1r1ua2TU1YZVADTQVhuMvnkC-Dx0wz3ZNxxAR0uSHjVGVC-bZFYIRHE89W9e516FcZXXRFiJ3eul3ZqTcCMLN_6i6BuqrfFZKLXrSGO8/s320/sis+ter+and+brother+at+water+fountain+4x5+IMG_4649.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It is not unusual to see siblings and friends in pairs with one involved in an activity and the other looking on. I always wonder if the on-looker will have the same opportunity to take the forefront or if close relationships are confined to active and passive roles developed early-on in the relationships. I wonder if there is an unspoken time period when the cross-over transformation, from active to passive, occurs. And I wonder if it’s an equally satisfactory experience for both parties. I wonder a lot about relationships. What makes some good and long lasting, and how easy it is to watch the dynamics change when life changes. This wondering causes me to cherish the candid moments of others, such as friends sitting on benches and children at the water fountain, because these simple meaningful times often fly below the radar of their own lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdEbI3ieFPhcOlBcKK2X2JLvzYb-O4VJjyIxFbsxqa_0Ah-FAGebhZ0_6IUI59CIMBDCD5TJ-A0gJNCE8ZCjYe1LsYV4YkG5iPmbtTv0wyB_W5EYEV55TXRNsF-OQcF-nt7-rQyfUdSg/s1600/Second+honeymooners+4x5++IMG_0965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdEbI3ieFPhcOlBcKK2X2JLvzYb-O4VJjyIxFbsxqa_0Ah-FAGebhZ0_6IUI59CIMBDCD5TJ-A0gJNCE8ZCjYe1LsYV4YkG5iPmbtTv0wyB_W5EYEV55TXRNsF-OQcF-nt7-rQyfUdSg/s200/Second+honeymooners+4x5++IMG_0965.jpg" width="160" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUntTv2SiPWk0JooygvFPc4Y7hSkCoCbEOk0QWw_g3eiYX_6am5MTqTiM2Bj9zGkICcujjpSKfwTxvnwZGOWn0r4tAjidk5-4VjjWJl0L2Pvag4eTNMQ0dU2VS-BtKTX-xbK_Ob6bATZo/s1600/Young+parents+using+sign+language+4x6+IMG_0931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUntTv2SiPWk0JooygvFPc4Y7hSkCoCbEOk0QWw_g3eiYX_6am5MTqTiM2Bj9zGkICcujjpSKfwTxvnwZGOWn0r4tAjidk5-4VjjWJl0L2Pvag4eTNMQ0dU2VS-BtKTX-xbK_Ob6bATZo/s200/Young+parents+using+sign+language+4x6+IMG_0931.jpg" width="158" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Lovers have a special personal language: their touching can be hard or soft, just as facial expressions can be honest and clear, or harsh and confronting. There is a stroller nearby – is it the stress of parenthood that provokes the aggressive body language or is the caring husband teaching the new mom some martial arts moves to protect their newborn child? The softness of the placement of another woman’s outstretched fingers on her man’s arm is also expressed in the warmth of their smiles and the relaxation of their bodies as they lightly brush. Theirs is a gentle love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">For two people newly in love, it’s a time for experimentation, a time when actions and attitudes are tested. It’s a time of discovery that builds into a bond which speaks a private language known only to the lovers whose world is a world comprised of two. The power of two takes many forms. Universally, it is indicated by pairs of shoes, double scoops of gelato, a set of book ends, or couples walking hand-in-hand. In Italy when people are outdoors and involved in everyday activities, you can actually see an underlying truth that one plus one does not equal two; they may start by interacting as two, but with the blessing of the fresh air, each duet blossoms into a new and undeniable super power of one. </span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-5553363862678009102011-10-28T15:20:00.000-07:002011-10-29T10:58:26.932-07:00The Essence of Vernazza, the Spirit of Renewal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZks4pcUYWzvsVT_v0VNl4P2hx54VtA6OBtTwoF5QS-Twe2B9rELye11ob-oRSOXVGAFIoxgY4ZdSUAOPlQNumS4gD8Y78h3uesANNMzdGEAM7o-6MKedVN3sB47l6Md_ehIrzlP314I/s1600/Long+shot+of+harbor+IMG_3939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZks4pcUYWzvsVT_v0VNl4P2hx54VtA6OBtTwoF5QS-Twe2B9rELye11ob-oRSOXVGAFIoxgY4ZdSUAOPlQNumS4gD8Y78h3uesANNMzdGEAM7o-6MKedVN3sB47l6Md_ehIrzlP314I/s320/Long+shot+of+harbor+IMG_3939.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATrfI92q5B3BZdz4r-aeyqe-322MHvZRYe9sIpomjN7zS3hIWi4qlegJMpK-VTifmlqSW80yER88yUOpGfFiEHLLO0KFHYvXbtaLQcRcKv0boaP4NzArnl8jQZcSrdmQr5bCLtHlpfPk/s1600/Hillside+vineyards+IMG_3941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATrfI92q5B3BZdz4r-aeyqe-322MHvZRYe9sIpomjN7zS3hIWi4qlegJMpK-VTifmlqSW80yER88yUOpGfFiEHLLO0KFHYvXbtaLQcRcKv0boaP4NzArnl8jQZcSrdmQr5bCLtHlpfPk/s200/Hillside+vineyards+IMG_3941.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLBOPzm4fB1kMN4j1IemRx-2I-VwDy8AtKLo_Go0mEMXlmA_yVTYnlZC2gFUEe-nlICb_cnPu8wz42dAVBH9_Jmhu9g4qNbRuc4ZodSnkp2dd_Hfryyjo6IoZ2D71wrkRSlS6AeQrvsU/s1600/Boats+%2526+sunbathers+in+harbor+IMG_3950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLBOPzm4fB1kMN4j1IemRx-2I-VwDy8AtKLo_Go0mEMXlmA_yVTYnlZC2gFUEe-nlICb_cnPu8wz42dAVBH9_Jmhu9g4qNbRuc4ZodSnkp2dd_Hfryyjo6IoZ2D71wrkRSlS6AeQrvsU/s320/Boats+%2526+sunbathers+in+harbor+IMG_3950.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My heart goes out to all of those affected by the rage of nature that hit Italy earlier this week. The people, their villages, the landscape, the history; the destruction is felt worldwide. Think back to a FWiF story several weeks ago… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monterossa al Mare, “red mountain at the sea” to some – color pallet of the Mediterranean to me, where umbrellas stand in a long row at silent attention, sometimes opening in a symphony of color</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember that image? Now, sadly that symphony of color is cloaked in mud, and the next southern-most town of Vernazza, has also suffered badly. The following story remembers my experience in Vernazza, a picture perfect place to envision as your eyes flutter shut and you float off to dreamland. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbra-1ZKxtqKiypi8n-tU82OtzVQX95_bc_xpEv2Vv_2RXPYXUKX6nb1MaLuFH1WH5uYOf4JsY1ZU0BoXDxw7Fd849mZZsMnintl0a1tQa6ZPy6wF_enBfq880FzgrdJndiUHJgbkT2s/s1600/Buddies+on+the+Shore+IMG_4052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbra-1ZKxtqKiypi8n-tU82OtzVQX95_bc_xpEv2Vv_2RXPYXUKX6nb1MaLuFH1WH5uYOf4JsY1ZU0BoXDxw7Fd849mZZsMnintl0a1tQa6ZPy6wF_enBfq880FzgrdJndiUHJgbkT2s/s200/Buddies+on+the+Shore+IMG_4052.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5bBSCbHZgbK5Waz9Ve0fDzinUbEQZ7oonVp0IOSlqB-QB47dU3eT2-gYCchaBJ9_OtEXb3i6y57Et4VTtrKBgpkRbtzfC7MESALvaqs9we0prLVIXRIeL-fSgt4h2W1TmifH3QH7oPU/s1600/man+and+woman+IMG_4004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5bBSCbHZgbK5Waz9Ve0fDzinUbEQZ7oonVp0IOSlqB-QB47dU3eT2-gYCchaBJ9_OtEXb3i6y57Et4VTtrKBgpkRbtzfC7MESALvaqs9we0prLVIXRIeL-fSgt4h2W1TmifH3QH7oPU/s200/man+and+woman+IMG_4004.jpg" width="140" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Vernazza is a cliff side town in the area called Cinque Terre (five lands) on the Mediterranean coast. Its arms stretch up to the sky, over hillsides of terraced vineyards and olive groves, and its toes dip down into the tide. There are no cars on the cobble streets. There is also no measureable time here – just the clock of the sun and the stars, and the snooze alarm of the soft sea breeze. Nothing is required of you here, other than that you experience and enjoy. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8u3EyJvjtWzlKsi9wMo893iRRAn1JsHSEPY-8YqlOIH9vr31uYDOnxPKlLh09_fwWak1zEHDFJ1-SdyreKAkp0_IdnM6cWdGuzi8TdipuKbv_xKra4gOaCDFlRgUqtyrKVHuq2qmgRc/s1600/Lunch+cafe+IMG_4015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8u3EyJvjtWzlKsi9wMo893iRRAn1JsHSEPY-8YqlOIH9vr31uYDOnxPKlLh09_fwWak1zEHDFJ1-SdyreKAkp0_IdnM6cWdGuzi8TdipuKbv_xKra4gOaCDFlRgUqtyrKVHuq2qmgRc/s320/Lunch+cafe+IMG_4015.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6Fqy8FoLVs64tzDUKfpc7d4GI4tK_jPhS0_-SW5eKuMlwanNq67XiNkieYJmM20P58YCxo-5kKLW7AzZHhQ1ngXX75AB7uJEbnbvYlRWa_dfY19M8_HQgMXe-Q_gE6D5GHH9hpd9lPs/s1600/Men+Playing+Cards+IMG_4120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6Fqy8FoLVs64tzDUKfpc7d4GI4tK_jPhS0_-SW5eKuMlwanNq67XiNkieYJmM20P58YCxo-5kKLW7AzZHhQ1ngXX75AB7uJEbnbvYlRWa_dfY19M8_HQgMXe-Q_gE6D5GHH9hpd9lPs/s200/Men+Playing+Cards+IMG_4120.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It is an unassuming village where all ages intertwine and cross paths with the unspoken rhythm of practiced respect. People take time to enjoy the air and water, chat with a friend, or bask in the sun. A man and woman actively converse in the middle of the street as men speak in hand gestures behind them. Four middle aged men pass the time playing cards in an outdoor cafe. Two seniors, without a care in the world, sit on a stone bench contemplating the vast fields of blue beyond.</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4YS0hawVds9GtsZ4C9EIj9XVBzqqQdNdUASOI-cVtpsy-987xIgDl9jIdrqNKsqXp4hg7FYuPUVkm2nYZqVsWO07hvmjSgUKrrB0piVSmTLwNRRQUSAYxIgvgnjYqnHLylsX2hM6Lak/s1600/Lemoncello+bottles+IMG_3992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4YS0hawVds9GtsZ4C9EIj9XVBzqqQdNdUASOI-cVtpsy-987xIgDl9jIdrqNKsqXp4hg7FYuPUVkm2nYZqVsWO07hvmjSgUKrrB0piVSmTLwNRRQUSAYxIgvgnjYqnHLylsX2hM6Lak/s200/Lemoncello+bottles+IMG_3992.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgS7LFPHhtq0uK2y4oBLjIQPXS9mtEdWokEJWq7cDMxp4aJnFwxqhyphenhyphenaBvGGnLSA3mkEJZPfg5P1sq1UWDZ2R0PNW4vQzBNl-ppFVWwDbP25F8jMMMspSv6Og_q5US8_yK7qfaBihS_CLI/s1600/Building+with+laundry+horz+IMG_3918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgS7LFPHhtq0uK2y4oBLjIQPXS9mtEdWokEJWq7cDMxp4aJnFwxqhyphenhyphenaBvGGnLSA3mkEJZPfg5P1sq1UWDZ2R0PNW4vQzBNl-ppFVWwDbP25F8jMMMspSv6Og_q5US8_yK7qfaBihS_CLI/s320/Building+with+laundry+horz+IMG_3918.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Wet laundry is shaken out of second story windows and hung on the line. Shopkeepers sweep the doorsteps and restock bottles of lemoncello. Restaurateurs, readying for lunch, pile baskets high with lemons and smooth the tablecloth wrinkles. The only distraction here, if you want to call it that, is the uncanny feeling of getting lost in the easiness of the village. I learn from a waiter that the distraction of ease is often experienced by travelers who, caught up in the calm of the moment, miss the last train of the day and, without complaint, stay just one more night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhFKtYNOOtvd28rxKJ58MIaozTzVVBarhyphenhyphenS0ry1DPMeX3_ZeIxvC6Ow_3Ds20PEnmfH3eqDNl-uiVKyIub8j1V-QiHo5ZpZCB2A-6PjolVFVky5QojxF6bq0mnpM-6tPPwUzV3mlORdw/s1600/Green+shutters+IMG_3928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhFKtYNOOtvd28rxKJ58MIaozTzVVBarhyphenhyphenS0ry1DPMeX3_ZeIxvC6Ow_3Ds20PEnmfH3eqDNl-uiVKyIub8j1V-QiHo5ZpZCB2A-6PjolVFVky5QojxF6bq0mnpM-6tPPwUzV3mlORdw/s200/Green+shutters+IMG_3928.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikq6DE8onsRMsOm_Zyc1H5ZsXchG5RJxCeVXfaVyuO0ZVPynHnpGwaDyj0fxQkT2aGmS5XFZ91zihtFCRRTaAqGh3F6m6MwYItb0PfKYB_xNZtZR09hi2tilbcyl1Kh9exoxlLgfeEHu4/s1600/Narrow+street+IMG_3973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikq6DE8onsRMsOm_Zyc1H5ZsXchG5RJxCeVXfaVyuO0ZVPynHnpGwaDyj0fxQkT2aGmS5XFZ91zihtFCRRTaAqGh3F6m6MwYItb0PfKYB_xNZtZR09hi2tilbcyl1Kh9exoxlLgfeEHu4/s200/Narrow+street+IMG_3973.jpg" width="140" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I notice many more cameras hanging around necks than being used to snap photos as the real time experience far outweighs the captured digital moment. T</span>he friendly colors of the buildings wrap you in a comforting glow and the bold colors of the boats force you to smile as they bob in the water like bathtub toys. Two fishermen in a motor boat share camaraderie and float around the protected harbor with no apparent intension of heading toward open water or catching fish. They wave to a woman on the shore who wears an apron and carries a basket. She nods back with a wide grin. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq27ErBO7ka1_zZPLjSNn7DyjkRXQKWJAYM65xD2ux4J9c0vZ74S-gsfvCYIGaCOmurFa01gsFp5DiE7WtBhfyi7TtRtLyYB_A9WQ5W9JCQEF1wmwIx0AzifHsiU2LYIdj4UEg3hdZK6I/s1600/little+boy+IMG_4045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq27ErBO7ka1_zZPLjSNn7DyjkRXQKWJAYM65xD2ux4J9c0vZ74S-gsfvCYIGaCOmurFa01gsFp5DiE7WtBhfyi7TtRtLyYB_A9WQ5W9JCQEF1wmwIx0AzifHsiU2LYIdj4UEg3hdZK6I/s200/little+boy+IMG_4045.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G9vwqVfYJixzHkPhicxbi-4oroQ5En7a7NF8aPzGRaFuf8SVXOufMjJARSLaWKUa_hbVd6NLTPfRncgMKEx6EL22LDEw2p30KtCA8S9zE0ISHrR0kKxDuXDW6dSYPc9pO-oEoExqsac/s1600/Two+men+in+boat+IMG_4028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G9vwqVfYJixzHkPhicxbi-4oroQ5En7a7NF8aPzGRaFuf8SVXOufMjJARSLaWKUa_hbVd6NLTPfRncgMKEx6EL22LDEw2p30KtCA8S9zE0ISHrR0kKxDuXDW6dSYPc9pO-oEoExqsac/s320/Two+men+in+boat+IMG_4028.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Walking from the train station through the town, you instinctively know that Vernazza is a place of contentment and that the peace found here is the town’s complimentary gift to you. This is a genuine place where a fast-beating heart comes to find quiet and over-active children are content watching the water ebb and flow. The pace is slow, as you might expect to find in a Riviera beach town lost in time. Walk the narrow streets up to the church, or up the path overlooking the harbor, or sit for hours-on-end doing nothing. No one seems to be overly interested in what you’re doing, or how long you do it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT9_SWPEGp3g9jsJwSc_ezrXpokNaGjIzQbaQTW54dfU5HObtvqQ7qiGhf1GTLYpWY97v1Su9-f-SQCFMXEsFuMYRUyH8UTWXyt0eXfEBkGQiBxZXMXYMb2Hcx2KWyC2agfVLVhjvUQU/s1600/INgrid+at+Vernazzo+IMG_3958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT9_SWPEGp3g9jsJwSc_ezrXpokNaGjIzQbaQTW54dfU5HObtvqQ7qiGhf1GTLYpWY97v1Su9-f-SQCFMXEsFuMYRUyH8UTWXyt0eXfEBkGQiBxZXMXYMb2Hcx2KWyC2agfVLVhjvUQU/s200/INgrid+at+Vernazzo+IMG_3958.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">To the tourist, Vernazza looks and feels easy. There is a quiet solitude here, the kind that’s usually only found internally. You see it in the body language of locals and visitors alike. You see it in the casual way the laundry dries in the warm air and the way the buildings hug each other close. It is the essence of Vernazza – it is the refreshing language of simplicity, a reminder that life does not have to be complicated. Monterossa al Mare and Vernazza, the two northern most charms on the coastal bracelet called Cinque Terre have been tarnished, but their long history of resilience and undying spirit will help them thrive again. I’ll keep the serene and vibrant images of these precious towns close to my heart as they build a new future. I’ll recall a little boy lost in thought, staring at the clear blue water, and I’ll wonder if he’ll remember this lazy day by the tiny bay and someday bring his children here to share the special feeling of this tranquil fishing village. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-48387221785285507122011-10-21T15:11:00.000-07:002011-10-21T21:21:49.898-07:00Gargantuan Italian Meringue Cookies and Vino<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBeMQoNmkqecdFlN4ODvyhyyGes5kH-c6Yph8EfUqcpYWa9x9lpw6gi870Y4VNF5eLEk9J566J8hJTW-vV4PeqymnRQy2cxq-sn49YM9Bm_kMd73uGbiKDrz7Y7OG_tZSnndhj-i22Wg/s1600/three+bottles+vin+santo+horz+IMG_1042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBeMQoNmkqecdFlN4ODvyhyyGes5kH-c6Yph8EfUqcpYWa9x9lpw6gi870Y4VNF5eLEk9J566J8hJTW-vV4PeqymnRQy2cxq-sn49YM9Bm_kMd73uGbiKDrz7Y7OG_tZSnndhj-i22Wg/s640/three+bottles+vin+santo+horz+IMG_1042.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrHEqGc7xQ7FLXejPLDupd9LuWMjLiUC_bNnXvFcRXD9PaOH6dLNLs-B9bJvk4LPer2C_1aQ9p2DtTbSaLiGlRGuuU9B1XeOl88TEiFKsP4NOJIOkUprFHL7XCJTQQ0h8FD-cwWiL4vU/s1600/many+raffia+wine+bottlesIMG_0661.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrHEqGc7xQ7FLXejPLDupd9LuWMjLiUC_bNnXvFcRXD9PaOH6dLNLs-B9bJvk4LPer2C_1aQ9p2DtTbSaLiGlRGuuU9B1XeOl88TEiFKsP4NOJIOkUprFHL7XCJTQQ0h8FD-cwWiL4vU/s320/many+raffia+wine+bottlesIMG_0661.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I never thought I would ever say, “Not one more cookie or one more glass of wine,” (two of my favorite food groups), but I admit, those words go through my mind as I scan the kitchen on Via Ricasoli for a snack and see bags of amaretto cookies, lady fingers, biscotti, cantucci, and a wedge of panforte dusted with powder sugar. “Pasta, bread, pizza, pastries, desserts…no worry. You just walk it off,” everyone in-the-know seems to say. No one mentions that sweets are less expensive and more readily available than anything green or fruit-like. Sweets in Florence are the quick sugar-and-carb-rush partner to the caffeine jolt of espresso. Fruits and vegetables seem to be reserved as an accent color on a side dish at dinner. I have also heard that people drink wine at both lunch and dinner without getting drunk – another hard to grasp concept. But quickly, I find myself becoming a believer of carbs and vino as day-after-day of pasta, pizza, pastry, cookies, and wine leave my pants loose, my head clear, and me humming a happy tune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzVpp4iERw3JtMYFF7KEtSK093vPnkudmsHoM9umyyn-X2DfzSKNbqzCvhYQX2KtGa7ZFqpE6csg0K0c9YGkNPImS63WknySeNuL5kIGgQKRCM4D9TZ-9OFXc40l-KJBR5KyE2LLCXqs/s1600/chip+cookies+horz+IMG_1822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzVpp4iERw3JtMYFF7KEtSK093vPnkudmsHoM9umyyn-X2DfzSKNbqzCvhYQX2KtGa7ZFqpE6csg0K0c9YGkNPImS63WknySeNuL5kIGgQKRCM4D9TZ-9OFXc40l-KJBR5KyE2LLCXqs/s320/chip+cookies+horz+IMG_1822.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s impossible to ignore the lure of the Italian desserts. Whether or not you actually eat them or just admire their beauty, the mounds of sweets in the bakery window displays beckon you close like sirens of the sea. They are presented artfully, piled high and stacked side-by-side with shapes and colors creating tempting edible sculptures. The visual is an on-going surprise as the temporary installations morph throughout the day with the removal or addition of each sweet treat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyNEQaXOl2qiReVFNxJiGn3LwItyHlWnAfM4BMycRohKvC86a5lugfLaeM72PRvTVMKw5_chKaHPuFhGKFri-MbYhHCNulB-xL9go-iKOkC7pcshOeDlGj9GWolkgIGaCFGm46rzMH6M/s1600/Vin+santo+cantucci+square+IMG_1041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyNEQaXOl2qiReVFNxJiGn3LwItyHlWnAfM4BMycRohKvC86a5lugfLaeM72PRvTVMKw5_chKaHPuFhGKFri-MbYhHCNulB-xL9go-iKOkC7pcshOeDlGj9GWolkgIGaCFGm46rzMH6M/s320/Vin+santo+cantucci+square+IMG_1041.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Biscotti, rugged sliced cookies, are displayed in baskets. They often contain nuts, such as pistachios or hazel nuts. They can also be plain or flavored with almond, chocolate, or orange. The dough is formed in a long log shape and baked in the oven. After baking, it is cooled slightly and then cut into slices, placed back on the baking sheet, and reenters the oven for the second baking. The result is a crunchy hard, slightly sweet, slice of goodness that Americans love to dunk in coffee or tea. The junior size version of biscotti is called “cantucci.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Italians soften cantucci with a dip in golden colored Vin Santo (Wine of the Saints), a sinfully addicting after dinner combination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rmq0gnip-IyXQBYSEk9g8O3ek-sWqOkcuRrrGP2ARw5m7ahxJFpa7SkeMcx76RdnjGu_cYLwvw64qhDUmBwYwk34IlNoqbFDY-1HEhelLgfDQWnknhVqgJO2BVMX_ssLNE_Slc4zfDI/s1600/Meringue_0693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rmq0gnip-IyXQBYSEk9g8O3ek-sWqOkcuRrrGP2ARw5m7ahxJFpa7SkeMcx76RdnjGu_cYLwvw64qhDUmBwYwk34IlNoqbFDY-1HEhelLgfDQWnknhVqgJO2BVMX_ssLNE_Slc4zfDI/s200/Meringue_0693.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWG8UDanQvrOWrRLyU4RgZYuAOrHk9sbv1c1kefU0rI16q_OHh9VNUbAHlcUzBupfkprtAKtnfWIQO7mUndRLugEqBKFg7irCW1nbzhFtiLqoeu1Z5v__16_gumosgat2FkvX-A5Ktmo/s1600/B+eating+cookie+IMG_0690.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWG8UDanQvrOWrRLyU4RgZYuAOrHk9sbv1c1kefU0rI16q_OHh9VNUbAHlcUzBupfkprtAKtnfWIQO7mUndRLugEqBKFg7irCW1nbzhFtiLqoeu1Z5v__16_gumosgat2FkvX-A5Ktmo/s200/B+eating+cookie+IMG_0690.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On the topic of sinful…there is the before mentioned sinful dessert (see post entry “Vin Santo Tiramisu”) and the today mentioned, sinful gargantuan meringues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only way to believe there could really be such a giant meringue cookie is to actually see one; the photos of Barbra show the portion size. Every bakery has their own version the cookie – some are high and top heavy, some are wide and flat without décor, and some are simply huge with chocolate dripping through every nook and cranny. The meringue cookie finds it way to my food category of “sinful” due to its simple nonthreatening ingredients – just sugar, egg whites, cream of tartar, and air – and their weight, lofty like cumulus clouds resting on an earthbound plate. What makes them doubly sinful is that both your eyes and your stomach tell you, “Hey man, there’s no way you’re going to eat that whole thing in a single try,” as the devil on your shoulder urges you on to victorious consumption.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfILKHSyO6KPT6Hncd3B9znGA2Rqn8G-O4xijQXinpCfYN-Aa1D0_UPPm3jwgt4yzxA0Pm_ikbZXOM1nGnBh0w9Ga3GuMb2yl6r7I0FE3dT5Blkt-Pf2U6TNkW4fb3WBwR9EFsLT0S_M/s1600/canoli+IMG_1821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfILKHSyO6KPT6Hncd3B9znGA2Rqn8G-O4xijQXinpCfYN-Aa1D0_UPPm3jwgt4yzxA0Pm_ikbZXOM1nGnBh0w9Ga3GuMb2yl6r7I0FE3dT5Blkt-Pf2U6TNkW4fb3WBwR9EFsLT0S_M/s320/canoli+IMG_1821.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In the bakery windows, the arbitrary uninhibited shapes of the meringue makes them snap shot worthy, while the carefully wrapped and cream-filled cannoli resembles a new baby swaddled in a designer blanket awaiting a professional photo session. The way the cookies rise and fall on the platters, intermingling with their cake-bread cousins, makes me want to shrink so small I can use them as a climbing wall, resting on a chocolate chip boulder or stretched out in a crevasse, laying my body against the rippled egg white walls. In another dessert vision, I easily imagine my petite friend Nancy Pearl on the fashion runway wearing a sleek cannoli-profile cocktail dress with a chocolate dripped meringue, tipped on the side of her head as a pill box hat, and sugar crystal chandelier earrings dangling down, almost touching her red frosting spaghetti straps. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Face it, Italian cookies are an art form that activates my imagination and brings me joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The devil on my shoulder asks, “One more glass of wine, one more cookie?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why not!” I respond, “I’ll walk it off bakery window shopping tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">………………………. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxkooOksXI9pF_Z5wYqN1NNC3SMo-DZ_BXO4xuiKPfnqreAc8YHNe1RGzobTXADUQKF9CZKE0nmDl8UfbDkCCmbOCjSOdZ0xuvCI9vxyXgmTpPYSki6EcFEG-0R2KZ4E00GvRYDlpJu8/s1600/Pannini%252C_Giovanni_Paolo_-detail+_Interior_of_a_Picture_Gallery_with_the_Collection_of_Cardinal_Silvio_Valenti_Gonzaga_-_1740_detail01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxkooOksXI9pF_Z5wYqN1NNC3SMo-DZ_BXO4xuiKPfnqreAc8YHNe1RGzobTXADUQKF9CZKE0nmDl8UfbDkCCmbOCjSOdZ0xuvCI9vxyXgmTpPYSki6EcFEG-0R2KZ4E00GvRYDlpJu8/s320/Pannini%252C_Giovanni_Paolo_-detail+_Interior_of_a_Picture_Gallery_with_the_Collection_of_Cardinal_Silvio_Valenti_Gonzaga_-_1740_detail01.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGyLhRZkjmAIcA7YpvsTAiwdwi-cHVfeetJFJgBRKuDtep4pIWyoHOxSxeGAJXR-RTpTu6RuZYNt-RDQ4kfjWBYr7RSQPnUrkYJMl19Yhs80-I4k-RkE3PLCepUrgwVbBMe2UYHLJCkY/s1600/Paninni+-+INterior+of+a+picture+gallery+with+the+Collection+of+Cardinal+Silvio+Valenti+Gonzaga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGyLhRZkjmAIcA7YpvsTAiwdwi-cHVfeetJFJgBRKuDtep4pIWyoHOxSxeGAJXR-RTpTu6RuZYNt-RDQ4kfjWBYr7RSQPnUrkYJMl19Yhs80-I4k-RkE3PLCepUrgwVbBMe2UYHLJCkY/s320/Paninni+-+INterior+of+a+picture+gallery+with+the+Collection+of+Cardinal+Silvio+Valenti+Gonzaga.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s no surprise I’m drawn to the temporary food-art installations as they are reminiscent of the Italian “veduta paintings” of scenes with highly detailed landscape and architectural elements. There are so many sweets in the bakery window frame that it’s hard to focus on just one cookie, just as it is hard to select one tiny area in a veduta painting. Here’s the image of the veduta print in my living room. See the detail (from the lower left center of the painting). Just like a precious lumpy cookie in the pile, this painting detail is a treasure in itself. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Interior of a Picture Gallery with the Collection of Cardinal Silvio Valenti Gonzaga” by Giovanni Paolo Pannini, 1740 (note: work of art is in the public domain). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-73607841569627821652011-10-14T17:45:00.000-07:002011-10-14T17:52:23.960-07:00A Pity at Palazzo Pitti<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1V1LucDjBUrXtuizZ0vSXmJQBb2Ha-JLGDmqH9UV8koZwMODJ4ISpN6-YCga0RdIKUFuDVMTiPB-MbZEv6ZLDmmKa127lDKZnYi6GYxHf0Ef-pGmFNQ0R1Xkg_MFx8LnVv_LZTUsfnqM/s1600/Front+statue+boy+with+back+turned+IMG_1720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1V1LucDjBUrXtuizZ0vSXmJQBb2Ha-JLGDmqH9UV8koZwMODJ4ISpN6-YCga0RdIKUFuDVMTiPB-MbZEv6ZLDmmKa127lDKZnYi6GYxHf0Ef-pGmFNQ0R1Xkg_MFx8LnVv_LZTUsfnqM/s320/Front+statue+boy+with+back+turned+IMG_1720.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvP22yNzLXFBNvGTS07tag7OO0LuIB1oVpwMkQz0CQOtiDaDQLHOYFHFh5SFoqrNkKwjxMgyfGapO-wARNnjwmvheq4vQV3tNAST6kJUZ-3CHv4ecu9I4tkyVfRc_SnvfStZ2_knl2YWw/s1600/Ingrid_Lundquist+4+-+Carving+the+Conch+at+Pitti+%2528IMG_1553%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvP22yNzLXFBNvGTS07tag7OO0LuIB1oVpwMkQz0CQOtiDaDQLHOYFHFh5SFoqrNkKwjxMgyfGapO-wARNnjwmvheq4vQV3tNAST6kJUZ-3CHv4ecu9I4tkyVfRc_SnvfStZ2_knl2YWw/s320/Ingrid_Lundquist+4+-+Carving+the+Conch+at+Pitti+%2528IMG_1553%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">To greatly simplify a long and fascinating story, the Palazzo Pitti was built by banker Lucca Pitti in the mid 1400s and was purchased in the mid 1500s by the Medici’s, one of the most wealthy, political, and influential families in Europe. Its grounds and gardens are in a word, huge, and in another word, weighty. There is something undeniably solid about the structure (both physical and visual) and its contents. The palace sits across the Arno River from center of Florence and today, the royal family’s living quarters have been reassigned as Galleria Palatina and are filled with the private art collection of the Medici’s. Inside are antiques, sculpture, silver, fine china, paintings, frescos, costumes and other artifacts and outside, more sculptures and fountains in the manicured Boboli Gardens. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnymb3Ixl2c2lCYQ3A0b6R9hQ7SesVMJnxBHmZDDze0giI9F7ZNMeEOGrr-yjGwt7mYGhF3iehRrdEKrFcy6PLdTZxNNMKxshrSsrGkf9D2edv2QJvpGPHqVcaANSWhLmYCe8jsM-frzI/s1600/Boboli+garden+long+shot+IMG_1691.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnymb3Ixl2c2lCYQ3A0b6R9hQ7SesVMJnxBHmZDDze0giI9F7ZNMeEOGrr-yjGwt7mYGhF3iehRrdEKrFcy6PLdTZxNNMKxshrSsrGkf9D2edv2QJvpGPHqVcaANSWhLmYCe8jsM-frzI/s320/Boboli+garden+long+shot+IMG_1691.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The plot of land is the size of a village. Walking straight from the palace up the hill, location of the museum filled with fine porcelain, takes a minimum of 20 minutes. It isn’t until I find myself atop a hill, and catch a glimpse of the city of Florence in the distance, that I realize the true effort exerted in traversing the hundreds of sneaky, short elevation steps leading to this highest vantage point. Walking side-to-side on the flat land, the chances of getting lost in one of the many gardens within a garden, are high and as exciting as daunting. Even with the enormous size of the Pitti Palace, it’s easy to lose your bearings in the overgrowth for several minutes without a sight line to the massive building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimuz0JER1HcTsscCd0HVjywbWd-pHNepVhMONtBmm5XdnWrYb8pmHIuwmHvSSZ4OBCjhQGyG8czd4dz0uyjRu4kB9FTvQceW9HpSXkjlAb4-0BLb2J4v7-s5BmE0wjyJVjWCy369KFuQQ/s1600/Pitti+back+with+truck+IMG_1565.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimuz0JER1HcTsscCd0HVjywbWd-pHNepVhMONtBmm5XdnWrYb8pmHIuwmHvSSZ4OBCjhQGyG8czd4dz0uyjRu4kB9FTvQceW9HpSXkjlAb4-0BLb2J4v7-s5BmE0wjyJVjWCy369KFuQQ/s320/Pitti+back+with+truck+IMG_1565.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Inside the palace, my legs get an almost tougher workout up the stairs and over what seems like acres of harder than hard stone floors. But walking through the interior galleries is a little slice of heaven akin to my favorite type of living experience. Be it overnight in a hotel or friend’s guest room, spending weeks in our apartment “Aldo” on Via Ricasoli, in the family home where I grew up, or in my current home in California – my attachment to a place is directly related to the manner in which the walls dress. How walls wear their clothes and accessories tells me how they feel about the day and influences how I feel when I wake and see them in the morning. I feel most comfortable living inside a space filled with art. In the palazzo, ceilings and walls are covered with frescos, detailed plaster cast ornamentation, deeply carved molding, gold leaf furniture, and hundreds of original paintings framed in bulky gold frames, hung gallery-style, fill the walls. To me, it’s not overwhelming, but rather calming. In this bedroom suite where royalty once slept, the over-stimulation of color, shapes and images sing the soothing lullaby of art.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXBTbqEjo0Dj0tInqz0_j_wnNzWJX3uBfnsy2tMSTeOwrwomwZzRqe_Pv7b-VZqPgI0VYTiOBewT0OvpQG62PhRcLqbUR-HOdNtAz7k6M-3LW0Qs9k-aJxq0_FFYjrG0YWVjdLMgxXjY/s1600/Neptune+IMG_1568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXBTbqEjo0Dj0tInqz0_j_wnNzWJX3uBfnsy2tMSTeOwrwomwZzRqe_Pv7b-VZqPgI0VYTiOBewT0OvpQG62PhRcLqbUR-HOdNtAz7k6M-3LW0Qs9k-aJxq0_FFYjrG0YWVjdLMgxXjY/s320/Neptune+IMG_1568.jpg" width="316" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Several years ago, in a traveling show at </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Frist Center for the Visual Arts</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> in Nashville, TN, I discovered Giovanni Paolo Pannini and new a love for “veduta painting.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vedute</i> means view in Italian, hence the style called “veduta paintings,” large scale paintings of panoramic views or scenes with highly detailed landscape and architectural elements. Pannini’s “Interior of a Picture Gallery with the Collection of Cardinal Silvio Valenti Gonzaga,” is a wall-size painting of the interior of a library type space with 60’high barrel ceilings and paintings covering every square inch of the walls. The room has columns, statues, people milling around, paintings scattered on the floor, and it makes you feel as if you just happened upon an art calamity, not unlike today’s flash mob. A print of that painting hangs in my living room, which itself resembles more of an art gallery than a staging area for a sofa and coffee table. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrF89-IUMJzYM9uqajvh38H_K4MpVrDpYvUZvVGgIWg7_-P1YvaOqQp85QBEy-BMwLoaFLVBv89H6FHWZrS3jEtbsSU53wsf-x0zL966ul7WpTxPRQPCbARLNpcIv-7jkclzRfT05OMw/s1600/Pitti+bending+statueIMG_1548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrF89-IUMJzYM9uqajvh38H_K4MpVrDpYvUZvVGgIWg7_-P1YvaOqQp85QBEy-BMwLoaFLVBv89H6FHWZrS3jEtbsSU53wsf-x0zL966ul7WpTxPRQPCbARLNpcIv-7jkclzRfT05OMw/s320/Pitti+bending+statueIMG_1548.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The fact that you are not allowed to take photos in the Pitti galleries softens the blow of me leaving without a snap shot of my favorite piece of art dated in the 1600s by Cornelis de Bailleur entitled “The Studio of Rubens.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a veduta of an art studio filled to the brim with paintings and alive with all things that have always made artists’ studios a place of mystery and magic. Of the 2,500+ works of art said to be catalogued for the palace, I was saddened to learn that no one at the palace gift shop was familiar with my favorite piece; there was no post card, no book, and no museum literature. To add insult to injury, I cannnot find an image of it on the internet. In spite of this pity at Pitti, the gardens and sculptures make the trip worthwhile, so stop by and see my favorite painting when you visit the palace, and check the nearby antique bed to see if I have drifted off to sleep under the red velvet comforter, an uncatalogued work of art, dreaming of being in a veduta painting.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-81446423416058742822011-10-07T09:10:00.000-07:002011-10-07T09:10:00.088-07:00Florence “Sidewalk Still Life with Bicycle” in Juried Art Show in California<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAq-1qUJ1nFew2tspmrd8KcE40URGsSh6Dso-SZPZQdLAROiNpwlBoPWAUvqgK8RRWrhRtwK6GFC3OLgjCrLrMa1aqaIJa6QqVBSf2XIJQ-ERak6OeCBQv-0Dedi-Fs9c80-yqjGoDSuw/s1600/bike+with+yield+sign_2170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAq-1qUJ1nFew2tspmrd8KcE40URGsSh6Dso-SZPZQdLAROiNpwlBoPWAUvqgK8RRWrhRtwK6GFC3OLgjCrLrMa1aqaIJa6QqVBSf2XIJQ-ERak6OeCBQv-0Dedi-Fs9c80-yqjGoDSuw/s320/bike+with+yield+sign_2170.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8P346J8CG9_OP89IzmIMC3ryMwnEwhGa9v7vXdkSA6WV_sgjoV8cXD6YtgIooQkcaxME3bpQREZfyzySAwxLhZ6FyPamCUUmhM8_tBgWa_kDOae7_sWanO4-S8_8p5aZ1Pv8lcPrysEo/s1600/red+kids+bike_0858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8P346J8CG9_OP89IzmIMC3ryMwnEwhGa9v7vXdkSA6WV_sgjoV8cXD6YtgIooQkcaxME3bpQREZfyzySAwxLhZ6FyPamCUUmhM8_tBgWa_kDOae7_sWanO4-S8_8p5aZ1Pv8lcPrysEo/s200/red+kids+bike_0858.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In elementary school, I had a girls Schwinn bike. It was blue with faux leather saddle bags and rubber hand grips with hanging white fringe. It had a silver metal bell mounted on the handle bar that rang when I pushed the lever with my right thumb, and it had a big red reflector on the back fender. I clipped playing cards to my spokes with wooden clothes pins and rode until I got dizzy just to hear the ti-tit-ti-tit-ti tit-ti-tit of the paper king and queen as the wheels rolled and rolled, while I peddled round and round, circling the street light in the center of our cul-d-sac. Other than that, I have never considered myself a bicycle person.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYGfnC9cNaA4UIGB_sKs-bYycCPtWlkXPIbTnLqbKCUPXlYXarlR70ap6MC8mMjFLRNV02idXumbZQgV6oLEI9QPJbiYESqqR4M1FavVXbnLDPk0QmWvLJKMTW2mOW3Qv5YKaXnrA4X0/s1600/Man+walking+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYGfnC9cNaA4UIGB_sKs-bYycCPtWlkXPIbTnLqbKCUPXlYXarlR70ap6MC8mMjFLRNV02idXumbZQgV6oLEI9QPJbiYESqqR4M1FavVXbnLDPk0QmWvLJKMTW2mOW3Qv5YKaXnrA4X0/s200/Man+walking+bike.jpg" width="148" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69b5hJVpPJCz8hn_Nv4_hl-4jG7A0Pl2USRNOYDnRAFAa4INOBaRKEunrIrXDNM-G3uNqqdg87IR29ZcaRaetKWm3xw78QGKfiLyNoMYieAfyQK9aq69505a1Ofh1u5KIQ61-bxgJMiU/s1600/grafitti+bikes+on+corner+square+_0669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69b5hJVpPJCz8hn_Nv4_hl-4jG7A0Pl2USRNOYDnRAFAa4INOBaRKEunrIrXDNM-G3uNqqdg87IR29ZcaRaetKWm3xw78QGKfiLyNoMYieAfyQK9aq69505a1Ofh1u5KIQ61-bxgJMiU/s320/grafitti+bikes+on+corner+square+_0669.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">When I see bicycles, I think of Roy Tatman, even though I have never seen him ride a bike. He is an artist and has curated four art shows with bicycle themes. On the streets of Florence, and other towns in Tuscany, bicycles are common. I believe they’re used for transportation more than recreation as I’ve seen many more leaning against buildings, in wait for their owners to get off of work, than actually ridden. I have seen quite a few being walked, almost as if to get attention just as a single person walks his or her dog in areas known to be frequented by other single people walking dogs. Many of the photography students at Santa Reparata International School of Art gravitate to photographing bicycles, so I feel obligated to snap a few bike photos myself. The bikes that attract me are neither the coolest or the most expensive, I reserve my selection to those Roy might find interesting, bicycles with personalities or oddities, bicycles of “bicycle show” worthiness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vv1C4-_tWJgZPlZBa8ePJYxIrgcaBLPEaQBDFW5nHTukVTYQ0ktpe2lXUDmiaprNZG6Ph8XhWKnhuXayRtfFgjN2KUA9MY0huys26prx22CU-PiA9JzpOAbtAnrUepqu1seuou_9g6Q/s1600/Ingrid+with+bike+at+Ricasoli+door_4704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vv1C4-_tWJgZPlZBa8ePJYxIrgcaBLPEaQBDFW5nHTukVTYQ0ktpe2lXUDmiaprNZG6Ph8XhWKnhuXayRtfFgjN2KUA9MY0huys26prx22CU-PiA9JzpOAbtAnrUepqu1seuou_9g6Q/s320/Ingrid+with+bike+at+Ricasoli+door_4704.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_lTTt0RhgN4G7WvGH1-Q0yUZQQBGHKPpdvDCYpNbHnXbxGUHcn9JzT-QfSI29M54nKin4u3zQD2zaHd-Fr3Tfu4Yq4tLNeEr4qSMvwSbucG_Ze4xXV4UxOHQBSaUCFhW7k_t2waoDM4/s1600/Marcello+bike+in+hallway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_lTTt0RhgN4G7WvGH1-Q0yUZQQBGHKPpdvDCYpNbHnXbxGUHcn9JzT-QfSI29M54nKin4u3zQD2zaHd-Fr3Tfu4Yq4tLNeEr4qSMvwSbucG_Ze4xXV4UxOHQBSaUCFhW7k_t2waoDM4/s320/Marcello+bike+in+hallway.jpg" width="218" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Marcello has a bicycle. He leaves it in the downstairs hallway of Ricasoli. I’ve seen him walk it several times, and it often leans against the outside wall of our building near our front door, but I’ve never seen him ride it. Sometimes in the late afternoon, his bike rests against the downstairs hallway wall. The smell from the warm rubber tires fills the hollow with a pungent odor, indicating he has recently returned from the sun burned streets of Florence. I imagine myself walking up the 53 steps to our floor, resting a moment, composing myself, and then going the next 17 steps farther up to his door. I stand erect, toss my pony tail back over my left shoulder, and lick my lips wet while simultaneously using the back of my hand to wipe away the beads of liquid dancing on the stage beneath my nose. I knock cautiously, but directly. He opens the door, still wearing clothes stained wet with the sweat of the day, and looks at me with wonder. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Marcello,” I say casually, yet matter of factly, while my heart races, “Marcello sorry to bother you, but I noticed that your hot bicycle tires are sticking to the marble floor.” He looks instinctively back to the interior of his apartment and then back at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZ3MnAqANNEi6m8eYZSM66RTYc48u3kvGqC-0cfhSV-rdEn6DtfqewAUNpEcehRAq4xvXSmjpYjkq_Twf4Y9k4Z0UwgB1EKrnoUYmfhJYEpzj1arvAgAnVkQwEEISFVTtklD5gxKeWUw/s1600/bike+by+fruit+stand_1739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZ3MnAqANNEi6m8eYZSM66RTYc48u3kvGqC-0cfhSV-rdEn6DtfqewAUNpEcehRAq4xvXSmjpYjkq_Twf4Y9k4Z0UwgB1EKrnoUYmfhJYEpzj1arvAgAnVkQwEEISFVTtklD5gxKeWUw/s320/bike+by+fruit+stand_1739.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Who es ita ata the doora?” his wife Sophia, in the kitchen chopping fresh vegetables and peeling garlic for dinner, calls out to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Itsa no one,” he replies, “Justa the bata lady froma downstairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Whada bada lady froma downstairs?” she questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Noa noa, the bata lady,” he says again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0__u02TeIdxGspMab1fQAdlsKDMmqyn65V3tbktBPM7yZRYNIa1kMJ8veS8uefnIsSU12uQIrP-3-19rgfUTKHnSkxy7YSTHbKZMPy8OzSeTu1OX8ZbRYkXQjfefh0iUnxtBy_yrcZY/s1600/bikes+by+leaflette+wall_0697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0__u02TeIdxGspMab1fQAdlsKDMmqyn65V3tbktBPM7yZRYNIa1kMJ8veS8uefnIsSU12uQIrP-3-19rgfUTKHnSkxy7YSTHbKZMPy8OzSeTu1OX8ZbRYkXQjfefh0iUnxtBy_yrcZY/s320/bikes+by+leaflette+wall_0697.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oha, the bata lady thata flapa her armsa lika birda?” she says referencing the night we made a ruckus, Barbra chasing a displaced flying bat with a broom and me opening wide the shaft window, visible from their apartment, and waving my arms to chase it outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yeah. The bata lady,” he responds to her and then turns to me and says, “Soa whada you saya abouta mya hota…whata hota?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I want to say… “You Marcello, you are-a hota,” my shoulders releasing their tension, but instead I say, “Youra rubbera isa,” and then I stop, realizing I am starting to speak make believe Italian. “Marcello,” I say, changing back to proper English, “Your rubber is so hot it stuck to the floor.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaW-5IWIWNI_d4Ak_azaDbbIR-WRixXRwloNpEbDgKKM2OyTvVexFV1rcfH5LfK-LR9nXs5Hw5B_puO3PQjNvdz5uQpgg36EK1I2WKdF7YimQsL8ONxGRhZ_3e0X0tNZcu4EabjPjX0SI/s1600/bike+in+restaurant+window_0683.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaW-5IWIWNI_d4Ak_azaDbbIR-WRixXRwloNpEbDgKKM2OyTvVexFV1rcfH5LfK-LR9nXs5Hw5B_puO3PQjNvdz5uQpgg36EK1I2WKdF7YimQsL8ONxGRhZ_3e0X0tNZcu4EabjPjX0SI/s320/bike+in+restaurant+window_0683.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQiWOiLWRV1DG0Nz3YukD2AOiWeDcguQuvYfyiA0Cs0Ls5OWxwNXX1fsSOiYGrp9bs0djTZJFTvaP8oDFCTzknTw2IVH88gouFKarlvgDBi4KpRrRu-rQ7bsdfJ9bgasUcjQeEAlMJR8/s1600/yellow+pants+with+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQiWOiLWRV1DG0Nz3YukD2AOiWeDcguQuvYfyiA0Cs0Ls5OWxwNXX1fsSOiYGrp9bs0djTZJFTvaP8oDFCTzknTw2IVH88gouFKarlvgDBi4KpRrRu-rQ7bsdfJ9bgasUcjQeEAlMJR8/s200/yellow+pants+with+bike.jpg" width="127" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At that point he just shakes his head, passes by me on the landing, and jogs down the stairs. Before I make it to the bottom floor, he lifts his still-warm bike, carries it through the hallway, and out to the street. By the time I reach the front door and look his direction, I see a man in colored pants by the bikes, but it’s not my Marcello. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The only thing I can ever manage to say, “Ciao Marcello,” I whisper into the wind, confident he’ll return by nightfall. Maybe he’s going to the singles bike walk, or to the restaurant where you park your bike inside the dining room, or to the graffiti corner, or to the wall where leaflets are posted. There are countless bike subjects lying in wait for Roy to consider … next stop … Bicycle Show Five, Florence.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1R0Oq5MGGj77GGkd-apq4mQnrLgLp-GywwJvCGLsSiYzCtgNuiTmVRPZQflndGYT3UFv5_sxvEcYyWPw8bTOT7kurhyc5Ix-mDreXKo4GC2gsJxgicy1EZ6GRghp4IfltfFeOLrfIFog/s1600/Sidewalk+Still+Life+IMG_1746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1R0Oq5MGGj77GGkd-apq4mQnrLgLp-GywwJvCGLsSiYzCtgNuiTmVRPZQflndGYT3UFv5_sxvEcYyWPw8bTOT7kurhyc5Ix-mDreXKo4GC2gsJxgicy1EZ6GRghp4IfltfFeOLrfIFog/s400/Sidewalk+Still+Life+IMG_1746.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">…………………….<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">One day I noticed a still life on a doorstep. It was a composition of three apricots with, you guessed it, bikes leaned against a nearby wall. “Sidewalk Still Life” was selected to be in a juried show at PlacerArts, Gallery 808 in The Arts Building (808 Lincoln Way in Downtown Auburn, CA). The show opens for Art Walk on Thursday evening, October 13 and will be up until November 15, 2011. Stop by – take a look. For more information, contact PlacerArts at (530) 885-5670 or <a href="http://www.placerarts.org/">www.placerarts.org</a></span><br />
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-53201566192119020452011-09-30T12:33:00.000-07:002011-09-30T18:22:23.685-07:00Michelangelo’s David … Ingrid’s “Davids Under Wraps” in Juried Photo Show in Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia59Hu02tTrSYjaiijhhovNkMN4z5fwpNWbNLR564_NjDiX_Gmy6cdl0GKav6gD5CDPFCWc2WkPedocZg4vqeMw6Ga0yO9rmCbK7kLK6ii44ZbBTcW0YwsUGL0uhNvjMhnnzPt6nWH0h8/s1600/Mercury+full+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia59Hu02tTrSYjaiijhhovNkMN4z5fwpNWbNLR564_NjDiX_Gmy6cdl0GKav6gD5CDPFCWc2WkPedocZg4vqeMw6Ga0yO9rmCbK7kLK6ii44ZbBTcW0YwsUGL0uhNvjMhnnzPt6nWH0h8/s400/Mercury+full+photo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Remind me again, why did you go to Florence?,” asked more than one friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“To live abroad (not just travel through a city) and to take Barbra’s photography class,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh yeah,” they reply, slightly remembering, but still not really grasping the intention.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I can see them thinking, as if to say, “I got a postcard so I know you were there, but where are the photos?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2W6Thm18vJOKAWiZ_4NypeJaTOSf-taq0HvLd-PVpqN2UBFlA7Gfv6NmB84EoRble9iQY7riBUxgeO8_aU90NuVdQQxNHnG6YiPRTjLuike8W-uf_fk0C3K2R_qGEyRpQZ8_RLYEIP8Y/s1600/Upload+Davids+Under+Wraps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2W6Thm18vJOKAWiZ_4NypeJaTOSf-taq0HvLd-PVpqN2UBFlA7Gfv6NmB84EoRble9iQY7riBUxgeO8_aU90NuVdQQxNHnG6YiPRTjLuike8W-uf_fk0C3K2R_qGEyRpQZ8_RLYEIP8Y/s320/Upload+Davids+Under+Wraps.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At this point I step back, review my abilities to communicate and respond proudly, “You can see <strong><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Davids Under Wraps</i> at the A.Smith Gallery in Johnson City, Texas from September 30 – November 6. The artist reception is Saturday, October 22 from 4-7pm</span></strong>.” I take a deep breath and add, “My photo was one of 52 images selected from 376 international entries in a juried show entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">num6ers</i>.” I pause again to allow time for that information to sink in. They do not know me as an artist; they know me as an event producer, so it makes no sense to them that I would have a photograph in a juried gallery show in Texas. Then I say, “The photo is of multiple Davids.” They seem to understand this comment. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolwDSFFnyOVAG46IoHQWx3Aajr_ic_oZOAV8bKcBdd28GTqaon8wUDzXB9Xvo2x_SYpWhn1jN7vY_gza84S_v64bR1-wGHRPa0UNPp7ULuU7Yjux6InrShwp8b_z2VPb4o9pkcZ4rit0/s1600/upload+David+with+novelty+items.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolwDSFFnyOVAG46IoHQWx3Aajr_ic_oZOAV8bKcBdd28GTqaon8wUDzXB9Xvo2x_SYpWhn1jN7vY_gza84S_v64bR1-wGHRPa0UNPp7ULuU7Yjux6InrShwp8b_z2VPb4o9pkcZ4rit0/s320/upload+David+with+novelty+items.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I can imagine the next question being, “With all the beautiful bridges in Florence, why are you photographing souvenirs?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I don’t really have a logical answer for that other than Barbra’s direct instructions on the first day to my Beginning Photography class ... “Just photograph.” </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3obEitAgYvyHQFJ7IeUbf4Cc27LPqQJdSWfJUPthGmqj7VKgaUwHYDVMXONpDO-RaELTznYrp0iwFiOxH938dNxLB_bD2bojaxyjfr3X13KlHz_jGn4oT3kSm5aJPLgX3rzK-hMUIVfg/s1600/upload+david+keychain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3obEitAgYvyHQFJ7IeUbf4Cc27LPqQJdSWfJUPthGmqj7VKgaUwHYDVMXONpDO-RaELTznYrp0iwFiOxH938dNxLB_bD2bojaxyjfr3X13KlHz_jGn4oT3kSm5aJPLgX3rzK-hMUIVfg/s200/upload+david+keychain.jpg" width="113" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Having heard this before from art instructor Tom Brozovich in my first painting class, “Just paint,” I instinctively knew there was merit in her words, so photograph I did. I snapped photos of everything and anything that caught my attention and quickly recognized my lens was capturing images far from the interest of the normal tourist. I was living in a picture perfect postcard world photographing shadows, feet, sidewalks, junk on sidewalks, laundry, backs of statues, store windows, people hanging out of windows, street musicians, vegetables, plates of food, men wearing colored pants – in fact anything with color – and lots of souvenirs.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The David connection might have started when Dr. Rote, our art history professor, said, “Since the Statue of David was originally intended to be mounted on the cathedral roof, Michelangelo had to make David’s head larger than normal so it would appear to have a proportionate size to the body from the viewer’s vantage point at street level.” </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqUnzkT5MDgx781X-q_RAy5UopLl9-kcw1JITr-BoWcEZpCurO5UBgRbXWiXirgS1q4FiCJ6FtxFIf_iNlJ_GLK8g6rwDqnAztdY44SeVtCYrvLn_60_FK5Qge4YXVUXglwBiIfaFgXk/s1600/Upload+Davids+on+a+rolling+rack+for+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqUnzkT5MDgx781X-q_RAy5UopLl9-kcw1JITr-BoWcEZpCurO5UBgRbXWiXirgS1q4FiCJ6FtxFIf_iNlJ_GLK8g6rwDqnAztdY44SeVtCYrvLn_60_FK5Qge4YXVUXglwBiIfaFgXk/s320/Upload+Davids+on+a+rolling+rack+for+blog.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQK8Nf8fZgZk9NcK_6CogYQq3FFBcUB96yxu9dkNM3vQv3HPjRLboEsNiGvm_p0RKXYOIILG7pzaIMWbNgzF2yWZ6LTOtQWvDPuwv0i6DdoAWNzwaZYHzAy20eDpRklz_yPPpTEBZxSX8/s1600/upload+David+and+Botecelli+Venus+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQK8Nf8fZgZk9NcK_6CogYQq3FFBcUB96yxu9dkNM3vQv3HPjRLboEsNiGvm_p0RKXYOIILG7pzaIMWbNgzF2yWZ6LTOtQWvDPuwv0i6DdoAWNzwaZYHzAy20eDpRklz_yPPpTEBZxSX8/s200/upload+David+and+Botecelli+Venus+cropped.jpg" width="137" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">This tidbit of information fascinated me as I surveyed Davids from all sides and in all reincarnations from key chains and statuettes, to being enclosed in snow globes. An interesting observation was that although Botticelli’s Venus was conceived in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Birth of Venus</i>, a two dimensional painting, she often accompanies David in 3-D form. Their sizes are strikingly appropriate as a human man to woman, and they often pose together comfortably as if bonded in wedlock and capable of completing each other’s thoughts. “Stop and pick up frizzante water,” she yells out the window as he walks away on the street below. “Did you hear me David?” she adds, expecting a response. He waves in acknowledgment while mentally scheduling his day of modeling, a haircut, and scribing his biography. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUiDxcE6Sa_uXZgA_pdhhtWPVSszkbWouX8yALXM6hssO3wdeuEmGDQP_3ucM1E5KD_26Xow1_BtyLKhmLtwg_-aD9-UNMqZMNgPQlVHd691S70M4pzy8tSa-_5F0YI7Mwe7-dz7v6fk/s1600/upload+Squeeky+Venus+tight+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUiDxcE6Sa_uXZgA_pdhhtWPVSszkbWouX8yALXM6hssO3wdeuEmGDQP_3ucM1E5KD_26Xow1_BtyLKhmLtwg_-aD9-UNMqZMNgPQlVHd691S70M4pzy8tSa-_5F0YI7Mwe7-dz7v6fk/s320/upload+Squeeky+Venus+tight+crop.jpg" width="205" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfqnAhsgJzHN6AySPAEAGYhAWPoLFb66fGiIUuuWiL5_Kdi4qGXJSL7ABebpD6QG4_c4VMRSNYPyXShSKZ4YfpHukMERBbIAuOVxcgsMAOdriowb_9qAC9kY9jzGNdoTCBh0BXZ5bdsQ/s1600/upload+Squeeky+David+tight+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfqnAhsgJzHN6AySPAEAGYhAWPoLFb66fGiIUuuWiL5_Kdi4qGXJSL7ABebpD6QG4_c4VMRSNYPyXShSKZ4YfpHukMERBbIAuOVxcgsMAOdriowb_9qAC9kY9jzGNdoTCBh0BXZ5bdsQ/s320/upload+Squeeky+David+tight+crop.jpg" width="208" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I also found it interesting that she stands almost prudishly, partially covering her body, while he strikes a victorious pose with towel casually draped over his shoulder – either the anticipation or aftermath of lust being the only likely explanation. With the same childlike amazement I experienced in learning that our art school was located between two “Last Suppers,” I was equally shocked to find there were at least three huge Statues of David in public view. In my California home, there is a private view. The male and female sides of the shower are identified by David and Venus de Milo squeaky toys purchased at the DeYoung Museum gift shop in San Francisco. Their conversations also revolve around water, caldo (hot) and freddo (cold).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, to answer the big question, “Why did I really go to Florence?” … to see the sky and clouds that have inspired artists through the centuries.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0mrUzpAH4vmR6zwKHM-rYvj1NcWOhRVcLT0icGvuGm5WQC22JQDFWLZRy5KGu9kT2GJxdNlTW915FxbUNtyr7Z_DW9axhwgG4XQSz0Pwp_vKtJEeR9H8wHxiEDIAZUFFRxoyXjaKN94/s1600/David+at+San+Mineato+edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0mrUzpAH4vmR6zwKHM-rYvj1NcWOhRVcLT0icGvuGm5WQC22JQDFWLZRy5KGu9kT2GJxdNlTW915FxbUNtyr7Z_DW9axhwgG4XQSz0Pwp_vKtJEeR9H8wHxiEDIAZUFFRxoyXjaKN94/s320/David+at+San+Mineato+edited.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">……………………………………….<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">>>>>><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Johnson City is about an hour’s drive from Austin or San Antonio. If you can’t be there in person, be sure to check out the show images on-line at </span><a href="http://www.asmithgallery.com/"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">www.asmithgallery.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-61539422493745953312011-09-24T11:49:00.000-07:002011-09-30T17:07:47.936-07:00Cinque Terre - Monterossa al Mare, red mountain at the sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGon-AYPhLVrI40kCR2yahnNDPGVYfwBntI8XF1DGC4rCV459wYnu_pA80TjuQ8b4bNDXwOndXmFfY2QPe0fEVtMI6MwThsUZ0pdWYNhjJgubEybhEjngcnBdSWKSWNhyoFuzoxuGLWE/s1600/Montorossa+giant+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGon-AYPhLVrI40kCR2yahnNDPGVYfwBntI8XF1DGC4rCV459wYnu_pA80TjuQ8b4bNDXwOndXmFfY2QPe0fEVtMI6MwThsUZ0pdWYNhjJgubEybhEjngcnBdSWKSWNhyoFuzoxuGLWE/s320/Montorossa+giant+cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtEKvlcWvqB6SoznX4KekimqjUJGxoliUjuiJi57jkjy-RvBW-sEEd2hthyc9TzJZf_GT_MbapcuHrFZh4nSIhHiGDNhRb6gOiVWyu_aAq_pIj-3rCO43_m_slbyphGU-APX9v7uDuB0/s1600/Montorozza+beach+long+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtEKvlcWvqB6SoznX4KekimqjUJGxoliUjuiJi57jkjy-RvBW-sEEd2hthyc9TzJZf_GT_MbapcuHrFZh4nSIhHiGDNhRb6gOiVWyu_aAq_pIj-3rCO43_m_slbyphGU-APX9v7uDuB0/s320/Montorozza+beach+long+shot.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Larger than life manmade objects fascinate me: the pyramids, Eiffel Tower, Golden Gate Bridge, Statue of Liberty, temples of Abu Simbel and Petra, and the Duomo. Of the Seven Wonders of the World, the Colossus of Rhodes is high on my list of architectural/engineering curiosities. In Greece, my parents commissioned an artist to hammer a bronze likeness of him and it hung over the fireplace in my childhood home. In college I painted him as a powerful man with hands on his hips, straddling an inlet of water. No one mentioned to me that his ancestor resided in Monterossa al Mare, rough translation, “red mountain at the sea.” Yet there he is, the Monterossa Giant, holding up the side of the mountain as if to save it from falling into the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7nsRVicYcX5jrdcjJdTbDtxA0zoS9cfDHcMp7Kl9CsHE6ZSyj5wes_0nuaTOksMH2uI-IAFNcAnbmz80gSCqYEhde2iJTRQI6nMl8WQxzNvyocTBu_yZi80hMP-EB7JfZG44rF3ry5k/s1600/orange+beacah+chairs+horz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7nsRVicYcX5jrdcjJdTbDtxA0zoS9cfDHcMp7Kl9CsHE6ZSyj5wes_0nuaTOksMH2uI-IAFNcAnbmz80gSCqYEhde2iJTRQI6nMl8WQxzNvyocTBu_yZi80hMP-EB7JfZG44rF3ry5k/s320/orange+beacah+chairs+horz.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-yOspNciAZxF29yHpEl8pwuYrXs3f09whoKNZBQstO6vIFISIbgt__6z1ysedWOiAy105NxatHfmly3CG9T1gJ7kk8YL5eOb1qlWdUk-JywHNStB2afMSZ3EEtLsdy-n2JXl392tFOY/s1600/orange+blue+umbrellas+open.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-yOspNciAZxF29yHpEl8pwuYrXs3f09whoKNZBQstO6vIFISIbgt__6z1ysedWOiAy105NxatHfmly3CG9T1gJ7kk8YL5eOb1qlWdUk-JywHNStB2afMSZ3EEtLsdy-n2JXl392tFOY/s320/orange+blue+umbrellas+open.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I knew nothing of the coastal area called Cinque Terre (five lands) other than people either seemed excited when you said you were going there or their eyes glazed over as if capturing a glimpse from their past. I didn’t even associate the area with being on the west coast of the Italian Riviera, as clearly indicated on a map. All I had ever heard about “5 Terre”, as you sometimes see it referenced, was that it had mountains and hiking. Needless to say, mountains and hiking had little interest to me. I did, however, want to see the marble hills of Carrara and the train from Florence to 5 Terre went right by, making the several hour trip worthwhile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1EKvwe8-oZNX2VWWLczXGXVFszXs06LWpX3FnZ5Q2MSsNCI2FKnBRxnxfn8LKCVKx7JUsEhOB9JwqTMCBMdua_7xLmbkFbByS_oPhZipacRw8NhyphenhyphenbS8AsFYIow2pDEFao5nPJfGbXfU/s1600/Montorosso+tunnel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1EKvwe8-oZNX2VWWLczXGXVFszXs06LWpX3FnZ5Q2MSsNCI2FKnBRxnxfn8LKCVKx7JUsEhOB9JwqTMCBMdua_7xLmbkFbByS_oPhZipacRw8NhyphenhyphenbS8AsFYIow2pDEFao5nPJfGbXfU/s200/Montorosso+tunnel.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOsvA_p8Xb83VrSAw6-6vQLQik_nRVgJk-lU2SPtmRhsYKSkV_q7UBIO4lYUjj0Y2Bh7L2GvlB9KG_PBWZKZUuKumP1549AHQfuIMERLlkw-DDQn_wuVojN_LztNaCtJ4i1Rhd_7v48Qk/s1600/Seaside+cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOsvA_p8Xb83VrSAw6-6vQLQik_nRVgJk-lU2SPtmRhsYKSkV_q7UBIO4lYUjj0Y2Bh7L2GvlB9KG_PBWZKZUuKumP1549AHQfuIMERLlkw-DDQn_wuVojN_LztNaCtJ4i1Rhd_7v48Qk/s320/Seaside+cafe.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Monterossa al Mare has the longest white sand beach of the string of five mediterranean seaside hamlets. Some of the students wore swimsuits under their traveling clothes and ran to the water before even checking into the hotel. That also did not interest me. What did interest me were the colors and the shapes that surrounded me while walking the road along the shore. Sometimes the closed umbrellas stood in a long row at silent attention and sometimes they opened in a symphony of color. I was mesmerized by the blue, and the expanse of one blue meeting the expanse of another blue at the horizon where the sky leaned down to embrace the water. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgCAPnd513vyR0niswzznn7HkpQojf2dmpUTF04EzTNgIeidWQGtjMwKJrS3GFVVLYsKm51L5QhUKWlQnnVlcT-RUlYxBaghpwcNSjP0Vu0KxRX3sbXsopJOtdArnKmjW5AIKClfHsJ5I/s1600/brick+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgCAPnd513vyR0niswzznn7HkpQojf2dmpUTF04EzTNgIeidWQGtjMwKJrS3GFVVLYsKm51L5QhUKWlQnnVlcT-RUlYxBaghpwcNSjP0Vu0KxRX3sbXsopJOtdArnKmjW5AIKClfHsJ5I/s320/brick+wall.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSPBtY7UHeEc0ImmcMFw1kt21Sj5T1FGTv48IrKW8KCkN5Gb8iPFbupAHlpY1mRtLrfgQz-fco1MQYgYbUIoOTFGdom83KrblhEyAGSmHYvAg07EO5EF-hgqH3zKMNDw-ClT63XiH2b8/s1600/internet+cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSPBtY7UHeEc0ImmcMFw1kt21Sj5T1FGTv48IrKW8KCkN5Gb8iPFbupAHlpY1mRtLrfgQz-fco1MQYgYbUIoOTFGdom83KrblhEyAGSmHYvAg07EO5EF-hgqH3zKMNDw-ClT63XiH2b8/s320/internet+cafe.jpg" width="228" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">After several weeks of painterly cloud filled skies, grey and green marble facades, and the muted stone of the Florentine buildings, the brilliant hues of the seaside jolted my color pallet like water sprinkled onto a frying pan to test the heat. In Florence, most of the color was closed away inside museums and churches – such familiar colors that you could call them by paint tube names. Here color was readily accessible, and went unnoticed as an accepted part of daily life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwG4i7uSI9TEWimj3BL56NC8MJdrBkJ6sC-fZN__TV5u6bxJF7Ehfp-nEDjG47a69aKqYW1lE792UnWqOqmp2NAmet1RvKYjzbVobAmcAm3QSmOOGCdLr-SnUsi7dAEqe-_OGC4XuwxY/s1600/old+montorossa+home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwG4i7uSI9TEWimj3BL56NC8MJdrBkJ6sC-fZN__TV5u6bxJF7Ehfp-nEDjG47a69aKqYW1lE792UnWqOqmp2NAmet1RvKYjzbVobAmcAm3QSmOOGCdLr-SnUsi7dAEqe-_OGC4XuwxY/s200/old+montorossa+home.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGz95EUibuzedzKEPH9p36RS5ApB8GA52JpfrWShbw0D48ORjHXgnwolufQbb1A2zEy5g3jzNvmG7po67ns2MThFpcKoMq3lK9BXLr2CHhx4FxEwKIgKrVPl56tqGIB_qAIPzt2S4wco/s1600/New+Montorosso+pink+faux+home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGz95EUibuzedzKEPH9p36RS5ApB8GA52JpfrWShbw0D48ORjHXgnwolufQbb1A2zEy5g3jzNvmG7po67ns2MThFpcKoMq3lK9BXLr2CHhx4FxEwKIgKrVPl56tqGIB_qAIPzt2S4wco/s200/New+Montorosso+pink+faux+home.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On the coast, color saturates the outside and flows from primary to secondary to tertiary, all living in harmony. A tunnel connects the old medieval section, where an internet café contains both a full suit of armor and computers, with the newer side where the big man watches over throngs of tourists on the beach. It’s an easy 20 minute walk on the beach road, wandering through all the colors of the city, from one end to the other. Outdoor cafes, gelato stands, paddle boats, lots of white legs and sun burns, fresh mussels, sea bass, musicians playing guitars and accordions in the tunnel, surprise downpours of rain, and sand that travels home with you, is all part of the enriching experience sans hiking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBEpnflZX5phl_wl887Mv8higwv8ZuYutnrdJxS3WMu9-yruqKKfnXp-d_mIes7NnSAXjzvqqiAl1__2EB0ac0pibMvH3o_gRAwjorm1q3aGQA_Qlup29Gk7MtafWDE9Wla-dyPEbI2c/s1600/Boat+in+Montorosso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBEpnflZX5phl_wl887Mv8higwv8ZuYutnrdJxS3WMu9-yruqKKfnXp-d_mIes7NnSAXjzvqqiAl1__2EB0ac0pibMvH3o_gRAwjorm1q3aGQA_Qlup29Gk7MtafWDE9Wla-dyPEbI2c/s320/Boat+in+Montorosso.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3At7fn9xauyONl9nqs1XNpY-soJ5GJt7Myh1SAI7J1JN0z7zz9kVijJ3SaoddagcjdmS9G_hCAEvfvao2nuvrDpF1486oTqhDZRmUUpCC2TN7ea-kriHWWLidnSzES1Yt_GLuzGizDE/s1600/montorossa+train+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3At7fn9xauyONl9nqs1XNpY-soJ5GJt7Myh1SAI7J1JN0z7zz9kVijJ3SaoddagcjdmS9G_hCAEvfvao2nuvrDpF1486oTqhDZRmUUpCC2TN7ea-kriHWWLidnSzES1Yt_GLuzGizDE/s320/montorossa+train+sign.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I realized only after we left that no one ever mentioned the statue’s origin, or the curious shapes of the closed umbrellas as they poked out of the sand, or the boats at rest on the calm water. It was as if these visual pleasures were simply expected. But to me, there is something very special about each of the five precious Italian charms on the coastal bracelet called 5 Terre. I will treat them with independent respect as the glint comes to my eye when someone mentions hiking in Cinque Terre, and I’ll remember the train's first stop, Monterossa al Mare, “red mountain at the sea” to some – color pallet of the Mediterranean to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-13630010398091464242011-09-17T23:43:00.000-07:002011-09-18T19:30:14.417-07:00Firenze and Fashion - Indulgence Runs Rampant<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9paD32tluRug03LRr8RgwVG1bdqZb1yZ7ftcKv0pelxLx001iW6RZp0M5DYrjMWtMIPEnStdnHeDLEAxgVVBYwjQHMZqQ5uH7r9eb3L1jBkfRr1lmARw5fc2nZ5BWyD5gIYtxOja6qY/s1600/White+naked+manequins+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9paD32tluRug03LRr8RgwVG1bdqZb1yZ7ftcKv0pelxLx001iW6RZp0M5DYrjMWtMIPEnStdnHeDLEAxgVVBYwjQHMZqQ5uH7r9eb3L1jBkfRr1lmARw5fc2nZ5BWyD5gIYtxOja6qY/s320/White+naked+manequins+cropped.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Indulgence runs rampant in the designer section of Firenze where the window displays are less about the variety of items and more about artistic sensibilities. Frivolous, extravagant, and often totally over the top, the designer store windows deliver a message to a different audience. It’s not about the color, the fit, the elegant fabrics, the bling, the avant garde coolness, or the sleek silhouette – that’s expected and left to the designer. They are crafted to satisfy the inner need of the buyer by connecting them with a higher reality shared by others who favor the label.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdAFWXlew1-jCR7gNXGeAhFmaZ_CHYKfsO48ZFvCkeuENDBwJ-sXqnpuSdhy7TlH6y8uUkGxUtjl68qDsqPuhan0m7HDAXAWuRMHL7T0Yio9ROyBa-JmK76mrnMKR2hkPJ6z8YlKRMos/s1600/Gold+frame+with+manqequins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdAFWXlew1-jCR7gNXGeAhFmaZ_CHYKfsO48ZFvCkeuENDBwJ-sXqnpuSdhy7TlH6y8uUkGxUtjl68qDsqPuhan0m7HDAXAWuRMHL7T0Yio9ROyBa-JmK76mrnMKR2hkPJ6z8YlKRMos/s320/Gold+frame+with+manqequins.jpg" width="255" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At these windows, the viewer already recognizes the label, has intentions to enter and buy, and has fully developed expectations of the brand. Unlike the windows in the tourist area which are packed with selections begging the tourist to part with their money, the designer windows near Via de Tornabouni and Via della Vigna Nuova are about fashion – they’re formulated to reach deep into the buyers psyche. The windows sell a sense of self-indulgence – of how it makes you feel to own and wear the item, and that feeling starts long before you ever try it on. The purpose of these window displays is not to influence a buying decision, but rather to reinforce the essence of the brand, which provides the reason to buy. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The windows are fleeting and fluid sculptural installations that capture the impression of the fashion season of a designer without forcing the viewer commit to a lifetime of acceptance as one does with an old masters work in a museum. One striking window has huge gold frames with life size photos of a handsome man and a sexy model-type female. The massive snapshot plays out the real life story of the stationary mannequins. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MELew4_IXTmsNpqcQuExxpb4-z_R0wUMi1n7q9_afB7mjEm68wBw1YFE3y9_bpdBjGkjyGBfGxltuOeYHLS6aKmyIn5AOAL_HFZ_6rdKFBKNTMNJxAptrK2gHmW_QfJ8AkFO0jUdXzI/s1600/Open+books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MELew4_IXTmsNpqcQuExxpb4-z_R0wUMi1n7q9_afB7mjEm68wBw1YFE3y9_bpdBjGkjyGBfGxltuOeYHLS6aKmyIn5AOAL_HFZ_6rdKFBKNTMNJxAptrK2gHmW_QfJ8AkFO0jUdXzI/s400/Open+books.jpg" width="285" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The cobbles on these streets are more familiar with the soles of leather bottom designer shoes rather than rubber of mass produced tennis shoes. The people shopping here are not the tourists with water bottles, zip-off pant legs, a travel book or street map in hand, and long fabric shoulder bags that resemble horse feed bags, purchased from the local street vendor. The fashion shoppers in this part of town are women and men who travel with a posse, an entourage, a companion, and charge accounts without plastic cards. They stay the afternoon as if visiting a museum and leave with logo bags of tissued treasures, which may or may not reach their hotel before the purchases delivered to their suites later in the day by a uniformed messenger. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I see a man in linen pants sitting at an outdoor café next to a designer store. The café and the store have the same name. He alternates drinking wine and talking on his cell phone when I notice he is distracted by something in the store window. A woman models outfits from inside the store. Most get a thumbs-up. He is happy outside sipping wine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I stand for an unusually long time staring into a window, fascinated by the open books applied to a wall and ceiling as a backdrop. In front of the book wall is a rack of warm winter jackets and scarves. On the floor below sit an array of sturdy boots, some with lined with sheep skin. I think of my friend Cathy and how she was appalled at the burning of the books in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fahrenheit 451</i>. In the movie, all books are destined to be destroyed. The book-loving characters each select their favorite book to memorize and became that book for eternity. They walk through the woods all bundled up reciting their books to ensure that even after their book is found and burned, the words will live on through the spoken word. The display of coats and boots in this window seem far too warm for today’s 96 degrees, but offer just the right costuming for the characters in Ray Bradbury's controversial futuristic novel. I can’t help but wonder if I am the only person who made this connection between the window and the book, and if, in fact, the connection is correct. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjK7jRqNtArJoMmJDY-kUO86VMeSs9HIH1p5fVw6PHKVZA6HHUNB7WVbeyyuuzEOIYuRdhshDir_5zsXEmBOmn2hk3myA978B-QRzS9xaqYsc9y10kVjXNt6KN_yAzV5hL2QwgywnlzA/s1600/Gold+shoes+close-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjK7jRqNtArJoMmJDY-kUO86VMeSs9HIH1p5fVw6PHKVZA6HHUNB7WVbeyyuuzEOIYuRdhshDir_5zsXEmBOmn2hk3myA978B-QRzS9xaqYsc9y10kVjXNt6KN_yAzV5hL2QwgywnlzA/s320/Gold+shoes+close-up.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmkS2CISMvo-8xkSoPKfJV7Xd-Zkj3ttkfPEN2BIzL8-KmeWc3t13MfN-30jWcVRcEBbvtABPCjf5FuD3wGQoCPtG1j8x54FOSv1ZViKSM6s8YVJfh1TynLzL-x8REZp4GzX_DAis4Ac/s1600/Purse+on+grass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmkS2CISMvo-8xkSoPKfJV7Xd-Zkj3ttkfPEN2BIzL8-KmeWc3t13MfN-30jWcVRcEBbvtABPCjf5FuD3wGQoCPtG1j8x54FOSv1ZViKSM6s8YVJfh1TynLzL-x8REZp4GzX_DAis4Ac/s200/Purse+on+grass.jpg" width="179" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Earlier this morning, I came to this fashionista part of town to shoot photos before the sun hit the windows. I watched dressers fill a life size box on wheels with metallic globe shaped decor like giant Christmas balls and then push the box flush to the street side window. I was only slightly disillusioned to see that the window display was actually a box display pushed up against a window, one I suppose that could be turned around to become a flat wall against the window and a box display opening to the interior of the store, or for that matter rolled around the store to create a free standing wall. However clever the mechanics of the window box, it dampened some of the magic retained from the Macy’s, Gumps, and Neiman Marcus authentic display windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMptFv4Dx1lk5BcgHjfr51LC1V8uciDtq2ZBkZQlMU0JcZ-YTtn_pgy43I_T-EWHgZVBZ6HtumcVF-uKjeP7f_IbgX80KJjerVK0nfeFneXgpi0YkGfcCEyBGX4ENxNoShnugd-rPvcQ/s1600/WHIte+female+manequins+with+cube+hats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMptFv4Dx1lk5BcgHjfr51LC1V8uciDtq2ZBkZQlMU0JcZ-YTtn_pgy43I_T-EWHgZVBZ6HtumcVF-uKjeP7f_IbgX80KJjerVK0nfeFneXgpi0YkGfcCEyBGX4ENxNoShnugd-rPvcQ/s320/WHIte+female+manequins+with+cube+hats.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0A8xSU6B_uhlZhgqwQY3ZUTvppXs03iCvvgLNDBdsgLwMNp21dGmTst_GTruSgDH5W2IeJ8Bma7keS6K1lC7knGAPzMidrZNpV8757NIMSTD-ng67pv4iTGScQlXTWLAD5PiccVTvEA/s1600/WHite+manequin+male+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0A8xSU6B_uhlZhgqwQY3ZUTvppXs03iCvvgLNDBdsgLwMNp21dGmTst_GTruSgDH5W2IeJ8Bma7keS6K1lC7knGAPzMidrZNpV8757NIMSTD-ng67pv4iTGScQlXTWLAD5PiccVTvEA/s320/WHite+manequin+male+cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Easily amused, I walk down the street in search of another “can’t take my eyes off of it” window. One elevated window has a white female mannequin wearing a short skirt with her legs splayed and sitting on a park bench. Like the nude men on pedestals in the Uffizi, you can watch a sea of heads bob up-and-down and turn to catch a peek up the white resin mannequin’s skirt. Her white mannequin girlfriend reclines on the astro turf grass wearing gold glitter pumps, with her leather handbag and a second pair of gold glitter pumps resting on a plastic boulder. Photos are intermixed with props confusing the already altered state of reality. As if not odd enough, somewhere in uncharted territory, reality and fantasy meet to offer up an even stranger experience. At different times of day, the reflections from centuries old buildings invade the designer showcase windows adding yet another surreal dimension to the unusual displays – look close as the soul of Firenze sneaks into bed with high fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-49324061247239349332011-09-10T21:30:00.000-07:002011-09-14T10:20:30.421-07:00Chianti Under Foot, Not Your Old Time Fiasco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7ZfK7sFBqPmWnjRSJ0Ztl9S69fd20be4pbTjSBYKT9v9LeWqXBSaHI88Sth82JLf4dBBRsILzEIZ3YTi8k5ywjXj5tYMHTF_ciPVK_S4hZiNIsM9BMDWJ37WXk_1v6q_m1mAigb6RFQ/s1600/1+Chianti+landscape+horz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7ZfK7sFBqPmWnjRSJ0Ztl9S69fd20be4pbTjSBYKT9v9LeWqXBSaHI88Sth82JLf4dBBRsILzEIZ3YTi8k5ywjXj5tYMHTF_ciPVK_S4hZiNIsM9BMDWJ37WXk_1v6q_m1mAigb6RFQ/s400/1+Chianti+landscape+horz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_s1037" style="height: 99.5pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 132.65pt; z-index: 251658240;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.jpg"> <w:wrap type="square"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_19" o:spid="_x0000_s1036" style="height: 132.65pt; margin-left: 214.2pt; margin-top: 0.7pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 99.5pt; z-index: 251670528;" type="#_x0000_t75"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image003.jpg"> <w:wrap type="square"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">T I I A N C H – seven lonely letters tumbling<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span>from a scrabble bag to create a winning word that you can experience underfoot and enjoy as it slips over your taste buds – Chianti. </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-uqNucxry21kM4UCkLYgT73vQpTqappobjaTtaBbTU9oIdXXgCVU6_AXzhgOSF6Lt3fmHrDmVKtkl8SZC_xlxluiLVILUycF36vVAx0L29-yDf1qARMSVChQdZCVS50gfYGLPf7Rx8J0/s1600/12+vert+Chianti+landscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-uqNucxry21kM4UCkLYgT73vQpTqappobjaTtaBbTU9oIdXXgCVU6_AXzhgOSF6Lt3fmHrDmVKtkl8SZC_xlxluiLVILUycF36vVAx0L29-yDf1qARMSVChQdZCVS50gfYGLPf7Rx8J0/s320/12+vert+Chianti+landscape.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2a1yu0kwg_1mom11x7gFfqP5SN1Mx_b38k7BajHz7pEYRyJF2LDmB00enAMrWtUR2cQE-aC_-6V_8yEP-Ps0vYlWVzZi9LPuTe52RsaxZBn01uKV9utUtOCXjJB3Y0hlLucAz31S5e8s/s1600/5+castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2a1yu0kwg_1mom11x7gFfqP5SN1Mx_b38k7BajHz7pEYRyJF2LDmB00enAMrWtUR2cQE-aC_-6V_8yEP-Ps0vYlWVzZi9LPuTe52RsaxZBn01uKV9utUtOCXjJB3Y0hlLucAz31S5e8s/s200/5+castle.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Chianti, the region located between Sienna and Florence, is best known for </span><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_5" o:spid="_x0000_s1035" style="height: 108.2pt; margin-left: 336.2pt; margin-top: 237.55pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 144.3pt; z-index: 251663360;" type="#_x0000_t75"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image005.jpg"> <w:wrap type="square"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_6" o:spid="_x0000_s1034" style="height: 110.05pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 4.35pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 146.75pt; z-index: -251654144;" type="#_x0000_t75"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image007.jpg"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">its lush landscapes, great wine and light green hued olive oil. From the village of Greve, it’s a short bus ride through an agricultural mecca to the Castello di Verrazzano, an actual castle dating back before the VII Century. The castle sits peacefully atop a hill overlooking a panorama of rolling hills and another castle in the near distance. The 220 acre property is a patchwork of agriculture with groves of olive trees and vineyards. The organically fertilized varietals include Sangiovese, Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon. The formal gardens are groomed with an ease, making them more friendly and welcoming than stand-offish and manicured. Boar sausage is a specialty of the house and you can easily see a family of wild boars in a fenced area of the woods. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYDkeSakDif8BmIBFDrt6x8-t9Zs50VgdtS-NesZWtPsHNg4ehzboUD4MEYINcKQz3k_Zf1Cq0qwtUkhNNW4mYfgt9LExXqLoWUkfyORwaiHmdhJl5805q4SVyvicZ00RBWPJnMRGQSiU/s1600/3+pot+on+post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYDkeSakDif8BmIBFDrt6x8-t9Zs50VgdtS-NesZWtPsHNg4ehzboUD4MEYINcKQz3k_Zf1Cq0qwtUkhNNW4mYfgt9LExXqLoWUkfyORwaiHmdhJl5805q4SVyvicZ00RBWPJnMRGQSiU/s320/3+pot+on+post.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGfSVdzQJZs5aZ3XeVmkjEslTRLwXMo_mpThtttQdRFtlSfFfodGW6jniN-In843q6S63rJC59Qcsuf7msiJfZUcjBkfmn-S0pTkdHskB677tvGyynVUKTwv7w9VmklLvjrQmwfPOUzU/s1600/4+stone+fence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGfSVdzQJZs5aZ3XeVmkjEslTRLwXMo_mpThtttQdRFtlSfFfodGW6jniN-In843q6S63rJC59Qcsuf7msiJfZUcjBkfmn-S0pTkdHskB677tvGyynVUKTwv7w9VmklLvjrQmwfPOUzU/s320/4+stone+fence.jpg" width="320" /></a><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_2" o:spid="_x0000_s1033" style="height: 107.8pt; margin-left: -0.05pt; margin-top: 7.85pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 138.45pt; z-index: 251660288;" type="#_x0000_t75"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image009.jpg"> <w:wrap type="square"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Does the name Verrazzano sound familiar? It should to the passengers in more than 190,000 vehicles who cross the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge in New York each day. The double decker suspension bridge connects Staten Island and Brooklyn over the Narrows, a tidal straight. Giovanni de Verrazzano was born right here in the castle in 1485 and went on to discover New York Bay and the Hudson River. Wow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3NmllDsVGYTrZEejlC527Sh_coC76TTdAh01KP4e0Ae65OXFdng7j04aZKLUMkaGHpCMT56Bp0Ki_gs37-OKsw9PPiRKTGUxCeqkH_def1FgmWLENpbmB8_eKdTFUQIwX9tgFaxZWIY/s1600/2+cypress+pond+reflection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3NmllDsVGYTrZEejlC527Sh_coC76TTdAh01KP4e0Ae65OXFdng7j04aZKLUMkaGHpCMT56Bp0Ki_gs37-OKsw9PPiRKTGUxCeqkH_def1FgmWLENpbmB8_eKdTFUQIwX9tgFaxZWIY/s320/2+cypress+pond+reflection.jpg" width="320" /></a><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_3" o:spid="_x0000_s1032" style="height: 111.35pt; margin-left: -0.1pt; margin-top: 0.15pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 141.2pt; z-index: 251661312;" type="#_x0000_t75"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image011.jpg"> <w:wrap type="square"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Chianti is approximately 100 square miles with an excellent climate, making it the premiere grape growing region in Tuscany. The moist sea breeze floats over the land while a mountain range offers shelter and the renewing warmth of the golden Tuscan sun kisses life into the grapes. </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbcd3kEC9qb941dwLe4ushi0aukh9EqyqBJrCCwZEEZ4FrIb-J_KsFGbqe-1i433L9BX38MzOu7dnaomp-dYrdXqEBtNhN7fjEpVXc7fR7mKH8Yb-4-iXNiauCXOkFQNY-FZ9Rd0ZJoEc/s1600/10+Rooster+Chianti+insignia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbcd3kEC9qb941dwLe4ushi0aukh9EqyqBJrCCwZEEZ4FrIb-J_KsFGbqe-1i433L9BX38MzOu7dnaomp-dYrdXqEBtNhN7fjEpVXc7fR7mKH8Yb-4-iXNiauCXOkFQNY-FZ9Rd0ZJoEc/s200/10+Rooster+Chianti+insignia.jpg" width="181" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DU3Um0EQ2wSjyBraaBFGnq_D7lfAypENZZHqiS0tI6mmzV07dzRxjTntBTEzLxWvBy7HlZIoPbCrgnsv0WSdCUwuoEAt8kFzzxCJZ9WcR87DyUtez2GfM7IARSilpppoSC2SeslbGJ4/s1600/9+Verra+bottle+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DU3Um0EQ2wSjyBraaBFGnq_D7lfAypENZZHqiS0tI6mmzV07dzRxjTntBTEzLxWvBy7HlZIoPbCrgnsv0WSdCUwuoEAt8kFzzxCJZ9WcR87DyUtez2GfM7IARSilpppoSC2SeslbGJ4/s320/9+Verra+bottle+cropped.jpg" width="133" /></a><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_20" o:spid="_x0000_s1031" style="height: 148.9pt; margin-left: -0.1pt; margin-top: -0.55pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 100.4pt; z-index: -251643904;" type="#_x0000_t75"> <v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:///C:\Users\Ingrid\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image013.jpg"> <w:wrap type="square"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Unlike the old version of Chianti we recall as being poured from the straw covered bottles (called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fiasco </i>in Italian) which we were anxious to transform with candle dripping ornamentation, todays Chianti boasts an air of dignity and provides a good excuse to ask for another glass. There are several areas of Chianti and several types of Chianti, but a day trip to the heart of this wine country serves up Chianti Classico. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtSVacXTT5-yhERr_bUxg-8wo-J6E45P7mpWIJQGSRBjH1qYtfcnMLrXSR-k_9hJ0DsBmeZYzblRUb-29V6obZzxzijMBgv9ClQKR_KKN7Un4IId-eQKhyphenhyphenZgUXVAd7-EhxscAX6YFSPY/s1600/11+antipasta+plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtSVacXTT5-yhERr_bUxg-8wo-J6E45P7mpWIJQGSRBjH1qYtfcnMLrXSR-k_9hJ0DsBmeZYzblRUb-29V6obZzxzijMBgv9ClQKR_KKN7Un4IId-eQKhyphenhyphenZgUXVAd7-EhxscAX6YFSPY/s320/11+antipasta+plate.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">To be designated “Chianti Classico” the grapes must have been grown within the old traditional Chianti region and wine must contain at least 80% Sangiovese grapes. The Italian government ensures the authenticity of wine by having it analyzed and tested by licensed government personnel. The approved wines are labeled with the Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita (DOCG) meaning <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">controlled designation of origin guaranteed</span></i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">).</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A pink numbered DOCG label, bearing the image of a Black Rooster, is sealed across the cap or cork to indicate the bottle has passed the quality review</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRAhFB8jxEYUOi1k4EEgiZvwlz-E1J78TmJA2YM7WsJD9yj1lQTwe7xRMQg8CsojjxG75nAV90cNP18dJB3RUBBoonr-YSUJECSQ79fTmSYqyEhoHdV2SH-92UuQare6dioWeorQVMsA/s1600/7+logo+napkin+and+wine+glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRAhFB8jxEYUOi1k4EEgiZvwlz-E1J78TmJA2YM7WsJD9yj1lQTwe7xRMQg8CsojjxG75nAV90cNP18dJB3RUBBoonr-YSUJECSQ79fTmSYqyEhoHdV2SH-92UuQare6dioWeorQVMsA/s320/7+logo+napkin+and+wine+glass.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_gRZi0CJhZNQFHXxfjDtq7K0PA3jtck_WOJlZ1ObXAlmF5nPc1JXa_Es7XxYZ6KK_UA4_HKyjyHAQWuidZ___GXOBK29PRLWGUl-0mAG2PNM8o1LBuUHrlNueD2aH4-dFTWVX60HnXE/s1600/11+Monica+and+josh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_gRZi0CJhZNQFHXxfjDtq7K0PA3jtck_WOJlZ1ObXAlmF5nPc1JXa_Es7XxYZ6KK_UA4_HKyjyHAQWuidZ___GXOBK29PRLWGUl-0mAG2PNM8o1LBuUHrlNueD2aH4-dFTWVX60HnXE/s320/11+Monica+and+josh.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If you’re not staying the night (yes, there is overnight lodging in the castle) there's also a great tour down into the barrel rooms, a gift shop where you can buy wood wine boxes branded with the Verrazzano logo, as well as olive oil from orchards, honey, and balsamic vinegar – be sure to have lunch and arrange for a wine tasting. Swirl, sniff, taste, and, if you’re adventurous, finish it off with a warming shot of grappa. What are three seven letter scrabble words for Tuscany?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friends sharing Chianti. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="left"><span lang="EN" style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.verrazzano.com/">www.verrazzano.com</a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-41736700395512156782011-09-03T17:08:00.000-07:002011-09-03T17:10:24.677-07:00Tina's Vin Santo Tiramisu & Fellini Insect Bites<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Vin Santo Tiramisu<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAHRE9oWNlVOifR1pZNGapnGx4UW3jBiJU8fsLdb8yJWFMEht6P0_efHZQrtbYuyULT9J_ntSsFdIWsuBOQWdXc0WP9FA52XBRRMqwKUTtglIvCpbRhXNsvXb1zFI54_5resc5ZO8NSM/s1600/Tina+emptying+custard+in+bowl++IMG_0549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAHRE9oWNlVOifR1pZNGapnGx4UW3jBiJU8fsLdb8yJWFMEht6P0_efHZQrtbYuyULT9J_ntSsFdIWsuBOQWdXc0WP9FA52XBRRMqwKUTtglIvCpbRhXNsvXb1zFI54_5resc5ZO8NSM/s320/Tina+emptying+custard+in+bowl++IMG_0549.jpg" width="228" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK4-lzRThVDpBPOAT-InhEliKgaNREn47N4LGMZ_DlGRC_juQLVtOVZC_sXe8KDj2ed6hGNwrqJAQkabf5BlRRotoonpREMbZb6hItsf-SgSCycYOtES6OT_1SFObCqrWmWneEIfha9j8/s1600/Mezzaluna+close-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK4-lzRThVDpBPOAT-InhEliKgaNREn47N4LGMZ_DlGRC_juQLVtOVZC_sXe8KDj2ed6hGNwrqJAQkabf5BlRRotoonpREMbZb6hItsf-SgSCycYOtES6OT_1SFObCqrWmWneEIfha9j8/s200/Mezzaluna+close-up.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix41CNVt8kkEuv5fXgHowIPysiSHA11nwvFDYEnUUjNAScVPWyeDx3TF4_uhB3ysAuZZ4t3aLY7jRiVwe8ezh5XM-Enp5iM6v_ibHGaSyx6cj-09Y7pd6rkZlT2G6xD55uNQEt7O_0j50/s1600/bread+and+pesto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix41CNVt8kkEuv5fXgHowIPysiSHA11nwvFDYEnUUjNAScVPWyeDx3TF4_uhB3ysAuZZ4t3aLY7jRiVwe8ezh5XM-Enp5iM6v_ibHGaSyx6cj-09Y7pd6rkZlT2G6xD55uNQEt7O_0j50/s200/bread+and+pesto.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Tina Fallani teaches the History of Italian Cinema and Italian Cooking for Santa Reparata International School of Art. She spent time on the film set of Fellini’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Casanova</i> as her artist father, Mario Fallani, was the master painter of frescoes for the film<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> With Tina’s background as a film editor on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Godfather Trilogy</i>, directed by Francis Ford Coppola, and a translation consultant on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Willow</i>, directed by George Lucas, there was a strong indication that we are in for a very special evening at Tina’s cooking class. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Her city home is on the “altro Arno,” or other side of the Arno River from the main part of the town where we live, and the 48 steps to her apartment seem easy after mastering our 53 steps. “Welcome, welcome, come in,” says the small delicate woman with short dark hair, wearing a slim black dress. Having spent several years in the United States, she does not have a strong Italian accent nor does she eat European-style. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A table for 16 is set in the formal living room. We are now a group of 18. “No problem” she says motioning us into her home, “there’s always enough food, we’ll just make the table bigger,” and in moments her pretty blond daughter and daughter’s good-looking boyfriend extend the table, add another cloth, and set two more places. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkPzWyQfmG4gyS5K1R2SXzFU9FH1wAno06HUdIhZUyQzh9DC491KS12PzqesVdSt_52AnTqJUouvQTRU0znqaIAygMjsLions6Z9QP1sn5aenrsi54jX9vLZsD_mE5vyeIrJmv6OPHkw/s1600/One+man+peeling+mushrooms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkPzWyQfmG4gyS5K1R2SXzFU9FH1wAno06HUdIhZUyQzh9DC491KS12PzqesVdSt_52AnTqJUouvQTRU0znqaIAygMjsLions6Z9QP1sn5aenrsi54jX9vLZsD_mE5vyeIrJmv6OPHkw/s200/One+man+peeling+mushrooms.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A hillside of vines and a lemon tree with ripe fruit can be seen out the living room windows while the open kitchen windows invite air from the Arno to float up over the rooftops, and join us inside as we prepare the meal. We scrub our hands and begin to slice and dice, peel and stir in a syncopated rhythm that infers an established routine from years of communal cooking. It is actually Tina’s carefree attitude and gracious style that choreographs our 18 novice apron-clad chefs in creating an authentic four course Italian meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1F7izg-Mq4NcUMOD1IvczQ-N-Gb7G5Koad4bpcjNFuetUIMlI6v4_t97fsnIrXcSfs1yHHGYOEmrFpwB1zbrQvb36tm0J5rsStxJ8TKlm6rSJXVMPjsjNk52ra_IdRDxzLyfPO-Ex2E/s1600/holy+trinity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1F7izg-Mq4NcUMOD1IvczQ-N-Gb7G5Koad4bpcjNFuetUIMlI6v4_t97fsnIrXcSfs1yHHGYOEmrFpwB1zbrQvb36tm0J5rsStxJ8TKlm6rSJXVMPjsjNk52ra_IdRDxzLyfPO-Ex2E/s320/holy+trinity.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Although tomato, garlic and basil are the three ingredients many of us believe to be the holy trinity of Italian recipes, in real Italian cooking the trio is called “soffritto,” a combination of carrots, onion and celery. As steam rises from the pasta water, three men easily master the rocking motion of a sharp rounded cutting tool with wooden handles called the “mezzaluna” (crescent moon), to create the soffritto. Capers, garlic, and parsley are chopped finely for crostini green salsa; mushrooms delicately stripped of their outer skin for a pasta sauce; and Parmesan and Fontana cheeses grated into feather light piles. John cracks and separates fresh eggs, flexing his muscles as he whips the orange yolks for custard. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpcymcAOZ3qQSP3omFEZKHz_n_zdgHbKNa0udOUr-ueIQGT_yT-PsTKZcKWR1f6qSUZGKuqt2QHR4L25fUk-PmEH2hJeB85KR4eXUbWsRLLSxVrs7egE33t6QlFOeqJccyBIoFSHA4ds/s1600/b.riley+-+Ing+stirring+custard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpcymcAOZ3qQSP3omFEZKHz_n_zdgHbKNa0udOUr-ueIQGT_yT-PsTKZcKWR1f6qSUZGKuqt2QHR4L25fUk-PmEH2hJeB85KR4eXUbWsRLLSxVrs7egE33t6QlFOeqJccyBIoFSHA4ds/s320/b.riley+-+Ing+stirring+custard.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ingrid, you stir the custard,” Tina turns to me saying, “in one direction.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“One direction” I ask, waiting for an answer with a reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes,” Tina says, “One direction,” offering no explanation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">She checks on the mezzaluna progress and adds, “And don’t stop. Keep stirring.” </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwukqlAxPDoGnC6-h_rsNCPVZu8bZT3u6HM857MHm7R8z8kw-vandeAYINNex4QPavuL3_UvkO5vlUbZNt1e0czPXy67Us9oRb6uW3J0-NhYt3ZyGdjicimg6_pQLMOn6iCLrAUqot5Ic/s1600/cutting+peaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwukqlAxPDoGnC6-h_rsNCPVZu8bZT3u6HM857MHm7R8z8kw-vandeAYINNex4QPavuL3_UvkO5vlUbZNt1e0czPXy67Us9oRb6uW3J0-NhYt3ZyGdjicimg6_pQLMOn6iCLrAUqot5Ic/s1600/cutting+peaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwukqlAxPDoGnC6-h_rsNCPVZu8bZT3u6HM857MHm7R8z8kw-vandeAYINNex4QPavuL3_UvkO5vlUbZNt1e0czPXy67Us9oRb6uW3J0-NhYt3ZyGdjicimg6_pQLMOn6iCLrAUqot5Ic/s320/cutting+peaches.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Yikes. I have to commit. How many minutes of stirring? What will happen if stir clockwise? What will happen if I stir counter clockwise? Before I have time to answer my own questions, the wooden spoon in my grip rotates in the pot over the flame in a clockwise motion reminiscent of hand-cranking an ice cream machine. After several minutes, the good-looking boyfriend eyes my custard and speaks to me in Italian. I listen closely assuming that if he speaks of food or numbers, I will certainly understand. He sees that I do not understand. He walks behind me, takes my hand in his, and changes the speed of my stirring – almost immediately, the custard is cooked to perfection. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsm7HP1GcJ6Pf4LTDnPBcRkOuevtJqMeZKTTk5rygUnALrKhvhZc1Aqg6VcztQ_Ie6khgk48YxQOcSZyNmbzEZe9TfY9gxP9mIVgP2BpKyMORJCHUVn4xpigM778AsoK8o2acCnm8M5Sc/s1600/custard%252C+peaches%252C+fingers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsm7HP1GcJ6Pf4LTDnPBcRkOuevtJqMeZKTTk5rygUnALrKhvhZc1Aqg6VcztQ_Ie6khgk48YxQOcSZyNmbzEZe9TfY9gxP9mIVgP2BpKyMORJCHUVn4xpigM778AsoK8o2acCnm8M5Sc/s320/custard%252C+peaches%252C+fingers.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In the adjacent room, the student chefs peel and slice peaches for the dessert, which is now ready for assembly. A layer of custard, then a layer of lady fingers carefully dipped in peach nectar, and next a layer of sliced peaches, and continue the sequence until the pan is filled to the brim. Moving with precision, we perfectly place the dipped pastry fingers on the custard bed, until unexpectedly, we are almost out of peach nectar. Tina retrieves some other fruit juice from the refrigerator, but it is not enough for our remaining cookies, filling, and fruit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpkELcay9NTizlS4y-RaxVfWbEno92hYm9_LjcytbvKNRhi98GwDdp5_iUE5dkhiTuf7AuCIHyg_XQnvKNWogvcM0hWr6vMDLfz1nvEQlXoOEDp_CFiv3fz-3Z-lLiJyRbsFkcZIPNVc/s1600/finishing+dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpkELcay9NTizlS4y-RaxVfWbEno92hYm9_LjcytbvKNRhi98GwDdp5_iUE5dkhiTuf7AuCIHyg_XQnvKNWogvcM0hWr6vMDLfz1nvEQlXoOEDp_CFiv3fz-3Z-lLiJyRbsFkcZIPNVc/s320/finishing+dessert.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENlBPDhealQ5lLtLwJUiDHA682YGjA_KwWFk60fS_Bo8rkPwcrtyS6rnvXlNb4-slaRcqBvuchtOdBlptQmxo4DbZAqOSFTLuBqekUcnX8rq9GX8QZstqbZkTJ-2JNeN0MwOSJGWxqdE/s1600/dipping+lady+fingers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENlBPDhealQ5lLtLwJUiDHA682YGjA_KwWFk60fS_Bo8rkPwcrtyS6rnvXlNb4-slaRcqBvuchtOdBlptQmxo4DbZAqOSFTLuBqekUcnX8rq9GX8QZstqbZkTJ-2JNeN0MwOSJGWxqdE/s200/dipping+lady+fingers.jpg" width="200" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“How about adding some Vin Santo,” Barbra pipes up. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vin Santo,</i> wine of the saints or holy wine, is a favorite Italian treat served after dinner in a little glass tumbler with small crunchy biscotti-style cookies called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cantuccini. </i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In seconds, Tina motions the good-looking boyfriend to the top shelf in the kitchen from which he grabs a bottle of Vin Santo. “This will do well,” Tina says with authority, extending the sauce using the dessert wine with the same ease her dining table was extended. And, as the story will be told to future generations, that was the memorable night of strangers cooking together, eating delicious food, drinking fine wine, enjoying lively conversations about art and film, and…the true story of the unlikely invention of Tina’s “intoxicating” Vin Santo Peach Tiramisu.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Fellini Insect Bites<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffGoqXkDYIV_V8MWdKcfx1vkY4a1u0ldgOcpkGOcgIn0jXbtXpU0yGLs5xRQshYNDzlBVhRpIlpjUa1awvavcUXjhlWHiN3ryEspT23CUiFUG9m_AcVIUS5TNucHITRrC7g26orX2a7s/s1600/Barbra%2527s+bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffGoqXkDYIV_V8MWdKcfx1vkY4a1u0ldgOcpkGOcgIn0jXbtXpU0yGLs5xRQshYNDzlBVhRpIlpjUa1awvavcUXjhlWHiN3ryEspT23CUiFUG9m_AcVIUS5TNucHITRrC7g26orX2a7s/s200/Barbra%2527s+bed.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZHu494GfobbAQ7HeDuI1FClwtNR2kOrJU4ngdpYrb1zuRXAF1c9W3uT1c6so4qyyC_STAxQvXcq8UWt2SFuTvJkKganuGPEaVOYrqf66T2BXB4z3q0k5qNgPXoAyKT647Gv94DCsu5w/s1600/INgrid%2527s+bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZHu494GfobbAQ7HeDuI1FClwtNR2kOrJU4ngdpYrb1zuRXAF1c9W3uT1c6so4qyyC_STAxQvXcq8UWt2SFuTvJkKganuGPEaVOYrqf66T2BXB4z3q0k5qNgPXoAyKT647Gv94DCsu5w/s200/INgrid%2527s+bed.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I brought insect body spray and a post-bite itch stick from home. We’ve seen few mosquitoes; at most five. But at night, especially when it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unearthly</i> hot following an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ungodly</i> hot day, after we dose off and before we wake, we are a feast for biting creatures. Whether they fly or crawl is unknown. Barbra swears she saw a small spider, but our eyesight is so strained from working either in the darkened room behind our shutters or outside under the blinding sun, that her observation is not to be trusted. What is reliable are red welts, the size of dressmaker’s glass-head pins, which cover our bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAHVordG0KPt_I2gwh72Q-QxVCDfyKN5s20DaiPzvOiIRcnDsrsr62j_LHRXyikUJVNGf-VHkTZZo6DUfXw6NTQ5M9FECYdBYzpRsXi6z2pprDsw42k2T69TG0Jmo31nEV6hjD6u4MXs/s1600/Tiramisu+on+plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAHVordG0KPt_I2gwh72Q-QxVCDfyKN5s20DaiPzvOiIRcnDsrsr62j_LHRXyikUJVNGf-VHkTZZo6DUfXw6NTQ5M9FECYdBYzpRsXi6z2pprDsw42k2T69TG0Jmo31nEV6hjD6u4MXs/s320/Tiramisu+on+plate.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Our beds are positioned so that Barbra can fall off of either side. Her exterior side has only enough room to open the large shaft windows inward and her other side is the narrow center aisle, created by a small table separating the twin beds. The non-aisle side of my bed is an interior wall. I have learned to press my naked, bitten left arm against the nighttime chill of the wall to calm the sting from the bites. A few hours after we cooked at Tina’s, I awoke startled to find a large portion of my body pressed up against the cold wall as if being held by suction. I was picturing the execution, or was it satisfaction, of the bee captured under a wine glass pressed to a woman’s breast in a Fellini film. I can only guess it was the sinful Vin Santo Tiramisu that caused that particular crystal clear, big screen image from more than 30 years ago to be retrieved as if just recently filed in the motion picture canister of my memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="left" style="text-align: left;"></div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-66534385396147945192011-08-28T10:45:00.000-07:002011-08-28T10:45:24.123-07:00Ciao Marcello<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUtq5T_k0MYY2w3rMOUhw6-226qcov7naxwZ0VWql1TgcM3zBAYrpQ05H_z-NGesKiQ9idA0N7n189FZvauJlk1dQZxrcLQkolTASADhXF4qnTgstlH9hjw9dNQRxpJahclgWETRxjeA/s1600/young+woman+in+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUtq5T_k0MYY2w3rMOUhw6-226qcov7naxwZ0VWql1TgcM3zBAYrpQ05H_z-NGesKiQ9idA0N7n189FZvauJlk1dQZxrcLQkolTASADhXF4qnTgstlH9hjw9dNQRxpJahclgWETRxjeA/s320/young+woman+in+window.jpg" width="223" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The church bells didn’t wake me at 7a.m. because I am already up with the large windows open to the street. The pleasure of the crisp breeze coming through the kitchen is as if the shutters did not remember they were kept closed last week to keep out the heat. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3pc1Wi2wykOEScC2bgPVT8QivZmgEPHiGgcOdjKyMen0sCWZrxM0xCru3O57wpaGgjwCJa2FsznFLn-90cHW8Ht_DeX3_3zEkQiGN_FGecULZiU838q1a5tf9Jkkb7VL0U7FDBrthSg/s1600/Drinking+espresso+in+cafe+on+RIcasoli.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3pc1Wi2wykOEScC2bgPVT8QivZmgEPHiGgcOdjKyMen0sCWZrxM0xCru3O57wpaGgjwCJa2FsznFLn-90cHW8Ht_DeX3_3zEkQiGN_FGecULZiU838q1a5tf9Jkkb7VL0U7FDBrthSg/s200/Drinking+espresso+in+cafe+on+RIcasoli.jpg" width="145" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The street below is calm and almost lifeless until I hear a loud thud as Georgio, the young café owner across the street, empties the garbage from last night. Then <em>woosh</em> goes the big machine behind the bar as he steams milk for his first cappuccino of the day. From my fourth floor vantage point, I see it’s for a young man in a red polo shirt sitting at the window table. A</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> stack of chairs is on the patio of the café and one-by-one, Georgio places them at tables in his small outdoor dining area. There are 20 chairs, each belonging in a certain location. On the mornings I watch him position the chairs, it’s as if they speak to him and say, “No, I go on the end of table number three,” or “thank you Georgio, it’s another beautiful day outside.” Knowing his routine gives me a sense of comfort; a sense of belonging to the neighborhood. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEWNXgN4qT94RHPv_nK4glVZiTkFi88Dkc4lRogGydrHMuVTtuOSIYX7WrO6SN-0JM0WB8OXVaxgLSd5kkZVB_tfFftrjnVYoVHsUaJ0QMWzq3SzTmvJ2v51FjggMqbcrIlbEYl1IoXA/s1600/outdoor+cafe+w+rolled+awning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEWNXgN4qT94RHPv_nK4glVZiTkFi88Dkc4lRogGydrHMuVTtuOSIYX7WrO6SN-0JM0WB8OXVaxgLSd5kkZVB_tfFftrjnVYoVHsUaJ0QMWzq3SzTmvJ2v51FjggMqbcrIlbEYl1IoXA/s320/outdoor+cafe+w+rolled+awning.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I have no steamed milk, but my espresso is brewed and I pour it into a little yellow espresso cup with matching saucer purchased from the Italian 99 Cent Store. A limp bed pillow overlaps the seat on the straight back wooden chair at the dining table where I work. I fluff it before settling back down to begin sorting yesterday’s photos. “Ciao Marcello,” I hear Georgio say. I fight the urge to run to the window, but it is no use. First I try to act nonchalant, as if just coincidently passing by the window – shoulders back, head erect, attitude aloof. I’ve watched the young Italian girls walking on the street with an air of confidence and I imitate their haughty style. It doesn’t matter. The men don’t look up my way. I pass by the window again, and again nothing. They’re talking loud enough for me to hear and I might be able to decipher the conversation if I listen carefully. I stand with my ear to the street, an outsider trying to be part of their world. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Pecorino, olio, porcini, tagliatelle,” Georgio says. From Watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">David Rocco’s Dolce Vita</i> on the Cooking Channel, I know pecorino is cheese made from sheep milk and that it changes texture as it ages. Olio is olive oil; porcini is a mushroom, and tagliatelle a pasta noodle. “Pomodori, quattro, cinque,” Marcello says. I easily translate to tomato four five, which I guess means four or five tomatoes. I don’t know if they’re discussing a grocery list or a recipe but I’m on a roll and so pleased with my translation abilities that I all but lean the entire top half of my body outside the window and prop myself against the sill as if invited to be part of their conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglV0L0oDyOqND78JET0v7exYLnY7lsGt9KRYZNd8rtq6aUggx5eeHB-sj5v-cOBjG7QQmb-2AW7mO5JBCWimEEESusc2ayoa1b-7OO-5a47j_vuk6PMWGzWUnVn_xHhBwLx3VpdqCEJY/s1600/old+lady+with+cigarette+looking+out+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglV0L0oDyOqND78JET0v7exYLnY7lsGt9KRYZNd8rtq6aUggx5eeHB-sj5v-cOBjG7QQmb-2AW7mO5JBCWimEEESusc2ayoa1b-7OO-5a47j_vuk6PMWGzWUnVn_xHhBwLx3VpdqCEJY/s400/old+lady+with+cigarette+looking+out+window.jpg" width="281" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBXA-ExuO_W56_HbTktTAtMWnzW9k6f2vpsCmT32188oMYON_URAQeFWcxIQDQIAFD3H0kzZnZW1BEWOsNEN0H-QOu-V3P64tC6DJI8t98j1qv2zDQuuX84cfhxNl2Nipp3ZrfxnK4GE/s1600/keys+on+table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBXA-ExuO_W56_HbTktTAtMWnzW9k6f2vpsCmT32188oMYON_URAQeFWcxIQDQIAFD3H0kzZnZW1BEWOsNEN0H-QOu-V3P64tC6DJI8t98j1qv2zDQuuX84cfhxNl2Nipp3ZrfxnK4GE/s200/keys+on+table.jpg" width="163" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ciao Marcello,” I want to yell out the window remembering <span class="st1">Vivien Leigh in the film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone </i>when she threw her apartment keys to her young lover, Warren Beatty, on the street below. “Ciao Marcello,” I’m afraid to yell out the window for fear Sophia, upstairs, will hear me and put a stop to our desire. “Ciao Marcello,” I whisper as he finishes talking with Georgio and turns to walk away. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN20woRZnAOEACY1yKLVDAp9RmkzZsHatzHRw2tsyMCVh5TQbsD2S6Q6QU_J3th_eXZPtw_R9808HOpJhK-vT8bWOI_CWlA33bkGvFqj79fyz96QHaVg_63vbSd07L79PcPzoy6eah31w/s1600/man+in+green+pants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN20woRZnAOEACY1yKLVDAp9RmkzZsHatzHRw2tsyMCVh5TQbsD2S6Q6QU_J3th_eXZPtw_R9808HOpJhK-vT8bWOI_CWlA33bkGvFqj79fyz96QHaVg_63vbSd07L79PcPzoy6eah31w/s320/man+in+green+pants.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="st1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My eyes are locked on his body. It is solid and rugged. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="st1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">He looks up at my window, as if expecting to find me there. He meets my stare and smiles wide, revealing a gold capped molar. He winks and looks at me longingly as if to capture a memory to last all day. He waves. I wave. But, my mouth won’t open to utter the greeting I have practiced so many times. The breeze blows over my flushed face, my heart rushes, and I think of how it might be to have our own home with a patio outside the upper floor window and what it will be like to grow old together. I imagine always standing in a window, looking down at him when he leaves and still feeling that rush of life through my blood. He smiles again and tips his head. Today he’s wearing lime green pants. I watch until the color fades out of sight.<em> Ciao Marcello, until tomorrow.</em></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024439618426779793.post-64141383056688815712011-08-21T16:28:00.000-07:002011-08-21T16:28:42.308-07:00Portofino On The Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYo7xQMeFP1ZObh-wfEibHtCTvFqN7ysyGqitNtbnuL8PNR0orc7J08mtOJ1eInt2pYdqnBZ3r4lM_UIJwoaqwFZdPCOGPWt0aoBq6hKcIDRAX65uwFWlCizmp7eLcLYAWQAJIXKggOY/s1600/yacht+and+boats+near+sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYo7xQMeFP1ZObh-wfEibHtCTvFqN7ysyGqitNtbnuL8PNR0orc7J08mtOJ1eInt2pYdqnBZ3r4lM_UIJwoaqwFZdPCOGPWt0aoBq6hKcIDRAX65uwFWlCizmp7eLcLYAWQAJIXKggOY/s320/yacht+and+boats+near+sea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbNhgkflBvKdLPpFrjGUkc_X7uXYQ07e5Kz1tOmdevyapzXKa2rbNNQmdko4YPyWkiPfklDSfIQnREr6mouvnUjM46JyOxxB66WDLOWia9yB5nFQNZlgQrwxlG-DPxRRDFMjGTMZ69Ds/s1600/SIlver+hairded+man+on+boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbNhgkflBvKdLPpFrjGUkc_X7uXYQ07e5Kz1tOmdevyapzXKa2rbNNQmdko4YPyWkiPfklDSfIQnREr6mouvnUjM46JyOxxB66WDLOWia9yB5nFQNZlgQrwxlG-DPxRRDFMjGTMZ69Ds/s200/SIlver+hairded+man+on+boat.jpg" width="142" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Hb5cqa8ao-ndggrJTNb0JzpsrF5cf9GXLNR597BhECIsfiV4ptgW_NXi0JC49eq_wqVYBEjqIA-t71TAM5Fh01NTewxnQIjAsI_0loeV6KnuOITnvAuXrifDB0qdjFOUseRNPBFl9tk/s1600/Cameraman+on+boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Hb5cqa8ao-ndggrJTNb0JzpsrF5cf9GXLNR597BhECIsfiV4ptgW_NXi0JC49eq_wqVYBEjqIA-t71TAM5Fh01NTewxnQIjAsI_0loeV6KnuOITnvAuXrifDB0qdjFOUseRNPBFl9tk/s200/Cameraman+on+boat.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The little town of Portofino is built in the slice of a hillside that drops into a tiny sheltered natural harbor opening into the Mediterranean Sea. The experience of arriving by water is one of awe as if opening a long sealed treasure chest or finding that someone has changed-out your seasonal closet and in addition to arranging everything in color order, has washed and neatly draped last year’s favorite coffee stained sweat shirt over your chair. Portofino has a language of its own that says, “I see you’ve returned.” Even if you’ve never been there before, it gently wraps it arms around you and pulls you home. <o:p></o:p></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3k461S4WBiPRYjbWvGAKcWbS4r2irh1JpbOD0w52CRmCtrMzhmgfPJIEfnBWnKLsjgTK0-tbf7zqMK6sMZ25z3JOKpLyTnuzHCuvehHzTKJJBeAaPaw-YqGIFkl3k6IB5aP_7dF_hO9g/s1600/MOVIE+DIRECTOR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3k461S4WBiPRYjbWvGAKcWbS4r2irh1JpbOD0w52CRmCtrMzhmgfPJIEfnBWnKLsjgTK0-tbf7zqMK6sMZ25z3JOKpLyTnuzHCuvehHzTKJJBeAaPaw-YqGIFkl3k6IB5aP_7dF_hO9g/s200/MOVIE+DIRECTOR.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcarl5DyciA42tcKtIhBYYqqDD1NbXzxxBAAYK3CJagTxbuNgPjn4i1W6sPcHaXVlhFKQRRk1CSErO_vqLgmZIuF7unuRfzjfLnYsnjfFJbG3SsQOXrENaluhyXRvsbhDeeY06On0ZXg/s1600/boats+on+the+shore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcarl5DyciA42tcKtIhBYYqqDD1NbXzxxBAAYK3CJagTxbuNgPjn4i1W6sPcHaXVlhFKQRRk1CSErO_vqLgmZIuF7unuRfzjfLnYsnjfFJbG3SsQOXrENaluhyXRvsbhDeeY06On0ZXg/s320/boats+on+the+shore.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Portofino is not a town like others small communities on the Italian Riviera. It does not have a white sand beach dotted with umbrellas; it is a harbor town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mega yachts moored outside the harbor are the first indication that you’re about to enter the land of something special. The captain steers our boat around the anchored sea vessels and mountains hiding the harbor knowing that his passengers are about to ooh-and-ah and then be dumbstruck. The visual magic of Portofino grabs the day-tripper by the waist and doesn’t let go until the last boat taxi toots its horn good-bye. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnAGmjmqyd6b-zbUTgudNjfBNd0rhtDi9YKgMW16CDMm3BqQ3kD1nGw0cR8IG92-EbQK_480yyjgAdeypAC9SzS8tg8NCVoJBNzWCc8w9TQuNIfq1G3IQAMIfbhi1vgrCOM5XLseoCqQ/s1600/Louis+Vuitton+Gelato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnAGmjmqyd6b-zbUTgudNjfBNd0rhtDi9YKgMW16CDMm3BqQ3kD1nGw0cR8IG92-EbQK_480yyjgAdeypAC9SzS8tg8NCVoJBNzWCc8w9TQuNIfq1G3IQAMIfbhi1vgrCOM5XLseoCqQ/s200/Louis+Vuitton+Gelato.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The captain maneuvers through the waters inhabited by fancy boats floating alongside small fishing boats. A salty fisherman salutes our captain then turns to wave to the uniformed crews on private floating mansions. All the boats boast a gleaming polish and the largest are outfitted with huge fresh floral displays on tables at the stern, which look to be set for afternoon cocktails. Our captain told us that famous people gravitate to Portofino and that a few days earlier Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were here. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4gGUI4qzSnCpnWN4vZHakoVsjlL0yIFoLKYl_oENl3Qvdu-pLb57jvcszbEEKuGznXE3s6h_3-LROSDEgYW4MdrZJAy3c-y0VZab-_GXCAPwoKU4XwpJeAeLVLzaa0_ZKjsbpjHWeLE/s1600/Boats+in+a+row.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4gGUI4qzSnCpnWN4vZHakoVsjlL0yIFoLKYl_oENl3Qvdu-pLb57jvcszbEEKuGznXE3s6h_3-LROSDEgYW4MdrZJAy3c-y0VZab-_GXCAPwoKU4XwpJeAeLVLzaa0_ZKjsbpjHWeLE/s320/Boats+in+a+row.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A policeman on shore monitors the dinghies as they drop-off and pick-up their passengers. We watch a crowd gather on the pier looking toward the big white yacht where people move about. They’re watching a silver haired man followed by a cameraman as they disembark. I don’t recognize him as a movie star, but maybe he is. They quickly blend into the crowd and as we see them throughout the day, their oddity seems to have waned. A man talking on his cell phone looks like a movie director from the way his shirt collar is cocked up to cover the back of his neck and he wears two pair of reading glasses. He too mixes in the crowd unruffled. There seems to be a general understanding that famous people are not to be bothered here and I’m thinking that perhaps that’s why no one is bothering me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlPfHxWTlbEeqcxqie2PejZvBk2pEp4HQBTBllyz6mZp2et_3qhDnTInaP8Fh7FffMMjoV9k6Jkjb5k_r5SGVtW9ik2sAYIPrA2dLSeKVsprQ1RAtoH_9zV6vInwH_JbKBBWME_AmZFsg/s1600/street+to+church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlPfHxWTlbEeqcxqie2PejZvBk2pEp4HQBTBllyz6mZp2et_3qhDnTInaP8Fh7FffMMjoV9k6Jkjb5k_r5SGVtW9ik2sAYIPrA2dLSeKVsprQ1RAtoH_9zV6vInwH_JbKBBWME_AmZFsg/s200/street+to+church.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The facades on the buildings are faux painted, giving them the detailed three dimensional feeling of pages from a pop-up book. There are designer shops next to sidewalk cafes, and people reading travel brochures and eating gelato. There are no maps here – the town is so compact, people just point you in the right direction. The smaller boats in the harbor are lined-up creating patterns in the water, and punches of color from flowers, awnings, restaurant umbrellas, and signs accent the shot through the viewfinder no matter where you aim your camera. It’s a simple little town overflowing with happiness. The natural beauty quiets even the outward passion of lovers as you catch them in a deeper shared longing, stolen from this moment and this place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqsU2-EXwOUoShk-dn3uWH-KDjSyUtzHItTr83DN3WdxHQzgoehxwEPQ2oWQPLdKpCEHGrfDi9bUnLozDT70p4-KpROv0DVkVejIp7oErMDd_r6EuV2_1hkFvFAXht_BQ21QKWLp_lqIs/s1600/inside+church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqsU2-EXwOUoShk-dn3uWH-KDjSyUtzHItTr83DN3WdxHQzgoehxwEPQ2oWQPLdKpCEHGrfDi9bUnLozDT70p4-KpROv0DVkVejIp7oErMDd_r6EuV2_1hkFvFAXht_BQ21QKWLp_lqIs/s320/inside+church.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHD3cuhGXVj1J7oTkL1M2cRZaV5X7dx3juJc-hWHi8lkEus6kUusaKAYX7jEdL-JK-sH4yeihieg1JdftKaqEjJXjSugOULxrlANBoY7YEoyURp41Ow7I8no1HUYendKJ_G0xajMSSE0/s1600/San+Marino+church+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHD3cuhGXVj1J7oTkL1M2cRZaV5X7dx3juJc-hWHi8lkEus6kUusaKAYX7jEdL-JK-sH4yeihieg1JdftKaqEjJXjSugOULxrlANBoY7YEoyURp41Ow7I8no1HUYendKJ_G0xajMSSE0/s200/San+Marino+church+front.jpg" width="141" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Not too far up the hill, the Church of St. Martin, built in the 11<sup>th</sup> Century, looks back down to the town center and harbor of Portofino. </span><strong><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Divo Martino</span></span></strong><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">is as precious as a tiered wedding cake with butter cream frosting and layers supported by Corinthian columns with capitals dipped in gold, accented with piped sugar roses. The community church pulsates with only the flickering of candle light as if to say, “Come in, friend.” A modest collection box next to the candles has a sign thanking visitors in advance for their donations to light a candle. I make a donation but don’t light a candle. The church already glows to perfection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNML_pok4TfISs4wuyWvWBCACa_7TJW6Eo7vfTd70dBnHmCaNDONpRfbtlhppI5xkV_ii2ZNfr8_kB2L4HUIsEHlmH3xUZWIo9AUMGoJylPWjaIvLVGrIsUSdwrYueWJ_3qY-8Llo1-mk/s1600/cobblestone+mosiac+by+church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNML_pok4TfISs4wuyWvWBCACa_7TJW6Eo7vfTd70dBnHmCaNDONpRfbtlhppI5xkV_ii2ZNfr8_kB2L4HUIsEHlmH3xUZWIo9AUMGoJylPWjaIvLVGrIsUSdwrYueWJ_3qY-8Llo1-mk/s320/cobblestone+mosiac+by+church.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Portofino has what I think of as cobble stones, whereas other cities have blocks or bricks with angled sides in their streets. The stones of Portofino streets are rounded, perhaps from being worn down by centuries of water currents and then removed from the sea and arranged artistically into roads. Some of the roads have a picture mosaic made of stones. There is a celestial stone mosaic on the open air patio entrance to my favorite little church. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCRELO4qJvku8D2f_oB-7pN9HJMoKo4uZF31MUaOGI2x7bKogjq4mgGBrp5vDdqGqFe94msfnq3WnlBwi37p6s93xYmgcaKJi07uQDLFnJztDeKCTr71chAT3hWd2v4ivLw0MZexwCx4/s1600/Sidewalk+cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCRELO4qJvku8D2f_oB-7pN9HJMoKo4uZF31MUaOGI2x7bKogjq4mgGBrp5vDdqGqFe94msfnq3WnlBwi37p6s93xYmgcaKJi07uQDLFnJztDeKCTr71chAT3hWd2v4ivLw0MZexwCx4/s320/Sidewalk+cafe.jpg" width="228" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3_78jEabs8l6mXn5SDPRtx8f6964uw5G29D22uTAyi_WXNWY9PwksKuL0XSdX4SGyUX6ZjK43AzZPHDKPXG0axbFAlAPYEUVFBUjJT9tILB5uIEgWy2LArA7L52Xbc378rRciVHTqjk/s1600/outdoor+water+dining.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3_78jEabs8l6mXn5SDPRtx8f6964uw5G29D22uTAyi_WXNWY9PwksKuL0XSdX4SGyUX6ZjK43AzZPHDKPXG0axbFAlAPYEUVFBUjJT9tILB5uIEgWy2LArA7L52Xbc378rRciVHTqjk/s320/outdoor+water+dining.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There is an uncanny familiarity about Portofino that gives me a feeling of wellness and satisfied fullness. There is a gentle peace here that mixes easily with the bright hues of the bougainvillea and climbing vines, the architectural impact of the painted buildings rising up the hills, the calm harbor, and the sea air. It’s a feeling of being safely held captive in a life-size snow globe. Portofino is the one place I am most sad to leave. I leave with the residue of desire, the desire to return here and feel content again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div>Ingrid Lundquisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12515532448638277604noreply@blogger.com1