On my way home from treating myself to a Gelson’s shopping experience (yes, they are expensive, but they do have a fresh produce book in the the midst of my favorite apples and pears titled “Melissa’s Produce Book” … I am so meant to shop there.)

Anywho, as I drove by Jedlicka’s I couldn’t help but notice an old cowboy with a hat on sitting in the back of his old truck parked on the street with a sign that said “Barn art for sale.”  Of course I stopped.  I just had a gut feeling he was down on his luck (as a cowboy would say). 

So I say “Hi there, whatcha got here?” (At this point i noticed his barn art is not-so-great, but I am biased because my dad makes really amazing pieces.) Nevertheless, with missing teeth and a very crooked-brimmed cowboy hat, he says while sitting in the back of his truck, “Well, I come across some old barb wire from time to time and I lost my job prospectin’ (I’m assuming this is mining), so I figure why not make use of it. And I reckon’ the rust makes it look good.”  At this point, his weathered gal comes over to the truck, leans over the side and pats him lovingly on the back, “Ya, he’s real creative.”

For some reason the ugliest barb wire Christmas tree I have ever seen and dirty cowboy hat loan me Christmas spirit, which I am very choosy about these days.  So I accept the gift of spirit quickly and of course I buy two barb wire pieces — one is a Cross (as in Jesus) and the other is a tree (as in Pine/Christmas).

So if you visit me, you may notice one of these heart-warming, eye sores hanging on my door.  Really, I haven’t lost my mind — first I’m just taking the advice of the cowboy — “The longer they’re outside, the rustier and purtier they git.”  And … and rusty barb wire shapped in a pine tree brings me good Christmas memories.

Good to go on my Christmas decor,

mel

Nobody with a dream should come to Italy.
No matter how dead and buried the dream is thought to be,
in Italy it will rise and walk again.
(Elizabeth Spencer, The Light in the Piazza, 1960)

I went to Figueroa Mountain in Los Padres Forest above Los Olivos yesterday for a little solitude (spa health people!). The hike was great, but I think biking would be better. The wildflowers are at their peak and I thought you would like to see a few good pics — looking at the photos makes you want to frollick naked in the fields, doesn’t it? Well, maybe the thought of ticks or poison oak scares you, so maybe not. Aside from running over a squirrel in my miata, it was a great day — not too hot, not too cold and really nice views

A Short Story about a Dog and a Dirt Road

*In August 2007, I ventured to Siena Italy again for a weeklong visit.  A week after I returned from Italy, I traveled to Colorado to visit my best friend who was recovering from a double mastectomy.  This is of course a true story, written shortly after those travels.

Discreetly tucked away in the hills, just outside of Siena, there sits a sleepy village named Orgia (population: 36 quiet Italians, a handful of cats and a town dog).  If you wanted to know how to get to Orgia, an Italian would happily, give directions – ‘leave Siena, toward the seaside, pass fields, sunflowers and corn rows, take a right, then a left onto a dirt road and cross a bridge.  Sei arrivato/a a Orgia! (You have arrived in Orgia!)’ 

After crossing the bridge, you know for certain you are in Orgia when you go around three bends in the road and there, lounging in your path you’ll notice a black dog — let’s call him “Il Cane Nero”. (Translation:  “The Black Dog” – adjectives follow nouns in Italian by the way.) 

Drive slowly, going around Il Cane Nero as if he were a permanent fixture in the scenery and make sure to greet him with a casual “Ciao Cane!”  After all, this ritual is the toll to get into Orgia.

I took a few trips into Orgia; I had a relationship with both a Tuscan man and his villa in Orgia, although I don’t think he knew just how fond I was of cara villa (dear villa).  Just like the handsome Tuscan, Cara Villa was sweet and charming, and fit my every mood. I was just as delighted to knock on Cara Villa’s beautiful door as I was to be greeted by my friend when he opened it. 

One late evening as I drove my dusty Fiat into Orgia, the entire village snored. 

A narrow road led me to a place to park and I found myself tiptoeing up the street toward Cara Villa careful not to wake Orgia villagers.  The stillness gave me a chill, but I welcomed the quiet.  It was during this time, walking on the lonely street at midnight, that I remembered I was in a Tuscan village.  The thought, then the reality, delighted my senses completely.

Then ahead, my eyes captured the silhouette of a dog … was this Il Cane Nero?  I’d actually never had a good look at the friendly fella and only saw him laying down from the inside of the Fiat.  But now … on foot, I stood there in the dark of night, in the middle of the road and like a western movie stand off, we stared at each other for just a moment.  He steadily trotted toward me; I could hear the nails of his paws on the concrete of the little street.  The big dog seemed to get bigger as he came toward me and I thought, it’s nearly midnight and the few Italians that actually live in Orgia are dreaming of gelato.  No one would hear me scream if this was the guard dog of Orgia and I was an obvious American trespasser.

I could attempt to command the dog to behave, but would he understand my English?  My nervous thoughts raced through my head in Italian,  “Come si dice ‘Help!’ Come si dice ‘Down boy!’” (How do you say, “Help? How do you say “Down boy?”) All of these thoughts ran through my head in a matter of seconds and just before I fainted, I noticed the dog was Il Cane Nero and his happy sideways walk and wagging tail told me he was there to greet me, not mangle the American girl who ventured into Orgia. 

I had never interacted with Il Cane Nero before, but I seemed familiar to him and like a gentlemen, he walked along side me to the villa and guided me to the beautiful front door.  I knocked and when the door opened, Il Cane Nero looked up at me as to say “Buonanotte” (Good night); I curtsied to show my feminine appreciation to his manners and said “Grazie mille Cane nero.” (Thank you very much black dog).  It was from then on, I was always greeted and escorted by Il Cane Nero, from Fiat to front door.

Sunflowers, dirt roads, quiet nights in Orgia and Il Cane Nero are characters that live in my thoughts.  My mind can catch, embrace and remember them, but four months ago, they existed and they were real. 

And still, the spirit of Tuscany travels with me wherever I go offering those firefly memories that I can catch, hold on to and remember.  It was a week ago that I was in Del Norte Colorado visiting my best friend Kiley who just had a double mastectomy and her first round of chemo therapy.  Del Norte, a small town were we grew up, is a village itself with only one stop light.  As Kiley lay in bed, slept and started her slow healing process I was there sitting at the foot of the bed or peaking my head into the bedroom to see if her eyes were closed.  I did not want to disturb her peaceful sleep (which wasn’t a common phenomenon at the time), but I wanted to be with her and spend time with her.  I thought about when we were young and playing on the ranch where I grew up.  I decided to go to the ranch, now deserted and empty; this would make me feel as if I were spending precious time with her. 

I smiled as I thought about how an Italian might give directions to the ranch; I took a right at the stoplight, passed many fields of hay, and took a left onto a dirt road saluted by sunflowers, which led to the house where I grew up.  I parked my dusty car and dreamingly walked around, noticing my childhood – the empty pond where Kiley and I once ice-skated, the fields where we would play, pick flowers and look out for snakes.  I spent an hour at the ranch catching those memories that still lived in my thoughts. 

Returning to Kiley’s home early that evening, instinct urged me to take a walk on a country dirt road.  The sun was just setting and with no streetlights to guide me, a short leisure walk was in my best interest. As I walked down the road, kicking a pebble or two, I noticed ahead two bike riders and running along side them was a big black dog – let’s call him “The Black Dog.”  I assumed The Black Dog belonged to the riders and even as he started running toward me with his tongue happily hanging, I thought surely one of the riders would call out, “Don’t worry, he’s big, but friendly.”  They said nothing and in fact, they kept on their merry way and I think gladly gave up the dog who had adopted them on their ride.  Invading my personal time and space, The Black Dog jumped on me nearly knocking me over, clearly unaware of his clumsy ability to box me out.  Whose dog is this anyway?  “Stop! Down boy!” I yelled.  It worked; The Black Dog was well-behaved, friendly and not-so ferocious.  I find myself once again, on a lonely dirt road with an insistent big black dog walking next to me, his presence so strong and steady and I felt safe.   But like a child, I got distracted in my thoughts — thinking about the ranch, Kiley, familiar dirt roads and sunflowers and this dog and I dazed from the sounds of the river near by.  The Black Dog somehow knew that I needed him because as the dirt road ended so did the sunlight.  It was country dark (not like city dark with various hints of light) and the dog led me home, now and then nudging me with affection.

As we approached the driveway of the house, I said, “Thank you very much for walking me home Black Dog. This stranger of a Dog, slept on the outside of the front door all night and he escorted me from the door every day I was there.  Kiley told me the day I went back to California, The Black Dog walked away, and they haven’t seen him since.  Like Il Cane Nero, this black dog was loyal and loving; he disappeared upon my departure … perhaps to go back to Orgia? And now I wonder when I will see Il Cane Nero again, like before, probably when I least expect it, but when I most need it.

Written November 2007

Here I sit on a Saturday night … and why do I feel the need to email my friends and tell them that I think the earthquake that happened about an hour ago is so hilarious? (yes, I know I need to get out more)

Well, here’s why …

I was typing on my computer and felt the shake — my whole studio shook and it lasted maybe 2-3 seconds. I thought about it for half a second and continued typing my thoughts for an article. For that half second I just thought, “Oh my neighbor must be moving furniture and just dropped a bed or something.” 15 seconds later my landlord Mehdi called me “Did you feel that?! Was that an earthquake??” He was on his way to dance lessons … and apparently was hesitant to go now. I said, “I don’t know if it was an earthquake, I think the neighbors are moving something” and he said, “No, my couch was swaaying back and forth.” Anway, so I watched the news and sure enough happy, obviously born and raised California newswoman said with a smile on her face, as if it were a light gust of wind, “Well, if you’re wondering what that shock was, it was indeed an earthquake. Now moving on to local news; the weather looks warm and sunny all weekend.” What the f**ck? Hello??? Okay, so I’m not
from Cali, but shouldn’t we be a little more concerned here…are these things tremors and don’t they lead to bigger tremors??

Well, apparently no one is really worried … this is where it gets comical to me. Everyone had their own idea of what it was …

I called Monica (born and raised Santa Barbara) and said in a panic, “Did you feel the earthquake?” She said, “Oh, is that what that was; I thought my fat neighbor was walking up the stairs.” I thought, “Wow, her neighbor must really be big.” And then we talked about boys …

I emailed my friend Sherry (also born and raised here) and said, “Did you feel the earthquake.” She said, “Oh, is that what it was; I thought it was my neighbor who drinks too much and has anger issues. Have a great Thanksgiving!”
okay…
So I skyped my friend Chip in LA, looking for reassurance from someone not from California who might be a little more intrigued by all of this. Skype typing: “Did you just feel that earthquake?” His answer: “Oh, is that what that was? Cool. So what are you doing this weekend?” I thought, “Well, I’m going to get my earthquake survival kit together, that’s what I’m doing.”

Okay, now I was laughing hysterically. Well, I’m still alive and the pictures are still on the wall…I am able to call, email and skype, so all is well. I am going to the Brewhouse now with gal pals for a beer and to listen to good jazz music. So if anything happens, look for me beneath the rubble at the Brewhouse, corner of Castillo and Bath Streets.

 Shakey,
 Melissa;

Written August 2007

Last night I had a dream I was in Tuscany; it was one of those dreams that feel so real, so tangible. All of the friends and characters of my time in Italy before appeared in my dream and with them, they brought new people and things.In my dream, I saw fields of tall, dried sunflowers that were no more in bloom, but were still glorious in their tired, golden stance. The air was warm, even at night and the spirit of the Palio, the famous horse race, was surrounding Siena like it’s medieval city gates. I could hear and feel the rhythm of drums and the echo of singing around each corner. The smooth winds whispered to the flags of the contradas (neighborhoods) through the narrow streets and adorable Italian children waved flags as they sat on their Papa’s shoulders.Like most dreams, time flew by and it seemed so much was happening all at once. At one moment, I was walking down Via di Rossi, the street which leads to a gelateria, and before I knew it I was fussing over a stain on my white shorts left by the delicious arrancia rosso (red orange) gelato I delighted in …only in a dream would I wear white shorts and eat arrancia rosso gelato at the same time.Most of the time in my dream, I was in the presence of Mauro (my Italian friend) who greeted me with a “Ciao cara” (hello dear) and a tender kiss on the cheek. In the dream, we spoke to each other in Italian and English, laughed and spent time with new friends. We drank vino, ate pasta, and sang “Tanti Auguri” (happy birthday song) to our beautiful friend Sabrina.

This dream was incredible. A deep hush silenced the cheers as the 10 horses would start in seconds. I held my breath and was even afraid to blink for fear that I would miss the start of the race. Thousands of expressions and Italian words danced around me as the horse race starts.  As the horses ran a glorious race, I wished so much that I could pause the whole scene and witness the faces of the people, the position of the horses breathing, fiercley running, and even the dust of the earth as it floated behind the hooves of the horses. After only three laps, one minute and 15 seconds later and two jockeys dramatically falling off their horses, the race was over. Magnificent. As an American, it felt like it didn’t matter which contrada won, but that the Sienese spirit was victorious overall.Now, this morning, I wake up from my sweet dream … and I unpack my bags to find the gelato-stained white shorts that I must wash. Being in Siena for just a week, was a dream … a quick flash. With all that is going on in my life and the lives of many close to me, I am grateful for my Toscana dream and for the solitude and wisdom it gave me.  Cast of Characters: I am also so delighted to have met more wonderful people, full of character, from all over the world.  They are: Roger:  An insurance agent, early 40’s, from Austria who speaks Italian well and absolutely loves American films and tv and loves to visit Hollywood and the studio sets.  Giovanna:  A cute, 20-something, student and aspiring actress from Poland.  She also speaks Italian well and aspires to go to LA for acting school.   One night walking to dinner in Siena, I found myself in between Roger and Giovanna and couldn’t have felt more “at home”  as they spoke about how much they love California and American tv and movies. Tomash & Rekah:  A great couple from Hungary who both speak Italian very well and English not so much, so I had to swallow my perfectionist attitude and listen, process and speak in Italian.  Rekah my age and Tomash in this 40’s I think, have been together for 9 years.  Tomash is an oncologist.  Mauro and I spent one evening with them for drinks and also for Sabrina’s birthday.  I talked with Rekah for several hours and she is an amazing woman, so lovely to be around.  Because of her personality, I felt comfortable enough to speak Italian.  She was wonderful and sweet and she and Tomash are a great pair. 

Nadia & Lorenzo:  Nadia and Lorenzo are good friends of Mauro.  Lorenzo is in the same contrada as Mauro (this is very important in Siena).  Nadia and Lorenzo I think are mid 40’s, a great couple and have been together for many years.  Nadia is Italian, but now teaches Italian in London to junior high and high school students.  Lorenzo I think coaches or teaches in Siena.  We watched the Palio with them and also had dinner with them after the race.  It is evident that Nadia is a teacher – she is very compassionate and sweet.  She and Lorenzo also speak English very well.  They are good, nice people and the comfort of longtime friendship with Mauro was evident.

 The Soup Man from Seinfeld:  Only Americans will understand this description I think, but basically there is the owner of a restaurant who acts just like the soup man in Seinfeld.  Nadia, Lorenzo, Birgit, and Mauro and I went to dinner after the Palio and I was warned that the owner is very cranky…in a funny way.  He is a tall, chubby man with thick glasses and a white apron on.  He takes your order, but fusses if you don’t finish your food, doesn’t like tourists (who can blame him) and everyone is very careful not to upset him.   Nicolas:  A delightful young man, mid 20’s, from Jersey who is in seminary studying to be a Catholic Priest.  He lives in the Parrish now and wants to work with people with AIDS in Milan.  I spoke with him for a couple of hours about … well, life and God.  In my opinion and even with “traditional and conservative” thoughts, he is a glimmer of hope in transforming thinking in religion, specifically Catholicism.  A true sparkle of God rests in his eyes and it was a pleasure to have a conversation with him. I also met another man from France, who Mauro told me, wrote a song about the school and sang it and played his guitar for his class.  Another man from Ireland (can’t remember all names!) who was convinced his Italian was bad, but from what I heard was great!  He had a slight dry sense of humor, which I caught on to very quickly and enjoyed!  There were other new people sprinkled throughout the week … meeting new people and hearing their stories … this is one of the things I love about traveling. Sabrina, Matteo, Giorgia and Elisa – Teachers at the school who keep me on my toes, are funny and enlightening and really passionate about the work they do.   

Written July 2007

Howdy friends,

I am in Wyoming now and finding the scenery (deer and buffalo everywhere), wind, smell in the air … refreshing. The wide open space and countryside is really beautiful and I like singing along to a good country that I know on the radio. It’s funny to go from Italy to here because there are so many American flags everywhere here…and big trucks, cowboys … and Wal Mart. I would like to take fly fishing lessons…$400 for a day though? …. seems a little less “wyoming” and more “Santa Barbara” to me for that price!

Here are my recent happenings…You know you’re in Wyoming when:
1. I was looking in the yellow pages for a hair salon and I found a salon called “Curl up and Dye”

2. I was shopping in the Salvation Army with my mom when a pregnant woman with two small children running crazily around, screamed at them, “Get over here! There are people who steal little children, ya know!”

3. I heard a country love song that said, “I need you like a needle needs a vein.”

4. I went into a western wear store to have my Italian boots stretched and when I asked how much the woman said, “Oh nothin’ honey, I’ll do it for free for ya.”

Anyway, my mom is totally spoiling me with … well, food mostly:) We are headed to Yellowstone this weekend and Jackson Hole for a spa visit. Sunday we will go to a polo match. Yesterday we visited two little towns — Little Big Horn and Story; these small towns of about 300 people, have creeks running through yards — so beautiful! By the way, we drove by a house with a small wooden sign out front that read, “Welcome to Story Wyoming, Frankly we don’t give a shit how you did things back home.” This is my motto while I am here … and I think I will wear my cowboy boots with everything.

And on that note…it’s time for me to “hit the hay” and catch some zzzz’s.

Happy 4th of July, bbq’s and fireworks!

yeeha,
melissa

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