Puglia Posts

Pilates Made (for the) Simple

“He’s mean and he yells a lot.”  That was the assessment of Antonio, Jessica’s pilates instructor as rendered by the woman who does Jessica’s hair.  So, when Jessica suggested to me that I join Antonio’s class, I said, “No.  He’s mean and he yells a lot.”

Actually, Jessica’s “suggestion” that I take up pilates was phrased as, “You need to get off of your ass and do something physical,” so my response carried no water whatsoever.  The following Tuesday evening, I dressed in togs that I thought might be appropriate to what I envisioned a pilates workout would be and accompanied Jessica to La Fenice (the phoenix).  The 56-year old Antonio greeted us on our arrival, took some money from us and led us to the studio.  He is tall and wiry and, as the class began, quickly showed himself to be more limber than I.

We began that first session with a class of only three people (Jessica, our friend Colleen and me), I being the only male and the only student of an advanced age.  Antonio took neither of these impediments into account as he soon started heaping “helpful” suggestions on me in his form of English/Italian.  “Straight your schiena.”  “La testa giu, down head.”  “Straight your k-nees.”  I struggled mightily to keep my back lodgepole straight, as I was commanded to do and, when I was ordered to lie on my back, point my toes to the ceiling and keep my knees locked, I thought that my ass was going to come apart, though not the way it normally does.

During the whole affair, these contortions being new to me, I tried to watch Antonio as he glided from one position to another and, at the same time, pretend to be doing the same thing.  Every 30 seconds, though, Antonio would yell at me to keep my head down on the floor but, when I did, I couldn’t see what it was I was supposed to be doing.  It made for an unfortunate dilemma.  Finally, Antonio stood up from a position I could not even hope to have gotten into, walked over to me and said, “Scott, your problem is your head.”  Jessica began to laugh so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was ruined for the rest of the class.  Even the melancholy musical musings of Enya in the background could not mellow her out.

To my own surprise, I went back to the next class.  “Keep your head on the mat,” was my mantra and, with the threat of embarrassment looming over it, my head stayed mostly where it should have.  In this second class, Antonio focused on the abdominal muscles and, for the most part, I hung in there.  Toward the end, however, with fatigue only moments away, my extended legs began to quiver as I struggled mightily to do what everyone around me seemed to do with ease.

“Scott,” Antonio said in a voice loud enough for the kids playing basketball in the school gym across the street could hear, “Scott, be still.  Do not shake.”  He then got up, walked over to me and said, “Scott, it is not your fault.  You have uncoordinated nerves.  This is why you shake.  We can make you better.  Coordinate your nerves.”  Jessica was doubled-over with laughter.

Antonio went back to his mat and lay on his back.  He then lifted his legs and, keeping them perfectly straight, set them at a 90-degree angle to the floor and pointing the soles of his feet at the ceiling.  He then raised his head and shoulders from the mat and wrapped his hands around his ankles.  The really amazing part of this was that he expected me to do it too.  However effective his powers of persuasion might be, there was simply no motivating force on the planet that was going to get me into that position.  Try as he might to suggest how I was to bend certain parts of my body, they were rigor-mortised in place.  I finally said to him, “Antonio, the last time I was able to do something like that I was two years old.”  He went back to his mat and didn’t bother with me any more that evening.

Interestingly, though, I do enjoy Antonio’s pilates classes and saw some quick improvement in my performance.  I can now bend over and, keeping my legs perfectly straight, touch my knees without screaming.  I can also lie down of one of those big inflated balls and breathe naturally without distress.  So, with these milestones behind me, I can look forward (though, with head down) to doing a sit-up.

One of the poses I've almost mastered

One of the poses I’ve almost mastered.  Wake me when class is over.

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 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

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

Chickens and Rabbits and Dogs, Oh My!

While I felt an immediate affinity to the villa in Marinelli, Jessica was less than unconvinced that this place could ever be our home.  Her reaction struck me hard, as rarely before had we not instantly been in tune on such an important matter.  Our tastes, priorities, goals and dreams had always been so in synch that, when later that evening she told me that she was not impressed with the property, I began to question my own take on it.  But, as we talked further, it became clear that her concerns were negative reactions to things that could be remedied.  All that would be required were (1) a willingness to violate the rule that we would not take on a renovation project; (2) a great deal more money than we had any intention of spending; and (3) such trust in people we hardly knew that it bordered on foolhardiness.  Sounded fine to me.

We were accompanied on the tour of the property by Pietro, the proud owner of the villa.  He had built it himself, and he and his wife had raised their three children in it.  By all indications, the villa was his fourth child.  Though he and his wife had moved out of the home nearly ten years ago and into another place just up the road, he continued to tend the land as he had done for a generation.  Now in his late-sixties, Pietro had a bum hip and could not get around the way he’d have liked to, but he is quick to smile and he loves this place.

I think that what took Jessica’s breath away as we entered the villa, was the kitchen.  The floor was covered by old-style Italian tiles laid-out in a square pattern of almost a fleur-de-lis motif.  They were a medium brown color and, to my mind, very appropriate for an Italian kitchen. The problem was more that the walls were also covered by tiles that, neither by their colors nor their patterns, were remotely consonant with the floor.  In fact, they two clashed quite violently.  For Jessica, that set the tone.

We visited the large living room next and found it to be full of natural light and high-ceilinged, quite to the contrary of many of the places we had seen earlier in the day.  We walked down the hallway with its beautifully-crafted chestnut arch and walked into each of the three generous bedrooms and a fourth room between the master bedroom and the kitchen that might have been a pantry.  Strike two for Jessica was thrown when we saw the one bathroom in the house.  Once again, tiles covered the floor and the walls, but this time, the tiles were the same giving us a sense that the room was small, round and featureless.  The bathroom fixtures were of a similar color to the background of the tiles which almost made them disappear.  The shower, such as it was, was an Italian version and something that we might think of as half of a bathtub with a shower head.  Too small to bathe in, but taking up too much room to simply be a shower.  I could see what Jessica was thinking from the look on her face.  “I don’t think so.”

We left the living quarters and toured the other parts of the villa: the cantina, where the canning was done and wine was stored; the forno, the wood-fired pizza and bread oven; the external bathroom for use after working in the fields; three large storage areas where equipment was kept.  Finally, there were three small buildings that were attached to each other but separate from the main house.  I asked Pietro what they were for.

He pointed to the first enclosure, part stone, part wire fence, mostly stench.  “Per i polli,” he said.  For the chickens.  Referring to the second building, he said, “Per i conigli.”  For the rabbits.  The last shack, “Per i cani.”  For the dogs.  At this point, Jessica was ready to leave.

Fortunately for our story, we walked out of the compound to an area that overlooked the olive grove.  There were about eighty trees in all, though it didn’t occur to us to count them that day.  We were much too busy looking at the beauty of them and dreaming of the time that we might tend to them and actually see olives hanging on their branches.  I looked at Jessica and saw that we were back on the same frequency.  The tiles on the kitchen walls could be removed; the bathroom could be re-done; the animal enclosures could be removed.  All that we found objectionable could go away and we would be left with, well, our dream.

Next Up:  Let’s Make a Deal