abroad Posts

Thai Die Massage

Among the many reasons that Jessica and I came to live in Italy is the easier access we have to places that we’ve always wanted to visit.  So, when Jessica asked that we celebrate her 40th birthday on a beach in a warmer climate than that of Puglia, we found that our options now included locations in the eastern hemisphere.  After doing some research and considering the possible locales for our festivities, we decided to spend a month in Southeast Asia.  We made the island of Penang in Malaysia our base but, part of the appeal of this modern Southeast Asian island was its proximity to Bangkok, Thailand and, part of the appeal of Bangkok was the prospect of getting a genuine Thai massage.

Prior to our visit to Bangkok, our experience with Thai massage was limited to walking past the dozens of Thai massage parlors in Prague so we looked forward to actually having the treatments.  And, as inexpensive as the services are in Bangkok, we were able to try several different places.

Thai Massage Parlor - Prague

Thai Massage Parlor – Prague

Thai Massage Land Shark

Thai Massage Land Shark

There are decisions to be made when one elects to have a massage in Bangkok, beginning with how much you want to spend.  While a massage there is cheap relative to what you might pay in Europe or North America, the prices vary widely from, say, the equivalent of $US20 to $US70 for one hour.  The facilities are reflective of the price with some places having nothing but a thin mattress on the floor for the recipient to lie on and a drape separating one bed from the one next to it.  The more expensive places are more spa-like and offer showers and some modicum of privacy.  I came to appreciate that privacy when, in one of the less well-appointed places, I was unfortunately able to hear the guy next to me as he moaned throughout his session.  Whether it was from his agony or his ecstasy, I couldn’t tell but I did have a guess.

Another set of options for the would-be massagee is the range of “services” he/she is interested in.  If you want a hot stone massage followed by an aromatherapy session, you are going to want a higher-end spa that offers a broader menu.  Are you just interested in a basic therapeutic massage?  Then one of the many massage parlors will suit the bill.  If, on the other hand, you are looking to end your massage “happily,” just look for the places (and you won’t have to look very hard) with a half-dozen or so young girls dressed in outfits reminiscent of schoolgirl uniforms sitting at the entrances to their respective places of employment.  Bangkok even offers “prostate massages.”  I’ve had several of those, all provided by my primary care physician, and I wouldn’t recommend them, unless they come with an aged fillet and a good bottle of Bordeaux.

As for protocol, experienced spa devotees will most likely be disappointed at a perceived lack of decorum practiced by the masseuses, but I write it off as a cultural gap.  For example, one of my therapists burped through most of the hour I spent with her.  Yes, out loud, full-throated belching with not so much as an “excuse me.”  Between expulsions, she would converse with the masseuse on the other side of the piece of cloth separating the mattress on which I was lying from the one bearing her client.  And, at one point, my masseuse ran out of oil and left me to replenish her supply.

The protocols also extend to the degree to which one is clothed during the massage and here I am only referring to the one receiving the massage and not, as in the case of the famous “soapy” massage where both giver and receiver are sans clothing.  In one place, Jessica was required to wear a cotton outfit that looked to be custom-tailored for the Michelin Man.  I have no idea what purpose it served or whether is was to protect the modesty of Jessica or that of the masseuse.  In most places, though, a simple towel covering private bits is the norm.

Jessica and I have very different desires when it comes to massage.  Where I prefer a slow, gentle, relaxing experience, Jessica likes a deep tissue treatment along the lines of what they used to dish out at Abu Ghraib and she had little difficulty finding therapists who were more than willing to abuse her for a couple of hours.  Unfortunately for me, since the only Thai words I know are the ones for “thank you” and “hello,” I was utterly incapable of explaining to my masseuses that I wanted to remain an unfamiliar of pain.  “Easy,” “soft,” “gentle,” “light,” I would say to each of them and they would each nod her head in understanding and then proceed to give me the massage equivalent of a waterboarding.  I was subjected to all manner of mistreatment as elbows, knees, knuckles and, I think at one point, a Phillips-head screwdriver plunged deep into parts of my body that, until the agony began, I had quite forgotten about.

At a Buddhist school for massage: Pierce flesh here

At a Buddhist school for massage: Pierce flesh here

Vee haf vays of makink you talk!

Vee haf vays of makink you talk! Sculpture at the massage school.

As we left one establishment after I had received a particularly grueling hot oil massage, I asked Jessica how her Thai massage had been.

“It was great,” she said.  “I had a few knots that were pretty deep but she found them and worked them out.  How about yours?”

“Well, I have no hair left on my legs, I feel like someone has been sitting on my back–oh, wait, she was sitting on my back–and, I’m not quite sure where my spleen is, but I think she broke it.  On several occasions I was going to tell her where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, who the second gunman on the grassy knoll was and how to create nuclear fusion, but she didn’t really care about that stuff.  She just wanted to hurt me.  Otherwise it was great.”

“You’re such a baby,” she said sympathetically.

 

Photos (as always) by the beautiful and talented Jessica Coup.  See more of her work at www.jessicacoup.com.

Of Pigs’ Knees, Duck Liver and Chocolate: Part 2

There is some really old stuff in Heidelberg, Germany, the next stop on our train trip.  St. Peter’s Church is nearly a thousand years old and the dominating Church of the Holy Spirit has been there for almost six centuries.  I guess there was little of strategic value there during WWII since these treasures escaped the US and RAF bombing that other parts of Germany experienced.  When the American troops arrived at the doorstep of Heidelberg, the German soldiers there negotiated a surrender, saving the city from destruction.  I’m glad it worked out that way.

Church

Church of the Holy Spirit

Heidelberg Schloss

Heidelberger Schloss

Jessica and I walked the streets of the old part of Heidelberg, taking in the sites that included old churches, the University of Heidelberg (Germany’s oldest university and the setting for The Student Prince), and the awe-inspiring Heidelberger Schloss (the Heidelberg Castle).  The ruins of this former residence of the Palatine Electors (whoever they were) have been partially restored and now contain displays of objects found in and around the place, a coffee shop and even a wine tasting room where we could (and did) taste some of the local wines.  Adjacent to the wine tasting space is, what we were told was the largest barrel in the world.  It can hold over 55,000 gallons of wine.  I asked what the point was of having a barrel that big, but no one could give me a reason.

After spending the day traipsing about the old town and strolling along the Neckar River, we went back to our hotel.  On entering our room, we both noted the chill.

“I’ll put the heat on,” I said.  I spent the next ten minutes playing with the alleged temperature controls mounted on the wall in the phone booth sized room.  “The thermostat isn’t working,” I announced.  “I’ll go talk to someone at the front desk.”

“I’m trying to put the heat on in our room, but the controls don’t seem to be working,” I said to the young girl at the lobby desk.

“Yes, that is because it is only October and the hotel has not yet put the heat on,” she explained as if this explanation were unassailable.

“But our room is cold.  Are you telling me that, no matter how cold it is, there is no heat for the hotel?” I asked.

“No,” she replied matter-of-factly.  “But, for Germans, it is warm enough.”  I considered mentioning that we were not Germans, but she already knew that so I went back to the room where Jessica was waiting with a freshly-opened bottle of wine.  There’s more than one way to keep warm.

Next stop: Berlin.  For several years we had been reading about Berlin and its rebirth following the fall of the wall that bifurcated the city.  East Berlin was doing its level best to eliminate vestiges of the past, both Nazi and Soviet.  West Berlin had long ago disposed of its Nazi history and had become the city that a German capital should be.  Now that the wall was gone, the former Soviet part of the city is fully integrated with its western counterpart.  The city had developed a well-earned reputation as a cosmopolitan draw for artists, entrepreneurs and other creative types and we looked forward to experiencing the spirit of Berlin.

Our hotel was located in what-had-been West Berlin and was a short walk to the main shopping and restaurant district in that part of town.  Our primary objective after checking in was finding a place for lunch.  After the five-hour train trip from Heidelberg, we were hungry.

We passed a number of restaurants that, for one reason or another, did not appeal to us, starving though we were.  As we approached desperation, we came upon a small eatery with Hebrew lettering on its sign.  We thought, what the hell, and asked for a table for two. As we were led to the table, we passed the bartender.

“Did you hear about us on TripAdvisor?” he asked in slightly-accented English.

“No, we were just passing by and had to stop,” I responded.

“That’s even better,” he said with a smile.

The place is called Jacob’s Bar & Restaurant and bills itself as having Israeli/Mediterranean cuisine and that sounded wonderful to our empty tummies.  The waitress presented us with menus and the bartender, who turned out to be Jacob himself, helped us to interpret the dishes.  First up was mosabha that the menu says is “hummus, only better.”  According to Jacob, this recipe for humus is 2,000 years old.  As a second course, Jessica had the “Israeli pizza” topped with tomato sauce, tahini, eggplant, egg and feta.  I couldn’t resist trying the meatballs when I saw the ingredients that included beets, pomegranate and yogurt.  Neither of us was in the least disappointed.  The food was so good and the environment was so lively that we booked for dinner the next night.

We got up early the next morning and walked to the Reichstag building, home of the German parliament.  We started our tour here because that’s what Rick Steves told us to do.  With headphones plugged into iPhones loaded with Rick’s (Yes, we’re now on a first-name basis.) walking tour of Berlin, we set off to explore the city.  We passed through the Brandenburg Gate at the former border between East and West Berlin and took a side street to see the Peter Eisenman-designed Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, an eery and moving monument to an event that the German people will not allow themselves to forget.  Even the use of the word “murdered” in the name of the site is indicative of the contrition which the German people have for this part of their history.  The 2,711 gray granite slabs that cover the nearly 5 acre site provide a physical reminder that evil exists in the world and that we must be always on guard against its appearance.

The Reichstag

The Reichstag

The Brandenburg Gate

The Brandenburg Gate

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe

We strolled down Unter den Linden, a broad, tree-lined boulevard that unsuccessfully combines Nazi- and Soviet-era architecture with designer boutiques and high-end restaurants.  The incongruity of the form and the use of the buildings in this area of Berlin is actually disquieting.  We arrived, at the end of the tour, at Alexanderplatz and I had a beer and a bratwurst.  Jessica settled for a pretzel.

Now that we were properly nourished, we began a hike to see the East Side Gallery.  We learned that, in 1990 in celebration of the fall of the Berlin Wall, a large number of artists were invited to create works on a 1.3 kilometer section of what remains of the wall.  Over 100 artists participated and the result is the largest outdoor art gallery in the world.  Most of the art springs from the politics of the time and I was struck by how many of the wall sections are now icons.  I was also struck by the travesty of the tagging and defacing of the art by those with less talent and even fewer brains.  There was almost no piece of art in the nearly-mile-long stretch that some moron had not seen fit to damage.  I needed another beer.

An iconic image from the East Side Gallery

An iconic image from the East Side Gallery

We took a bus to the Berlin Wall Museum and, after spending a while there, headed back to the hotel, thinking about getting back to Jacob’s Bar & Restaurant and diving into a big bowl of mosabha.

A constant reminder at the Berlin Wall Museum

A constant reminder at the Berlin Wall Museum

We awoke early the next morning in order to catch the local train that would take us to the Berlin Bahnhof, the main train station.  On the walk to the underground stop, we were entertained by some of the thousands of people preparing to run in the Berlin marathon later that morning and by the inebriated customers of the still-open bars.  We were both sober and sane enough not to be about to run 26.2 miles so, all in all, we felt pretty good about ourselves.

Marathoners making their way from the Berlin train station

Marathoners making their way from the Berlin train station

Next stop: Prague.

Next:  Of Pigs’ Knees, Duck Liver & Chocolate – Part 3

Of Pigs’ Knees, Duck Liver and Chocolate: Part 1

Among the reasons that Jessica and I moved to Italy is the relative ease with which we could travel to other parts of Europe.  Since settling in Puglia, we have visited such places as Amsterdam, Malta, Munich, Salzburg, Croatia and many parts of Italy and done so without investing a great deal of time or money.  With the exception of Amsterdam and Malta, however, all of these excursions were done by car (or CRAMPER) or ferry.  We often spoke of doing a trip by train and availing ourselves of the rail system for which the Continent is renowned.  Recently, we stopped just talking about it and began to seriously plan the journey.  Arranging the logistics for the 15-day, 10-city tour seemed daunting at first but, after the route was plotted, the Interrail tickets bought, the train reservations made, the flights booked, and the hotel rooms reserved, the real anxiety set in.  We were well-familiar with navigating airports, but train stations were another animal.  We entered our first train terminal confident only in the fact that we would learn much in the coming two weeks.

The first leg was a two-hour flight from Brindisi to Geneva, Switzerland, and a quick (and free) train ride from the airport to the center of this incredibly expensive city on an alpine lake.  After checking into our painfully-expensive (though quite austere) hotel and dropping off the small backpacks that represented our only bits of luggage, we took a stroll along the lakefront, noting the number of Bentleys, Porsches and big Beamers, and past expensive hotels.

“We’re not in Puglia anymore, Toto,” I said, but to Jessica, not Toto.

Geneva where beauty comes at a price

Geneva where beauty comes at a price

We had an incredibly expensive dinner at an amazingly mediocre Indian restaurant all while listening to a husband and wife full-throatedly talking about women’s breasts (Husband: “I never realized how many different kinds of tits there were.”  Wife: “Neither did I and I have tits.”) as their two teenage sons sipped on their Coca Colas.  We went back to our hotel.  We arose early the next morning so that we could stop at the first Starbucks we had seen in many months before catching the train to Lausanne.  We had to wait for the Starbucks to open that morning, inexplicably since it was nearly 7:00 when we arrived but we would learn that Switzerland is a late-rising culture.  We savored each drop of the two grande cappuccini we ordered and Jessica scraped the bottom of the little plastic cup of yogurt she bought, our having spent the equivalent of $24 for the three items.

A view of Lake Geneva from Lausanne

A view of Lake Geneva from Lausanne

It is only a half-hour trip from Geneva to Lausanne so it was much too early to check into our next over-valued hotel room.  We checked our backpacks at the hotel before heading out to catch a bus to the Chateau de Chillon, which made all the more perplexing the question we got from a fellow bus-waiter.

Chateau de Chillon, a little place on the lake

Chateau de Chillon, a little place on the lake

“Are you guys going to the hostel?” the young stranger asked.

“No.  Are you saying that we look like we’re going to a hostel?”  I responded.  He didn’t react.

I should note here that Soul of the Heel is not a travel blog so please don’t expect to read boring descriptions here of museums, castles, forts, government buildings, blah, blah, blah. If you want that, google Rick Steves who was our constant guide throughout the trip and from whom you can learn such things as the fact that the hot dog is called a wiener throughout most of Europe because it was “invented” in Vienna (Wien, in the German language) by a guy from Frankfurt except that in Vienna itself, it’s called a frankfurter.  Got it?  Anyway, we found Lausanne to be like Geneva in the respect that, at the slightest provocation, businesses extracted large amounts of money from us.

The next morning, Jessica passed on the Starbucks yogurt so our cappuccini bill was only $20.  The train we caught that morning took us to Bern, Switzerland’s capital city.  The town center boasts six miles of shopping but we could afford none of it.  Bern was, like the rest of Switzerland, it seems, expensive.

The Bern streetscapes are charming

The Bern streetscapes are charming

Our fourth day on the road started with a train ride to Zurich, a city where things are very expensive.  In this northern Switzerland city, we stayed in a hotel called an Ibis Budget Hotel.  Our room had a bunkbed, the shower was right next to the bed, and the stall where the toilet was had a swinging door.  The mattress felt like something manufactured by Weyerhauser and there was no thermostat.  The place would make a Spartan uncomfortable and was just a tiny step up from camping.  But, at least it was right next to train tracks and just across from an open-all-night bar.  (I just don’t know how people can afford to drink all night here.)  I guess this is why we only had to pay $130 for the night.

We roamed the streets of Zurich, passing stores with familiar names and high prices, and came upon a restaurant that announced Mexican fare.  Since Mexican cuisine is not readily available in Puglia and, despite the fact that I had never heard anything about the quality of Mexican food in Switzerland, we stopped.  The lack of authenticity in what was set before us was obvious when we tasted the “Hot Sauce.”  Instead of being spicy, the red sauce was simply warmed ketchup.  Oh well.  At least the meal was expensive.

A stroll along the river in Zurich is a must-do

A stroll along the river in Zurich is a must-do

Zurich's version of a parking lot

Zurich’s version of a parking lot

We left Switzerland and it left us with some indelible impressions:

1.  It’s expensive.

2.  It has a natural beauty that few places possess with stunning mountain views, quaint architectural elements and dramatic lakescapes.

3.  The country’s renowned neutrality extends beyond its politics and characterizes its food, wine and, in many respects, its culture.  There just isn’t much there to distinguish them.

4.  The trains run perfectly on time, a function, I suppose, of there being so many clocks around.

After a day in Zurich, we strapped on our backpacks, jumped on yet another train, and, without having had a single morsel of chocolate during our 4 days in Switzerland, headed to our next stop: Heidlberg, Germany.

Next:  Pigs’ Knees, Duck Liver and Chocolate:  Part 2

The Italian Paper Chase – Part I

Back in Pittsburgh after the whirlwind tour of Puglia that saw us visiting thirty-three properties in four days, Jessica and I dived into the process of buying our Villa Tutto, and quite a process it was.  On the last day of our trip, Colleen and Francesco were kind enough to spend most of it walking us through the steps required in order to buy property in Italy.  Interestingly, except for getting codice fiscale (fiscal codes) which all Italians are required to have before engaging in any commerce, foreigners go through the same process as Italians to buy property.

Our goal was to return to Puglia over the Thanksgiving holiday, less than twelve weeks later, to close on the property.  There was clearly much to do in little time.  First, we had to make a formal proposal to Pietro, which we did through Francesco.  Our offer established the price we were willing to pay and listed the work that we wanted Pietro to perform at his expense.  That included removal of the tile on the kitchen wall, repairing of sun damage to the finish on the wood window frames and getting rid of debris scattered about the property.  Three days later, we were informed by Colleen that Pietro had accepted our offer.  The next day, we were informed by Colleen that Pietro had changed his mind.

Francesco and Colleen were terribly embarrassed by Pietro’s turnabout but, of course, it was not at all their fault, and we were able to resolve the difference with Pietro within a couple of days.  He agreed to do additional work and we agreed to pay another 5,000 euro.  No harm, no foul.

The next step was the “Proposta d’Acquisto Immobiliare,” the formal proposal.  This is a document that specifies all of the deal terms and is accompanied by a good faith deposit from the buyer.  Once the proposta is signed by buyer and seller, the process moves to the compromesso or the “Contratto Preliminare di Compravendita,” the preliminary contract.  This is a document, recorded with the relevant municipality, that defines with precision the property to be sold and the terms of the sale.  It also requires a deposit from the buyer to the seller and a fiscal code for each individual involved in the purchase/sale.  Without the fiscal codes, we could not sign the compromesso or give Pietro the deposit.

Where a hand money deposit is typical in the States, it is generally a nominal amount, it is held by an agent and it is refundable if certain contingencies are not met.  It is also the case that, once a seller accepts a buyer’s offer, he cannot thereafter sell the property to someone else.  In Italy, the hand money is 20% of the purchase price, it goes directly to the seller and it is only refundable under extraordinary circumstances.  Also, the seller continues to be free to sell the property to another buyer until title actually transfers.  In that event, the seller must pay the buyer twice the amount of the hand money, but it is not uncommon that a second buyer comes along with a high enough offer that it pays the seller to walk from the first deal.

Our attempt to get the codice fiscale, the fiscal codes, was our first opportunity to experience “up close and personal” the (in)famous Italian bureaucracy.  It was only a taste of things to come.

Understand that the Italian government wants people to have this fiscal code since it, like our Social Security number, is the basis upon which one’s economic behavior is tracked for tax purposes.  And, in writing, at least, it is relatively easy to get a fiscal code.  All you do is fax a copy of your birth certificate and driver’s license to the Italian Consulate and they will determine your code and send you the card that carries it.  It sounded that simple to me when I spoke to the woman at the consulate in Philadelphia who handles such things.  I asked her how long it would take to receive the codes once I faxed her the required documents.

“No more than five days,” she said definitively.

Within an hour, I had sent the fax that included copies of birth certificates and driver’s licenses for both Jessica and me.  Then we waited.  Meanwhile, Colleen and Francesco are working to keep Pietro on board despite the fact that we have not yet signed the contract or paid the deposit.  Three days, four days and, when nothing arrived on the fifth day, I called the consulate office and spoke with the woman of earlier that week.  I asked her when we can get the codes.

“Oh, I am waiting to get your wife’s driver’s license copy,” she said.

“I sent you that along with the other documents,” I said, probably a bit too curtly considering she had the leverage here.

“Yes, well, our fax machine broke before the last page of your fax came through, so I still need your wife’s driver’s license,” she said with not a hint of contrition.

“Is your fax machine working now?” I asked, trying to keep sarcasm from entering the conversation.

“Oh, yes, it started working right away.”

“Right,” I said, working on keeping the volume down.  “So, if I fax you my wife’s driver’s license right now, how long will it take for me to get the codice fiscale?”

“If you would like, I can fax them to you right away,” she said so matter-of-factly that I started to believe that the previous conversation with her had never happened.

“That would be wonderful.  You will have the fax of the driver’s license within ten minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, I received a fax from the Italian Consulate with our fiscal codes.

Next:  The Italian Paper Chase – Part II

Let’s Make a Deal

The day after being introduced to Villa Marinelli, we returned to the search for a property that could be our home, but we now had the standard against which everything else would be measured.  None of the eight we saw the next day came remotely close.  Late that afternoon, we called Colleen and asked if we could visit the Marinelli property again that evening.  I think that Jessica and I wanted to both confirm our affinity for the place and, on a very practical level, to see what work definitely had to be done and what it might cost to do it.

We arrived at the office of Real Estate Cisternino and, for the first time met Francesco, Colleen’s partner in life and in the business.  Physically, he stands in sharp contrast to the blonde, tall and willowy Colleen.  Francesco wears the dark swarthiness of the southern Italian and he cuts the figure of an athlete with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.  His English was excellent so we sat a bit in the office and I asked the two of them what we should anticipate the costs to be were we to buy the villa in Marinelli, install a new kitchen, add a bathroom and update the existing one.

“I say, ” Francesco began, “maybe 12,000 euro for the kitchen and perhaps 5,000 euro for a second bathroom and maybe 3,000 to fix the one there.”

“So, for 20,000 euro we can do the work we would need to do,” I summarized, having done all the math in my head.  I did so less to confirm  what Francesco had said than to establish for Jessica that the difference between the house as it sat today and the one that we could enthusiastically call home was only 20,000 euro.  She got it and I could see a bit of relief in her.

Francesco said something to Colleen in rapid-fire Italian to which she responded affirmatively and she picked up the phone and began to dial.

“Ciao, Vincenzo,” she said and then went off in Italian at a level exceeding my understanding.  She hung up and turned to us.  “Okay, we’re going to go now to the property and, on the way, we’ll pick up a man who can help us with the costs of what you want to do.”  And, that’s exactly what we did.  Just short of the turn off from the main road up to the village of Marinelli, we saw three men who appeared to be clearing large stones from a field.  Colleen directed me to pull over just where they were and, when the car had stopped, she rolled down her window and called out to the oldest of the group.  He issued some instructions to the other two and jumped into our car.  Colleen introduced Vincenzo as a contractor with whom she and Francesco had worked on other projects and who had agreed to come with us to give us a better sense of the costs we might encounter to do the renovations we were considering.

“And how often do you stop along the road and pick up men?” Jessica asked Colleen.   Only Vincenzo didn’t laugh.

Pietro was there to greet us once again and, since this was our second meeting, we had earned a kiss on each cheek from him.  Again, as we had done the day before, we walked through the house, but this time there was Colleen telling Vincenzo what she understood us to want in the way of changes to the house.   When she was finished, Vincenzo confirmed that the 20,000 euro number to do the kitchen, the new bathroom and fixing up the existing one was sufficient.

Francesco arrived just as we were finishing our talks with Vincenzo and it allowed me to ask another series of questions.  One of the things I had noticed on this second visit was that the mechanical systems were very different from those we were used to.  For example, where our water heaters are mostly cylindrical “silos,” the Italian version is one small tank in each room where hot water is required. Also, I’ve never lived in a place that did not have municipal water and sewage.  This property had neither.  I just wanted to understand how everything worked.  By the time we left, I understood to a reasonable degree, how the systems functioned.  One of the most discomfiting concepts was the idea that the only source of water to the house was rain that was collected in two large cisterns buried in the ground.  One was for domestic use and the other for irrigation.  This would take some getting used to.

As Francesco, Pietro and I were looking at the irrigation lines, I noticed a funnel made of sheet metal mounted on a tripod with the large opening at the top, perhaps ten inches across, and the small end, maybe two inches, at the bottom.  There was a small, but very sharp knife in a slot on the side of the contraption.  I asked Pietro, through, Francesco, what it was.  I needed no more Italian than I had to understand his answer.

“You take the chicken,” he explained, “put it head-down into the funnel, take the knife and…”  He simply made the motion.

Don’t Be a Chicken!

I noticed another object propped up against one of the out-buildings.  It appeared to be an old broom handle that was fitted at one end with a piece of metal in the shape of a hook.  Pietro explained that he made it to help harvest the olives from the higher branches.  He would use the hook to pull the branches down until he could reach them and take the olives off.  Francesco commented, “So you waste nothing, eh?”

Pietro replied, “Tutto, tutto, tutto.”  Everything, everything, everything.  That night at dinner, Jessica and I named our new home and it has been, for us, Villa Tutto ever since.

The next day, our third of touring Pugliese properties, ended with a last visit to Marinelli.  We had no real agenda for that stop and just ended up wandering among the olive trees.  We had arranged to spend the next two days seeing properties but we decided then and there to cancel all of our appointments for the last day and concentrate on what we had to do to make Villa Tutto ours.

I called Colleen and told her that we had made the decision to move forward on the Marinelli villa.  I also told her that we didn’t have a clue what came next.  Fortunately, she did.

I hung up with Colleen and turned to Jessica.  “Oh, crap,” I said.  “I think this might happen.”

Next Up:  The Italian Paper Chase