John - Not in a Tuscan Villa

During a year in Italy, a New Jersey couple discoverthe true

Dolce Vita when they trade rose coloredglasses for 3Ds

Smashwords Edition

Copyright John and Nancy Petralia, 2013 All rightsreserved.

Publishers Note: Not in a Tuscan Villadescribes the authors experiences while living in Italy andreflects their opinions relating to those experiences. Some namesand identifying details of individuals mentioned in the book havebeen changed to protect their privacy.

Cover design by Toby Schmidt Meyer

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

Published in the United States by Chartiers CreekPress, LLC

Without limiting the rights under copyright reservedabove, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in orintroduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form orby any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise),without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and theabove publisher.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this bookvia the Internet or via any other means without the permission ofthe publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchaseonly authorized electronic editions and do not participate in orencourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Yoursupport of the authors rights is appreciated.

ISBN-10: 0615762530

EAN-13: 9780615762531

To

Rita Kostopolous

for igniting our love of Italian and inspiring ouradventure

and to

Giuliano and Teresa Vitali

who opened not just their country, but their heartsto us

What you get by achieving your goals is not asimportant as what you become by achieving your goals.

Henry David Thoreau

Before Italy. Like BC, BCE, or AD, its thename I give to the period in my life before our year in ItalyApril2009 to March 2010the year that changed our lives.

Before Italy, Nancy and I dreamed of livingLa Dolce Vita. It was something we both wanted to doyouknow, sometime in the future.

Nancys my wife. Before Italy, I would serveNancy coffee in the morning. Now, along with a wake-up kiss, shegets a frothy cappuccino. No, I dont have one of those big fancychrome-finished machines with an array of handles, spouts, andnozzles that only professional baristas can operate properly.Instead, Nancy gets a squirt of coffeebrewed from Starbucksbeanstopped, not with steamed milk, but with skim milk whippedwith a little battery-powered mixer we bought at IKEA.

Dont misunderstand. Save for a fewspecialties like grilling, coffee, and sandwiches, I leave most ofthe food preparation to Nancy. Im the full-blooded Sicilian. Shesa perfect Scots-Irish blend. But when it comes to cooking, Nancy isthoroughly Italian.

Before Italy, we cooked authentic Italiandishes. We still do. Except now we know there are two kinds ofpolentayellow and white. With fish, we prefer the latter becauseof its lighter, subtler flavor. Our cupboard also contains saltfrom Cervia, Sicily, and Sardinia, a variety of milling peppers,three or four different types of anchovies, tuna in jars, and threeItalian rices including a black variety called Venere RisoNero. No, its not infused with squid ink. RisoNero is naturally black rice, crunchy and delicious. Nancyfrequently serves it with seafood, especially shellfish.Delicious.

Like me, Nancy has lived most of her life inthe Philadelphia area. When we both retired in 2001, we movedfull-time into what used to be our second home. Located on LongBeach Island (LBI), a barrier island 65 miles east of Philadelphiaoff the coast of New Jersey, our house is a short walk from thebeach.

Before Italy, Nancy and I would take longwalks on the beach. With ocean accompaniment, her voice is likemusic. Ive always enjoyed listening to the sound of her voice.Now, I also like listening to what shes saying.

Before Italy, I followed the PhiladelphiaPhillies. During our year in Italy, however, I became an obsessedfan. Whether we were in our apartment or in a hotel, the firstthing I did in the morning was switch on my computer to checkscores, batting averages, and injuries. When he came to visit, mybrother Robert fed my obsession with various Phillies paraphernaliaincluding a red and white Phillies cap.

Ball caps, especially ones emblazoned withYankees logos, are certainly not uncommon in Italy. At touristsites, you can find street vendors selling assorted fake Yankeesshirts and caps-often in weird color combinations. I tease myAmerican friends going to Europe that if they want to blend in withthe locals, they should wear tight jeans, soccer shoes and aYankees cap, preferably a purple one with green letters.

Before Italy, I thought Americas best dayswere behind us. I admired President Obama personally, but I saw hisinexperience and ultraliberalism as only helping to accelerate ourdownward trajectory. While in Italy, interacting with Italians andother Europeans, I started to understand why Italians still seeAmerica as a land of opportunity, and why President Obama hasbecome the embodiment of hope to young people everywhere.

Before Italy, I had not yet formulated myTheory of Imperfection, which states that you can get the mostwonderful outcomesan incredible meal, a great story, a superiorinvestment portfolio, and even a stronger countryfrom seeminglyimperfect components. The secret is in the blending.

Before Italy, I didnt know thatItalian-Americans had fought in every American war, including theWar of Independence and the Civil War. At one point, Lincolnconsidered making Italian hero, General Giuseppe Garibaldi, head ofthe Army of the Potomac. The persistence of slavery in the Union in1861 queered the deal. Although Garibaldi never got to swap histrademark red shirt for a blue coat, thousands of his brave troopsfought to rid America of slavery. One ex-red-shirt, General LuigiPalma di Cesnola, was awarded the U. S. Congressional Medal ofHonor. By WWII, hundreds of thousands of Italian-Americans wereserving in our armed services. Some were to die on the very samebeaches where their parents and grandparents had once huddled inhopeful prayer before boarding ships heading to America.

Before Italy, I occasionally used my bike forexercise. Its one of those multispeed, sleek Englishracersfenderless, with hand brakes, skinny tires, and slopinghandlebars that forced my head into my crotch. In Parma, we rodecreaky old Holland-style bikesfenders, one speed, upright handlebars, padded seat, bell, light, and a huge shopping basket. We usedthem constantly, for commuting to the train, sightseeing, joyriding, shopping, and picnicking in distant parks.

Before Italy, I kept my wallet in my pantspockets. While in Bologna, a deft, infant-toting gypsy lifted it.Thanks to fast thinking, quick action, and a threatening stanceallby NancyI got my wallet back. On my bike in Parma, I realized Icould not stop change from falling out of my pants pockets. Thesolution: a man-bag. I bought it at a local flea-market. Small andblack with a cross-body strap, I found it handy for carryingcurrency, passports, train tickets, and change. Yes, it does matchmy soccer shoes. And, yes, I do use it in the States, even in NewJersey. (You talkin to me?)

Before Italy, I could only read in English.Now, with a dictionary and grammar book by my side, I regularlyread articles and bookseven some of our book club selectionsinItalian. Admittedly, its a struggle, but reading, for me, is thebest way to decipher the vagaries of the seemingly incomprehensibleItalian verb forms, especially the subjunctive. If you want toavoid the subjunctive, never start a sentence with if.