In which Penny and Frank wash up at the Villa gate

Tuesday October 15, 2019

It truly is an amazingly small world. Early yesterday evening as Nancy, Dan, Gary, Cliff and I sat down to dinner (pasta with sage pesto, pecorino and olives on the side), we heard shouting from the gate. After an awful moment of looking at each other (should we ignore it? Run into the olive groves to hide?) we cranked up the flashlight and cautiously ventured forth.

It was Penny and Frank, who know Nancy and the rest of us from way back. They were lugging rollerboard suitcases, which of course couldn’t roll worth a damn on these dirt/rock roads, covered with dust and exhausted. Penny was nearly hysterical, and it was all we could do to get them into the house, get some food into them and put them in bed. The next morning, fortified by coffee and scrambled eggs, they were able to give their story. They flew into Pisa a day after we did (just before the airport was shut down entirely), coming to visit their son Francis, in Firenze. The rental car company was entirely out of vehicles, so they tried to take the public bus—it took them all day to get halfway, since the authorities had instituted check points, looking for leaders of the student riots who had fled arrest. When they reached Pisano they gave up, disembarked and started walking for Villa Crespine. (Having visited Nancy before, they knew the way, though even armed with that memory they lost their way in the dark twice.)





Nancy and I have been taking inventory all day. Unfortunately Italians don’t stock a lot of prepared food, having a tradition of shopping at market every day or so for fresh ingredients. Which is fine when there are fresh ingredients, and you can get to market, neither of which pertains right now. The Pisano market is held once a week, on Sundays. We can walk in and back (about three miles round trip) but since the power is off more often than on, that means no reliable refrigeration. Fruit and veggies last ok for at least four days, and there are abundant pears, plums, grapes, lettuce, radishes, tomatoes, eggplant, kale, and some other basics. Nancy has plenty of flour stocked, and when we can get eggs we can make pasta. The villa has abundant fig trees, walnuts and almonds, all with ripe fruit and nuts just now. Herbs just grow wild on the grounds—you stroll around crushing oregano and fennel underfoot, and there are huge hedges of rosemary and sage planted along the stone paths. Unfortunately the main crop is olives, which is damn frustrating, looking at all those lovely olives, black and glossy and yet completely inedible before they undergo extensive processing. The markets at other "nearby" towns, such as Rada, are inaccessible without gas for the cars. Nancy and I are going to go volunteer at a nearby vineyard, destemming grapes as they are harvested, in trade for more flour, olive oil and eggs. In my case this is completely illegal, as I don’t have a work permit. The owner of the vineyard will turn a blind eye because Nancy is a friend and, frankly, they need the help.



Got word via email to Dolores, my brothers, and other key folks back in the States that we are well, though trapped. Andy is going to start making noises with the State Department to see if they are planning to help extract Americans trapped by the riots, but I don’t think anything will happen soon. So, we had better keep working on the food supply. I have a feeling that more folks will keep showing up…

How to Get Trapped in a Tuscan Villa

3 a.m., Sunday, October 13, 2019

What insanity! We landed in Pisa yesterday afternoon. Banking in over the Mediterranean, we could see hundreds of small craft circling the port, and farther out, a dozen or so large ships (tankers? Container transports?) stalled at the edges, seemingly baffled by the boats buzzing off their bows. On landing, we cleared customs in no time (honestly—they didn’t care—glanced at our passports and ReDS certificates and waved us on through). As soon as we exiting to baggage claim it was chaos. The airport, which is pretty small, was jammed with travelers in various states of panic—businessmen, couples, families complete with babies and grandmothers, some dragging dogs or carrying cats in carriers, all with mounds of luggage, waving health certificates and passports, shouting hysterically at the airline personnel.

My first inane words (which Cliff, blessedly, did not hear) were “well, this is not good.” And indeed it wasn’t. Turns out two sets of protests have combined to create utter panic—the dockworkers were striking, and doing a rather good job of blockading the port. (They were the ones piloting the small craft holding off incoming ships.) The Italian (coast guard? Navy? The T.V. showed lots of very serious looking sailors on boats, all carrying impressive weaponry) were trying to drive them off, but strikers inside the port were threatening to blow up the fuel storage tanks if the authorities took action, so, stalemate. Inside the city, university students were rioting to protest…something. Since neither Cliff nor I speak Italian the specifics of the situation eluded us, but the important point was clear—a) we were not going to get a flight back to the States and b) we could not go to our hotel in the city, as planned. (We were going to stay for three days before proceeding to Firenze for the meetings at the Palazzo Strozzi.)

The roads into the city were blockaded, and the carabinieri stationed outside the airport were directing all traffic onto the autostrada towards Firenze or Livorno. James, when I called to see if he could find us a place to stay in Firenze, told us the students were rioting there, as well, and he could not guarantee it was safe. (At least he explained why they are up in arms—the government closed the universities, ostensibly to reduce the spread of ReDS, but the students contend it is an excuse to lay off faculty and cut student support.) Which left us, where? Stuck in Italy with a rental car, a map, and nowhere to go.

Except…one of the wonderful things about my career is that it has left me with friends literally everywhere. A bit of thought (aided by a cappuccino and a very nice almond pastry from the café in the rental car building) retrieved the fact that my friend Nancy retired to a small town in Tuscany some five years ago, where she is a caretaker for a villa owned by a rich German. Unfortunately, by this time the cell signal was down again, so we set off for Panzano armed with an excellent map and fortified with two prosciutto sandwiches (also from the café) that smelled really, really good. (They didn’t last 10 kilometers, despite our resolve to save them for later. And they were excellent. Evidently the food disruptions have not yet affected the Italians’ talent for selling decent grub from even the smallest and humblest shop.) We could only hope that Nancy was in residence (and that Herr owner was not.)


First challenge—the rental car company had only been able to give us a few litres of gas, and some vague suggestions, in broken English, for where to find more. The first three stations had nothing, and by that point we had to start deviating from the direct route to Panzano to search. By the time we did fill up (using up a good deal of our precious stash of Euros—we had not been able to get near the ATM at the airport) it was nearly dark. Finally, after many missed turns and doubling back, we trundled into Panzano at nearly eight o’clock at night, with no clue how to proceed from there. Still no cell phone signal.

Bless small towns. Cliff, being from a teeny one in Vermont, found Nancy by the simple expedient of walking into the first open café we could find, just off the village square in Panzano, and asking. When I expressed skepticism at this plan, he explained that having been there five years everyone would know Nancy, the details of her family, her health, her past jobs, and (quite likely) her views on politics and religion. And he was right—they provided directions (and better, a hand drawn map on a paper napkin), and asked us to deliver us three pounds of coffee she had ordered. (We would find out later this was part of an extensive network of black market trading that kept the locals supplied with goods no longer obtainable through the stores. That coffee had been “bought” with two bushels of figs from the trees on the villa’s grounds.)

Villa Crespine is about a mile and a half outside Panzano, down a truly execrable dirt road, worn in places to bedrock. We turned down two wrong spurs, bumping along between olive groves and vineyards, nearly bottoming out the car, before finding the correct dusty, steep, unmarked road leading to Crespine. By this time it was pitch dark (and I mean pitch—there must have been another power outage, as we could not even see the lights of Panzano, on the ridge across the valley.) I got out of the car and walked ahead with a flashlight, looking for the gate. Was scared nearly to death when a cingiale (wild boar) startled across the road in front of me and went snorting off into the underbrush.

But, here we are, safe, though shaken, warming ourselves in front of a nice, smoky, fire, eating salami, bread and olives and sipping some really awful red wine. (And I thought all Italian wine was at least decent!) Nancy was wonderful, welcoming us with open arms, and Herr owner is most fortunately in Frankfurt, dealing with his failing business. Our friends Gary and Dan are here, too. They were already visiting, coming up from Milan after Dan keynoted at an international cancer conference. We should be safe for a few days at least while we figure out what to do next. (And how to get word to Flaco, Dolores and our friends back in DC that we are ok.)

Day 3: A Visit from the Authorities

Damn, what a day. The border hounds came today for an unannounced spot check of the Cabezas. Thank god they weren’t from child welfare—that inspection we might have flunked. Chevre, was puking all morning (thus showing her affinity to the cats, who do the same with no compunction. In fact, Em-dash hovered in interested sympathy whenever Chevre started to heave.) Dolores, convinced that this was due to the bizarre food I had fed them for breakfast (biscuits and gravy) was torn between her politeness as a guest and her wrath as a mother. Flaco was yelling at Juan Pablo, who had let the rabbits out. Cliff, overwhelmed, had retreated to the bedroom, and I to do arm work on the porch. So the inspectors walked up the path to see me taking my frustration out on the target hung by the front door. Not, perhaps, the best impression. I was most impressed, and perturbed, by the fact that they carried side arms. They expected, what, deadly force resistance to checking of papers, etc? Still, I put my foil down in a hurry.

And it turned out to be not just another verification of paperwork, but a whole new round of blood tests as well. Evidently the original clean, negative samples for the Cabezas were misplaced, and they needed new samples on file. Chevre and Juan Carlos were compliant, having had to deal with this their whole short lives. Evita pitched an absolute fit, howling and crying, rolling about on the floor. I thought Barsook was going to go after the agents on her behalf—not a good thing, given their armament. In the end, Evita consented to having her blood drawn while hugging the chow, and burying her head in his considerable fur. Barsook, in turn, fixed the female agent taking the blood sample with an inimitable chow stare, making it quite clear that Evita was Under His Protection. By the time the Feds left, I had a migraine and retreated to the laundry room for a little peace. Barsook escorted them out and peed on the gate.

The laundry room is about the only peaceful place left in the house. I am appalled, in retrospect, to realize how much space Cliff and I had to ourselves her. We have fit a whole extra family in, three children and all, and the house is merely full, not crowded. Cliff and I still have the master bedroom and bath to ourselves. Flaco and Dolores have the guest room, and share the bath with the littlest ones, who sleep together in what was Cliff’s study. Evita has my meditation room on the third floor. Cliff firmly insisted the big space up there remain the exercise room, but it is rapidly filling with children’s toys, mixing plush animals and toy soldiers with the free weights and yoga props. As long as Cliff has a clear path to his rowing machine, he is happy, but the clutter is driving me nuts.

So, the plane flight tomorrow will seem peaceful by comparison, I hope. Much as I hate, hate, hate airport security and health screening these days, at least I can retreat to a corner with my laptop and iPod and get a little writing done. It is a night flight to Pisa, so I plan to sleep on the plane. Speaking of sleep, I had better get some now. A good practice tonight, but tiring. As I get older, my opponents seem to get younger and younger. Makes it all the more fun to beat them! And so, Ibuprofen and good night.

Oh, and my word for the day, courtesy of Evita, is "pendajo." I think I am glad that the agents did not speak Spanish...

Day 2: Settling In

Are all Latin American men male chauvinist pigs? I am, doubtless, showing my age even using that term. Flaco headed out for the Smithsonian this morning, eager to establish a foothold in the mammal range. He found a car pool that can take him to Suitland, close enough to use a bicycle, stashed at a coworker's house, to pedal to the Museum Support Center. Dolores stayed home to enroll Evita at Sheridan, and meet Luba, the uber-grandmother who will be caring for Juan Pablo and Chevre for part of each day. Luba is Ukrainian, one of Vitali’s network of friends and relatives—the “third wave” of immigration from Kiev and its surroundings. Funny how certain ethnic groups seem to get a lock on specific professions. Ten years ago all the IT staff at Cliff’s association were Burmese, all the D.C. cab drivers, from Ethiopia and all the nannies in the neighborhood from Mexico or Guatemala. Now all the “бабушки” come from Ukraine, or Belarus.

Theoretically, this is the carefully orchestrated dance: Flaco and Dolores work a staggered schedule—he goes in early, comes home mid-afternoon. She hands off the little ones to Katerina at lunch and heads for the herbarium, Flaco gets back at 3 to take over as Evita gets back from school. That leaves an affordable portion of nanny-time. She looks all grey and cuddly, but I suspect Luba is capable of being a dragon. Good thing, too, as I have premonitions of Flaco getting home later and later, as he struggles to drag himself away from his beloved potos. Dolores would let him get away with this. Луба не будет позволять ему делать это. (Why didn’t I study Spanish all these years rather than Russian? That wouldn’t have helped with my fencing lessons, though.)

I am just as glad to get out of the way and let them work it all out. This is, in fact, one of the few things that can reconcile me to flying to Italy on Thursday. What in heaven’s name was I thinking when I accepted this assignment? James is a dear, and I know he has a soft spot in his heart for the Palazzo Strozzi, but really, the Italian museum “mafia” could work this mess out without me. Mostly they want to be able to say that they had some big shot American consultant at the table for the negotiations—they don’t actually care what I have to say. Or think they don’t! Since I’m going, I’m going to make darn sure they are going to listen to me.

A tiny piece of progress with Evita today. I asked if she would help me with my Spanish by teaching me one word a day—her choice. Shy she may be, but a wicked sense of humor lurks behind those brown eyes. My first word of the day is “mierda.” At least she is teaching me useful vocabulary. When I made the request I had resigned myself to learning to converse about dolls and hair ribbons. She has enthusiastically promised to take good care of Barsook while we are gone, and somewhat more reluctantly taken on the cats. Dolores (of course Dolores, Flaco wouldn’t think of it) is taking rabbit and fish duty.

Well, too much to do. Tenciero will supervise at the Bakery while I am gone, which has sent Iphan into a sulking fit. But really, I can’t trust Iphan to run the shop during the day when he can’t make eye contact with the customers, much less small talk. People sense that Tenciero is a little “off”, but he puts such earnest good will into his efforts that they tend to overlook his social gaffes. I have to leave him a detailed list, however, of everything that has to be done, in precise chronological order. Knowing that he will, indeed, follow it precisely and unvaryingly is in some ways a comfort, but scary in others. What if he needs to adapt, and vary the routine? Well, the whole idea behind this staffing scheme was to help Tenciero, Iphan, Isabella and the others become self-sufficient. I suppose that entails leaving them to manage on their own at some point.

So, finish the “how to open and close Badger Bakery” instructions. Wire the blades I am taking with me. (Too fun, getting my tail whipped by Italian fencers! Though surely they can’t all be prodigies, Valentina Vezzali not withstanding.) Pack my respirator, sanitary wipes, health documentation, decent snacks for the plane and download a good book. Email Allison and remind her she agreed to open the fencing salle for early practice while I am gone, since Vitali is still laid up. My life begins to seem complicated when I try to disentangle the pieces like this, even for a week…

My story, part I (October 7, 2019)

My long-term “guests” arrived today, and I am already having uneasy second thoughts about whether this is going to work. Dr. Profesor Magnifico (Flaco) Cabeza and Dra. Dolores Fuertes de Cabeza are very nice people. They are from Ecuador, both former staff from the Museo Ecuatoriano de Ciencias Naturales (Ecuadorian Museum of Natural Sciences) in Quito. He is a mammalogist, she is a botanist. My friend John knows them through a collections care course he taught in Quito, and when they needed a place to stay in DC, he talked me and Cliff into opening up our house.

If it were just a matter of housing two nice young scientists, I bet this would work fine. But they come with children! Ok, I might as well confess right now—I am not generally fond of children. A normal person would reflexively call Evita (8), Juan Pablo (5) and Chevre (2) “adorable.” I reserve judgment—they are beautiful, and shy, and for now I am just relieved that they are quiet and well-behaved. It is difficult for a couple who has never had children to adjust to having little ones become part of the household. Cliff always said he wanted to be a dad, but I am not sure that his instincts have ever been developed! And I, evidently, have none. The cats are extremely cautious (perhaps rightly so). Only Barsook, our chow, took to them right away, nosing them in the face (they are just the right height) and offering them his paw. Juan Pablo and Chevre, however, are terrified, calling him a bear (“oso”) and hiding behind Dolores’ legs. Evita seems cautiously enthralled, and Barsook has been following her everywhere.

And the paperwork! Residency permits to allow them to register to stay in our house. Health certificates to document that they are ReDS-free. Affadafits to immigration and naturalization attesting to their good character and intent to return to Quito when their Smithsonian residencies are up. As I signed these last papers, I had grave reservations, since I suspect it is a lie. Why would they return to Ecuador in these circumstances? The museum is closed for the indefinite future. Even if it reopens I doubt they would have money to pay Flaco and Dolores a decent salary. The threat of ReDS is much worse down there, and the school system is falling apart. For now I have resolved to turn a blind eye to that, and do what needs to be done to secure them for the present.

I am nervously rechecking my calculations on food, trying to reassure myself that all the work that Cliff and I have done to ramp up production will add enough to commercially available food to cover five more people. By digging up the entire yard we have captured 1200 square feet for the veggie garden. I have added three more rabbit hutches in the basement. (Heaven help me if the children try to treat them as pets. Maybe, coming from Quito, they are used to distinguishing cute animals as food from cute animals as friends?) The tilapia tank is up and running again, after last month’s disaster (the basement still smells faintly of rotten fish, but that is fading). I have ordered a dozen chicks and am plotting how to shuttle them in and out of the house each day. Technically illegal, by local zoning, but Ursula gets away with it. Then again, Ursula gets away with everything. As far as I know she still has avoided ReDS testing (on ideological grounds) and has not registered the three “relatives” who have come to live with her.

I had better get to bed—up at three to check on the boys at Badger Bakery. Iphan is a dear, but he does tend to get mesmerized by the industrial mixer, and forgets to take the dough out to rise. More later.