7th Installment : Welcome Home

Another smooth transition, this time to La Spezia. Ignoring the hosts instructions we decided not to take the bus (15 minutes including wait time) and we would get the lay of the land by slinging our backpacks and pulling our wheelie bags over the rough Italian patchwork sidewalks. Mr. Google assured us it was only 29 minutes, so off we strode.

La Spezia is a much bigger city than we expected and with all bigger cities the real estate around a large train station is void of villas, parks, fine dining, and upscale leather stores (no Leaf bags for sale here).

But what it does have is beer-bellied shop owners standing in their doorways in stained t- shirts smoking cigarettes through yellow-stained lips, and lightly-tethered dogs with snarling teeth, and immigrant kids perched on benches checking out the new meat and wondering which one of us is carrying the money belt (Carol, thankfully).

Just like when my dad went to school the road home is uphill, like Italy uphill! Bulging backpacks cinched to our shoulder blades, carry-on bags bouncing behind us, and a phone in my hand leading us one plodding inclined step at a time around tight corners, searching for crosswalks to get us past roundabouts with diesel-choking traffic careening 18″ away from us from the rear, horns blaring (it IS Italy after all); the sweat was showing through my t-shirt and I had spittle forming at the corner of my mouth. 1100 meters, 1000 meters,  and on we went… 200 meters, and finally our destination was in sight. I looked at the listing photo of the entrance on my phone but couldn’t be sure until the bus (the second one), which stops directly in front of the door, pulled away.

We’re in! The listing, as always painting a perfect portait, made it look like we would be staying at a seaside resort (Cà del Mar is the listing name) with bright light showing in the windows obscuring the true reality, a working class neighborhood with winding streets, a cacophony of noise from open windows and fairly busy street right below our second storey balcony. It was excellent! The apartment was spacious, with large kitchen fronting a chaise lounge seating area, a series of 6′ high triple-sealed windows, long galley-style bathroom complete with rain head shower and bidet (like all Italian bathrooms). The bedroom had 2 more large windows and a shuttered french door leading to our humble terrace overlooking the street and middle class shops.  Daddy is a happy boy!

Nestled amongst the locals we will build a rapport with grocers, restauranteurs, butchers, cheese mongers, and the people on the street (whether they want to or not).

The kitchen is replete with quality appliances. A four burner cook top, 3/4-sized fridge, microwave, blender, and Italian-styled toaster á la Smeg, the royalty of all kitchen appliances. The windows and french door are the real stars as they are tight-fitting and insulated to keep the abundant street noise where it should be, outside.

Just within 50 meters of our door is a tabaccheria  where snacks and bus tickets, lottery tickets, and of course all manner of tobacco products are proferred to the general public. It turns out it is manned by the long-term owner who chats up everyone coming in and going past the storefront. She speaks not a whit of English but is adept at sign language and has a contagious laugh. Great fun.

Two doorways down is a nondescript entrance to a popular restaurant, I Fanti Da Chiapa, where staff gather on the sidewalk, each with a cigarette in one hand and speaking with the other prior to the opening, planning their nightly strategy. They are only open for supper which peaks in the 8-10 o’clock range but they are eager at the 6:30 opening. Two doors further is a legend in the industry, Pizzeria La Spezia Da Pipeo. According to the 739 online reviews it is one of the greatest pizzerias anywhere (a claim made in many reviews). We have arrived on a Friday but apparently a monsoon-like rain is predicted for Tuesday, so that will be our opportunity to sample their fare as they are primarily a take out establishment and even in a Noahesque deluge I should be able to make it across the street and back, I cant wait.

It is still early enough that we can walk another 200 meters farther to reach a well-stocked community grocery store, Penny. With a full range of goods we reconnoitre the popular aisles and then make our first serious pass picking up essentials that we’ll need over the next 5 days. Special attention is given to the wine aisle. Of course no brand and almost no grape varietal is recognizable but the price points are miniscule.

Almost every bottle is under €6, with the majority in the €2-€4 range… WHAAAT! Thats $3-6… WHAAAT! Mommy is a happy girl! One name I do recognize is a Montepulciano D’Abruzzo which Carol plucks from the shelf for a mere €1,59. I, of the heightened palate choose the Toscana Rosso at the inflated price of €2,99. ‘Mama pack your bags (bag), were moving to La Spezia!’ (No eye roll this time). We pay for our purchases and I bolt from the store shouting ‘Start the car! Start the car!’ from the iconic Ikea commercial of several years back.

But alas, we dont even make it out of the parking lot with our bounty before eyeing a Plus store with the canopy proclaiming pattiseries, breads, meats, and cheeses. Oo. Despite the innocuous moniker, Plus is a franchise set-up, much like McDonalds, except they sell food, not poison. Upon entering we’re faced with a brightly lit sales area with shelves of cottage industry specialties mixed with upscale classics on 2 walls. There is a 60 foot long counter area with breads, buns, and baguettes at the far end, then patisseries, all leading to a large meat and cheese section in front of us. This was immediately recognizable as a husband and wife pursuit.

The woman was manning (personing?) the far end and is two hands speaking to a customer while we are facing an officious gentleman in his late 50s wearing an Italian butcher’s cap and apron. He makes an introduction and I assume he’s asking what he can help us with but I’m not sure because he’s speaking the native language. We might as well have been in the Belgian Congo for all the sense that I could make of his entreaty. I hemmed and hawed and shuffled my feet, patted my brow (still excited from our score from across the lot), not even knowing what I was looking at. This didn’t look like Safeway, and I was grossly out of my element. There were too many choices. There was an awkward silence and then he spoke Canadian, ‘How can I help you?’ Why didn’t he open with that? Despite wearing my Spanish fisherman’s cap, buttoned up collared shirt, and Italian look-alike tan runners, I, obviously was from somewhere far afield. He was just being respectful.

After 10 minutes of explaining the fine points of cheese making regions and milks, and why one mortadela was different from another I went with my ace in the hole again… ‘Please, help us choose’. He supplied us with a helping of olives that were doing the backstroke in a massive quantity of oil. Then pulled out a wheel of pecorino cheese and asked what quantity would be suitable by lining up his portioning knife across a slab that would last us into August. I scrunched up my nose and made the smaller sign with my fingers and then we were into a July-sized portion, a head shake brought the knife into an early June-sized slice and I gave the appropriate nod. A medium-firm cheese, pecorino is salty and goes well in a multitude of situations including a wine and cheese plate.

Carol was waiting her turn at the bread, looking for a place to set down our groceries so she could hand talk to the woman. I was now having to decide on what cured meats to purchase and in what quantity.  Neither Carol or myself are very carnivorous except for chicken parts, which I didnt see any in front of me. Reading my indecision he reached back and lifted a 4′ dark, protective shade that had been obscuring 2 shelves of massive hocks of ham. Bright reds and pinks were dazzling, even to my color-deficent retinas… WHAAT! It was meat porn in all its glory! They were beautiful! I assumed the covering shade was to keep the spitting saliva of the awestruck customers at bay but it was an amazing unveiling.

He took the lead and pulled the most brilliant chunk of prosciutto down to the slicer, then shaved a butterfly-wing thickness sample and offered it off the end of a knife to me. It was art. I brought the piece to my lips and passed it along to my bicuspids and finally to my tongue. My expression was beaming and I managed to say ‘Its making love to my mouth!’ ‘Your english is good for a Canadian’ he said. We had established that we were not from the country of our southern neighbor (neighbors in geography only, no longer in spirit) a few minutes previously.

Having now made more friends we left for the short jaunt (downhill) to our new home to tally the spoils. Welcome to La Spezia Dennis and Carol!