leaving the Cotswolds

A few days ago the wind blew and blew and all the gorgeous fall foliage dropped to the ground. Suddenly, despite the weather actually being a bit warmer, it began to look like winter around here. Add to that a few days of gray drizzle, and John and I were happy we're passing winter in sunny Los Angeles (93 degrees there yesterday, what?).

So yesterday I went out for my last stroll in the British countryside. Molly was in the big field playing with her friend Elsa and having a ball. But it was like Molly knew I was leaving. She kept stopping her playing and running over to me. I then said Goodbye to Gordon and went on my way, but a bit later heard her pitter patter behind me. At this point Gordon was all the way across the field calling for her, and I had to tell her to go back. She's never done this before, so I assume it was because she sensed my imminent departure from Oddington.

Last night we went for a final drink at the pub. Unfortunately on our last evening we discovered the potato chips (crisps they call them here) in beef and horseradish flavor. Delicious! But really, I've eaten more meat and potatoes since I got to this country than is good for me. John and I need to get back to the California cuisine.

We would happily return to the Cotswolds, it's quaint and beautiful, the people are friendly, but unless the pound takes a dive in value, we're probably not coming back anytime soon. Now I need to go scrape farm residue off my hiking boots so I can get through U.S. Customs in a few days.

P.S. Sue Watkins just came to the door, Molly's mistress, with a present for the baby (his first!). It was a soft, plush mini Molly!

pheasants are dumb

When I was a child I loved the book Danny, Champion of the World by Roald Dahl. All I remember still was that the protagonists used to poach pheasants by using their stupidity against them (create a cone of paper, tuck a raisin at the tip, the pheasant will go for the raisin, get the cone of paper stuck on his beak, and then not move because a pheasant won't move if he can't see and the cone of paper covers his eyes). This made for amusing reading, but I figured no bird can be that dumb.

Anyway, when we arrived in the Cotswolds, we were at first shocked by the amount of road kill on the small winding streets. Soon we realized it was the same animal each time: pheasant. And then the other day we almost hit one and understood why they seem to pave the roads. He waddled out at just the wrong time, we slowed down, then he became aware of us and got spooked, turned around, changed his mind, turned back the way he was originally heading, looked at us again as though we might provide a solution, and then slowly toddled the rest of the way across the road. There was such a lack of self-preservation skill in this entire maneuver that I began to think maybe Roald Dahl was onto something.

Lately there have been a lot of pheasants on my walk. And they're dumb. They'll be perfectly hidden in the brush, and then just when I'm three feet away from them they'll panic and fly out into the open (which is always a bit shocking). Or they'll be walking in front of me, and they'll start waddling faster when they see me, but never change direction. They just keep waddling the exact way I'm walking (mind you there's lots of brush on either side they could duck into) until they reach panic level at which point they take to the air (again making them an easy target). This always makes me laugh.

So I mentioned to a British friend that pheasants seemed a bit too dumb to make for good hunting. She agreed and explained that they've set up all sorts of rules to try and make it more sporting, like the pheasant must be higher than 6' and lower than 20', or something like that. I'm not really sure how anyone shoots a pheasant anyway. I would think the reaction upon seeing the bird would be to burst out laughing rather than shoot.

British Halloween

My favorite holiday has just come and gone, and while the British are beginning to embrace Halloween, it really wasn't quite the same. For one thing, I was warned that the British don't really dress up, so despite wanting to create a clever costume that would somehow incorporate my new rounded belly, I let it go. It would have been difficult to create a costume from the few stores in and around Oddington anyway. Sigh.

But, the holiday wasn't empty of excitement. We drove up to a friend's house near Rutland Waters (1-1/2 hours north of Cambridge) for a pumpkin carving party. It was in a small town called Exton, and many people at the party were indeed in costume. The costumes were all scary or gory- according to our friend Tamsen the idea of a clever or humorous costume hasn't quite caught on, but still, it was nice to see some Halloween spirit.

And the party had mulled wine, which John loved and perhaps should be transported back to American Halloween parties. Though John wasn't so sure he agreed the next morning!

tea at Molly's

One morning I was late for my walk and saw Molly already home, sitting behind the gate at a large gorgeous house called The Old Plough. The next time I saw Gordon I confirmed that was indeed his house and, being a pushy American, asked if I could get a tour sometime. Gordon, being a typical Brit, invited us to tea with him and Sue. So Tuesday afternoon at 3:00, in the pouring rain, John and I arrived to partake of this traditional British ritual.

The house was really beautiful and built in the early 1600's. Originally it was a farm house, and the bottom floor had the typical animal stalls. At some point the records seem to indicate it might have changed into a pub, but then one family moved in, had 5 kids, none of them got married, and the house stayed with them until the final family member passed away, so around 100 years. Then a specialist in medieval furniture bought the house, and made no changes because I guess he liked to mimic medieval conditions? I shudder thinking about the cold, wet winters. When Gordon and Sue bought it, they had quite a bit to do to bring it up to date.

When we got there Molly was very excited to greet us. But once we were served tea and apple cake Molly got bored and wandered off. After the afternoon sustenance we toured the house and admired the old beams, built-in window seats, detailed carvings in the old shutters, and got to imagine life 400 years ago in this huge home. I was glad I was a pushy American and had asked for a tour, though I could really get used to apple cake in the afternoon....

Oxford

Monday was the first day that dawned without a single cloud in the sky. To take advantage of the clear weather we decided to go to Oxford for the afternoon. I downloaded a walking tour, read up on some of the sites, and we headed out. We arrived without a hitch, but then drove by accident into a private car park and got stuck once the bollard came up and had to wait for someone to come with a clicker to let us out and looked like stupid Americans, but we then finally found the proper lot and walked into town.

Oxford is made up of a bunch of smaller colleges (the smallest college is 500 students) which each have their own courtyard, dining hall, chapel, and pub. We arrived at the first college on the tour and discovered it was $3 a person to walk in. Calculate about 10 colleges and this was looking a bit pricey. Hmmm, this snag was worse than the private car park. But fortunately right then we came across a guy hawking a tour which for the price included access to the 7 colleges or so we would visit. And the best part? The dining hall used for the Harry Potter movies was included. John was sold!

It was a great tour, everything was beautiful, it made me homesick for college days. My favorite part were the gargoyle heads-of-scholars. Afterwards we had tea and scones and then visited the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest libraries in Europe, the first copyright library, and the first to have a catalogue. Did you know books used to be chained to the bookshelf? Terrible for the books, and it meant they had to be put in backwards so the call numbers were written on the face of the cut pages. They've left a few of the books like this so you can see. The best part, though? King Charles II was told that nobody could take a book out of the library and so he had to come down, check in, and read his book at the carrel (still attached to the chain). I like thinking about how tough that librarian must have been!

winter's coming

At the Apple Fayre on Saturday many people were discussing cutting their grass for the last time. Whereas we in L.A. are constantly trying to get the grass to grow, here in wet England, everyone commiserates on how quickly the grass needs another trim. I was surprised they would be talking about a final trim of the season since it has been raining every night keeping the grass lush and green. But the locals clearly have a better sense of the weather. The following morning I noticed there was frost on the ground.

I was a bit chilled as well. The temperature has definitely dropped again, and tends to be in the low 50's, upper 40's. We have to start a fire each evening to keep the house warm enough, and it's always hard to motivate to start dinner because there's no heat in the kitchen (though it warms up quickly enough once I start cooking).

The good thing about the cold weather is that the cows head up to the higher fields earlier to get more sun, so I can now always walk through the large field. The other good thing is that the horses now wear blankets, which they might find embarrassing, but I think is adorable.

the apple fayre

Today I slept until 10:00am, much to the chagrin of my husband whom I pushed out of bed at 5:00am (his alarm doesn't always do the trick). I then had a leisurely breakfast followed by a long shower while John completed his third 2-hour work session of the day. Then, to add insult to injury, I informed John he would need to fix his own lunch while I headed out to the apple fayre at the Oddington Village Hall for a two course meal.

The apple fayre, I found out, is a fairly new tradition in Oddington, and was put together five years ago to raise money for the Village Hall. There were jams, jellies, and chutneys, cakes, pies, and puddings, all donated and for sale. There was apple cider (with 7% alcohol level, I tasted but didn't partake), and bowls made from apple wood (Bob, the woodworker, said they were made from green wood and carved into a flat plate, as the wood dries out, the edges curl up making an unusual bowl!). And there was lunch. I paid my fee to the defacto master of ceremonies, Richard (also known as the man over there in the bright shirt, a shirt his wife made for him and he had never noticed the slightly suggestive ladies lying at the bottom of each palm tree....) and then began to fret, because the menu called for beef stew, and I had visions of dry chewy meat in an inedible gravy. Wouldn't you expect the same at a community-center lunch?

But as I tucked into my plate of stew with potatoes, baby carrots and pees (so British!) I was more than pleasantly surprised. Gordon informed me that the food was sent over from the fancy gastropub in Lower Oddington, The Fox Inn, and just reheated at the Hall. I cleaned my plate. For dessert there was apple crumble with cloves and cream. Soooooo good. At this point I began to feel a bit sorry for my husband. So after making sure I won nothing in the raffle, I said goodbye to the nice people at my table, bought my husband a blackberry and apple pie, and walked home.

rambling

So you may think that I've taken up trespassing, since my morning walk goes through various fields of horses and cows, but it's actually part of the British system. All over town are signs for public footpaths. I was super excited at first, but often it's hard to see where the path actually goes; the grass grows so quickly and gets so tall, that you have to stand at the beginning of the field and just stare for a while until a faint path of slightly more crushed greenery stands out. Also, I've followed paths just to be dumped out on a main road. Now if I had a trail map I'd know where to pick up the trail again, and if I wasn't an overly cautious pregnant lady I might just trek along the road until I found the next footpath. But instead I just turn around and head back the way I came.

Today I started wondering where this system of trails came from, and found a quick history of rambling in Britain (and here you thought my title meant the verbal rambing I do in these posts...). Apparently after the industrial revolution, the British turned to the countryside as a respite from city life. This was all fine and great until the turn of the last century when landlords started getting territorial about their land fearing poachers (heard of man traps?). By the 1930's walking about the countryside was getting almost impossible. Enter the Rambler's Association in 1935, a group dedicated to preserving the British tradition of walking about. They started campaigning against such territoriality.

By 1949, the group had some success, and 10 National Parks were created. On top of that, they went about recording any footpaths that still existed. By the 1960's, a law was passed requiring surveyors to note footpaths when they did a land survey, preserving many of these paths for posterity. Further campaigning forced local Councils to start posting footpath signs.

Finally, in 2000 the Countryside and Rights of Way act was passed, turning all footpaths into legally protected rights of way. Anything that had been recorded as a footpath for 20 years or more was now required to remain as such. Farmers could continue to grow crops, graze animals, whatever, as long as people could still walk through. So now I know that I can continue to walk through the big field even when the cows are there because the landlord isn't allowed to keep bulls older than 10 months near a footpath. The cows are pretty big, though, so I'll still give them a wide berth.

Well, if you've read all the way through this rambling post (ha ha) you know more than you ever wanted about walking in Britain!

Molly's meanderings

In the mornings I head out for my walk: down the main street, past the pond, through the smaller horse field, through the large field (as long as the cows are in one of their other fields), past the old church, and into the forest. Once I've gone far enough, I turn around and head back. This seems to be the route most Oddingtonians take.

In the large field I routinely run into Gordon and his dog Molly. She always stops, eyes me, tries to discern if I'm people friendly, and then once she's pretty sure I am, she charges the last 50 yards. This is always somewhat unnerving, as Molly weighs at least 70 pounds (especially the first time she charged- before I understood that this was the routine!). But she's super friendly and just wants a few pets and then Molly walks back to Gordon.

The other day The Village Newsletter for October arrived. I had happily perused the September issue when I first arrived. It's mostly announcements for charity functions and church services, but it also has a The Way We Were column, which highlights some historical aspect of Oddington (wartime recipes & rations in September, cricket legacies in October- of which our handyman is one!) and my favorite article, Molly's Meanderings, which discusses Molly the dog's adventures from her point of view. She talks about the large bull, Angus, she ran into last month (which is why I don't cross the large field if the cows are in it), plunging happily into a river, and eating apples fallen from the tree before her mistress realized what she was up to.

So I confirmed with Gordon that Molly of Molly's Meanderings was indeed his Molly. He concurred that she is a very good writer, with a good sense of humor. Then Molly posed obediently for a fan photo, and then they went on their way.

Fantastic Mr. Fox aflight

The morning dawned overcast and blah. I went out for my usual stroll and was almost to my turn-around point with nothing to report: no dogs or people on the trail, no horses, no cows, when I saw a man on an ATV come down the road and stop. I could tell he was waiting for me to exit the field through which I had just come, but had no idea why. I climbed over the stile, and just then, way up ahead, I saw two dogs! Oh good, the day's not lost. And then another dog, and another, and another two, and now I became a bit concerned. What kind of dog swarm was this? Around 50 dogs came around the corner and flew down the street and then I recognized them for large hounds. Unfortunately I was so surprised I didn't manage to snap a picture until most of the pack was past. The horses came soon after. All the riders identically dressed in green jackets. They were quite friendly and everyone said, "hi" which meant I was busy saying, "good morning," and of course my next picture-taking moment had passed. I'm really dreadful with a camera.

It took me a bit to wrap my head around the fact that a fox hunt had just passed me. And then I realized that I wanted more pictures, so I turned around and started heading back the way they went. I kept hearing the bugle blowing and the hounds barking and the horses' hooves clopping, but I didn't catch up to them again until a large field close to home. Just this morning I had noticed the tender crop growing in this field and was shocked to watch the dogs bounding all over it, men in horses trying to direct them. While standing at the gate to this field I was joined by a construction worker having his coffee break. He asked if I followed the hunt and I admitted it was the first one I'd seen. He told me the fox had gone speeding up the street right past him. Trying to save the fox he'd told the riders the fox went the other way, but they trusted their dogs more than him. Finally he mentioned that he thought fox hunting was outlawed.

Trying for one more picture I followed the sound of the hunt down a footpath right by our cottage. I could hear the hounds baying and tromping in the nearby brush, but I couldn't get to the open field where I might have a better view because my way was blocked by a hunter on a horse facing away from me. I really have no experience with horses, they've never been a favorite animal of mine, and all I know is you don't come up behind a horse, so I stayed where I was. But then I heard a beater in the bushes right by me, the ATV driver! And it sounded like the fox and hounds were coming right at me, so I hot footed it back to a safer spot. The fox must have been flushed because the dogs and horses then took off across the next field. Now I moved forward for a closer look, and discovered a man with a giant owl on his arm! As the man walked past me, the owl, who was totally perturbed by the hound fury he had just witnessed in close proximity, spread his wings, grazing the top of my head as they passed. Of course at that moment I realized I again had missed an incredible photo opportunity. Somebody should confiscate my camera.

When I came home, I looked up fox hunting in the UK. It was indeed outlawed in 2005, however a few loopholes still exist. While hunting with dogs is forbidden, hunting with bird of prey is not. So many hunting groups argue that the dogs are merely flushing the fox out for the bird of prey. From what I read, that's laughable because no bird of prey is going to hunt while there are 50 hounds in the vicinity, and from what I saw this morning? That owl was no exception.

I am glad I didn't know that hunting was illegal before this morning. It was awfully exciting to watch the hunt, and the dogs were having such a great time. The construction worker said the fox usually gets away, so that makes me feel a bit better. Still, I can understand why the country is so torn about banning hound hunting. It was so very British and I'm sure there's nothing like the adrenaline rush for the hunters on horses jumping fences and hedges in pursuit. But I hope all the foxes are as cunning as Fantastic Mr. Fox.

berry obsession

I've become obsessed with the sheer number of berry types here in the English countryside. Every day when I go walking I look for new kinds, and I am rarely disappointed. There are so many sizes and colors, they're on bushes, on trees, on vines.

For the most part I find them really pretty, but I know that the bright colors often indicate poison. I found this website that mentions some that you can eat and some that you really can't. You'll see quite a few of these in my photos, including the dangerous Yew, which I just discovered this morning:

http://www.countrylovers.co.uk/wfs/wfsberries.htm

It's probably good that Bug is not here with us. She tends to try anything that falls to the ground, and so I would be worrying about her constantly! Dare I say it? I would be berry worried. (oy!)

a spot of rain

Sudden rainstorms are the basis for many important plot twists in 19th Century English Novels. Those I could think of off the top of my head: Elizabeth Bennet ducking out of the rain and running into Mr. Darcy in the faux Grecian temple (Pride and Prejudice), Lady Dedlock seeking cover from the sudden rain in the same place as Esther Summerson and recognizing her for the daughter she had to give up (Bleak House), Arthur Clenham grabbing Little Dorrit out of the rain into a tea shop (Little Dorrit), and Captain Wentworth stepping out of a rain storm to find and misinterpret Anne Elliot's escort by William Elliot (Persuasion). I was always a bit skeptical of these convenient rainstorms, but swept along by the story, I didn't care too much.

However, it's an actual fact of English weather (at least here in the Cotswolds). Yesterday I went out for a walk on a sunny morning. I met Molly, the chocolate lab, and her person, Gordon. I watched Molly frolic happily with her friend Esther, a yellow lab mix, under the wonderful sunlight. A bit later, 1/2-hour into my walk, I turned around and started for home. And then I noticed that storm clouds had suddenly arrived. There was a drop here and there, and then it became a bit more steady. I picked up my pace. I thought I might get home before I was too wet, but then suddenly, there was a black Volkswagen stopped by my side with none other than my husband worried about me in the rain and come to pick me up. A heroine in my own English novel rescued by her handsome Mr. Darcy.

quaint addresses

There aren't any numbers on the houses here. They just get names, so like our house is called Rose Cottage. Our address is Rose Cottage, Back Lane, Upper Oddington. Then the zip code and Britain and that's it. The streets have to be pretty small to get away with this, and it definitely causes some confusion because all the houses tend to have quaint English names, like The Little Barn or The Ploughshare, and so they get repeated often. Two doors down from us? Rose Cottages, plural. In Lower Oddington I noticed three Rose Cottage's. I wonder how those are distinguished from each other.

Some of the names hint at some history, like The Little Chapel, which was indeed a chapel back in the '50's, and The Old Post Office. The other day while I was out walking a truck driver (sorry, lorrie driver) stopped and asked me if I knew where The Old Stone House was. I almost burst out laughing. Do I know where an old stone house is?

the pub life

We're starting to get in the swing of things here in Upper Oddington, and that means we head to the pub around 6 o'clock for a pint. Okay, well we kind of get a pint. I drink elderflower or apple soda. John can only manage a 1/2 pint (the first night he ordered a whole pint and then slunk out because he realized he couldn't get through it). John finally admitted to the owner of the pub, Simon, that his beer tolerance was pretty low. Simon informed us that one pub attendee regularly drank 10 pints in an evening. As John sat there sipping his 1/2 pint, the owner kept counting off each pint the guy had. He was up to 5 by the time we finished up and left. So we obviously need to get in better beer-drinking shape to live here.

Everyone knows each other and says hello when they come in. Dogs come in too, which we love. The other night Tim came in. Everyone said hi, but nobody made much effort to talk to him. We soon learned why, because each person he did manage to get in conversation heard the same story, about attending a memorial service in Cheltenham and how he hadn't been there in years, and how awful and big its gotten. Cheltenham is a small city 1/2 hour from Upper Oddington. We went there the other afternoon to go to Mail Boxes Etcetera and see a movie. The fact that this guy hadn't been for years to the only nearby city that has a movie theater? Well John just couldn't fathom it.

But it did confirm what Simon had told us: that Upper Oddington is mostly locals, horse breeders and farmers and such. Lower Oddington is where the vacationers go. The housing stock down there is much smaller and more like townhouses because it's where the tenant farmers used to live. So while it feels like a much denser and populated village, there aren't as many locals. We're happy to be living in Upper Oddington.

a banner day

The day here in England is exactly what one would expect: gray, drizzly, quiet. But John and I are very bubbly because two copies of the paperback advanced reader copies (or ARC's) arrived today. That's right! A first look at John's book! I, in my emotional pregnant state, immediately started crying. Perhaps I would have anyway because it's been so many years of work, and it's so wonderful to see it becoming real, but it was a very exciting moment. There are hardback ARC's coming out as well, which should be beautiful, but those will be bound with the 600 sheets of vellum that John painstakingly signed on Sunday and just shipped back, so we won't see those for a while.

Of course these ARC's also arrived with the final edits on the galleys (which is the typeset copy of the book- I'm so impressed with myself for picking up all this publishing lingo!), so John still has work ahead of him. This will be his third and final pass, and then the retail hardback books will be put together. The launch date? April 5th. Yep, if you don't recognize that date, it's my Birthday. I was super excited about attending a fancy New York party for my Birthday this year, but now it appears that my husband will attend without me while I am home with a three-week old! So instead I keep reminding John that really important things come into this world for him on that day! He groans in response.

I usually say that extra quietly, though, because I don't want this baby to get any crazy ideas about staying in the womb an extra three weeks....

The Cotswolds

Right in the middle of England is this region known as the Cotswolds. It's called the "heart" of England, which makes sense considering its location, but I think that name also speaks about the spirit of the Cotswolds, which, with the rolling green landscape and small villages, feels incredibly English.

England's limestone comes from this region, and all the houses are made of it, stacked horizontally. It's a muted greyish-cream color, and the ubiquitous usage makes the towns look very cohesive. My favorite quote to date is, "the whole secret of the beauties of Cotswold architecture is conveyed by the word 'unspoilt' - unspoilt by architects. Poor architects!" (Robert Henriques 1950). I had to laugh. I think he's probably right. Architects wouldn't have allowed it to be so quaint.

The area is still mostly agricultural, with tiny villages of 12 or so houses tucked between the fields. They all have names you can't quite believe aren't farsical. For example, we live in Upper Oddington. really. There's Lower Oddington just a 5 minute walk down the road. Past the town of Stow on the Wold there's Upper Slaughter and Lower Slaughter. We're embarassed to say any of these towns out loud, of course, because the Brits always say it differently and laugh at our American pronunciations. At the supermarket the other day the checkout clerk said he loved the way Americans say, "vehicle." I asked John if he remembered how the clerk said it, but John admitted he hadn't been sure what word the guy was saying.

At this point I go out for a daily tramping along the many footpaths, scaring cows and annoying horses who are disappointed when they discover I don't bear treats. While out I imagine I'm living in a Jane Austin novel, which is quite easy in this landscape.

Ciao Italia! 'ello England!

Friday started as a beautiful sunny day in Radicondoli, but by evening it had begun to rain and it felt like fall in Italy had finally arrived. We packed up our stuff, said goodbye to the dogs, got some free gelato from our new friends in town, and slept for the last time in our lovely Italian farm house.

Saturday morning we drove to Pisa for a 2 hour flight to London. Despite mailing back some boxes of stuff on Friday, we still had an enormous amount of luggage: our three original suitcases, a box of vellum John needs to sign for his publisher (long story), my pregnancy pillow (acquired after my back went out), a backpack each for our computers, and one more bag for all our electrical paraphernalia we didn't want to check (iphones, adaptors, speakers, fitbit,etc). Since I can do little to help, John was really a hero, rolling two large bags with additional bags/boxes on top, wearing two backpacks (one forwards, one backwards). John always calls me the queen of Sheba when I sleep in, and now it felt like I was definitely deserving of the title!

We're now cozily ensconced in a little stone house in the Cotswolds, Rose Cottage. It's tight after the vastness of our last residence, but it's also much, much, much colder here in England, so we're happy with the smaller spaces since they're easier to heat. Today it's raining a light drizzle, and I think that's probably going to be par for the course. It does make for a gorgeous green landscape with lots of flowers. Whenever the rain does stop, the birdfeeder out back is crammed with birds trying to fatten up before the cold gets worse. I think we're going to enjoy our new home for the next month.

the menagerie minus one

We discovered the name of the yellow-white dog: Linda. She loves to follow us into town, and once there, the townspeople usually yell, "Linda, vai a casa!" or "Linda, go home!" Clearly she must wander up to town a lot. Yesterday we drove up to town so Linda didn't follow. We were at the stationery store and on our way out the owner said to say, "hi" to Linda and to tell her to come visit. I guess we've been in town long enough that Linda is now seen as our dog.

We have a new dog as well, Schizzo (as it says on his tag). Schizzo seemed pretty skinny, so we called the number on the tag a few times, but no luck. Then we asked in town, and they said Schizzo showed up two years ago abandoned. Since he has a lovely blue collar and there was a phone number that's no longer in service, we worry that his owner must have died. Anyway, John then decided we needed to give Schizzo some food so he bought a large can of dog food (we couldn't find any dry food). Linda was there as well, so we also fed her. Boy, did those dogs love us after that.

Meanwhile Kitty has benefited from any remnants of milk. She drinks it down so quickly it's rather astonishing. I also fed her scraps from our picnic lunch the other day. How many American cats do you know that would eat a cannelinni bean or a chunk of tomato? The animals here are hungry.

But I think we've reached the end of our beneficence. Yesterday Linda showed up with a dead rabbit. Clearly the animals here fend for themselves.

We're down one animal, though. Mice carry the toxoplasmosis parasite which is dangerous for pregnant women, so despite thinking him awfully cute, we had to remove the mouse. The owners of the house gave us a piece of cardboard slathered in sticky glue with some parmesan cubes in the middle. The mouse totally went for it. Luckily John had it all taken care of before I even got out of bed in the morning. He feels terrible about the mouse, but I and the other animals still love him.

Pregnant

After years of hearing the stories, I have now joined the ranks of women who had to quit their job to get pregnant. I'm not sure if that's a commentary on the profession of architecture or my own inability to reduce stress, but boy do I feel fortunate I had the opportunity to take this time off! Anyway, it happened so quickly, I was still happily drinking cappuccinos and enjoying my red wine when I figured it out.

Then about a week later, I had just finished blogging about food when the morning sickness set in. After the final food blog "basta della pasta," eating became a real struggle. I know, I'm in Italy, how can I not want the food? But if you mention tomatoes and basil to me, be prepared for a green tint to my face. I had to learn how to say "sono incinta" (I'm pregnant) so I could explain to strangers why I was throwing up in the parking lot.

And my back going out? That's a typical thing to happen during pregnancy. It's something about high hormone levels loosening up all the tendons and the squishy things between your vertebrae, so you lose a lot of the support your back muscles typically have.

I also had to stop taking day trips because I'm so sensitive to the heat. It's been strange for me, the person who's always cold to suddenly be too hot most of the time. It's really weird to hear John ask if he can turn the AC down in the car. Fortunately the weather has finally turned cool.

Needless to say we're thrilled. We didn't want to say anything too soon, but it's been a struggle to blog around this! John's fairly good Italian vocabulary has been broadened by such phrases as "first-trimester screening." I've pulled a lot of numbers in Italian hospitals waiting in line to give a blood sample. I will definitely never forget this time in Italy!

The details: It's a boy, due March 14th, we'll be back in the states in November.

The Dolomites

I've been trying to write this blog for days now, but couldn't quite figure out how to describe the beauty of the Dolomites. John said it was like Yosemite but better, greener and with larger rock outcroppings. Not having been to Yosemite, I can't really compare, but I'll take his word for it (despite it being semi-sacrilege to say anything might be better than Yosemite!). Basically, I thought it was like the Alps, but with really neat rock formations added in, usually on top of the green mountain you were looking at.

First we drove north from Venice. The landscape on either side became higher and higher (when the road wasn't going through tunnels) until finally you were driving in a tight, steep valley with lush trees everywhere. We then took a left at a town called Cortina, and wound up the road, over a ridge, down into the next valley, up onto the next ridge, etc.... Not surprisingly, this area still speaks a strange language, Ludin, which comes from old Roman. I'm not surprised, because before those tunnels? It would have taken days to get into or out of any of those towns. The area was probably incredibly isolated.

But mostly everyone speaks German. That's because this area, known as South Tyrol, was part of Austria until World War I when the Allies told Italy they could have this area if they joined in and helped. When WWII came along, despite annexing Austria, Hitler allowed Mussolini to keep South Tyrol as long as he stayed on Hitler's side. Mussolini then encouraged as many Italians as he could to move into the area (he knew how precarious their claim was...). These days South Tyrol is still part of Italy, but it's allowed self governance and keeps its own taxes (it's one of the wealthiest areas in Italy). I'm sure that's how they pacified the 70% German-speaking population.

We hiked for a couple days (Italian style, where you walk a bit, stop for a hot chocolate, walk a bit more, stop for lunch...). On the way home we went west first, and came down the Bolzano valley. That was also an amazing drive. It felt like we were driving through the Grand Canyon after continuous rain for 50 years, with steep canyon sides covered in trees surrounding a lush valley. It's really surprising the Dolomites aren't on more people's lists of thing to see in Italy. We'd like to go back and try skiing there.

Architecture Biennale

Thursday we went to Venice to check out the Architecture Biennale, which is a mixture of offerings by countries and invited individuals. The countries choose to do one of three things: mount an exhibit showing what great buildings are being built there now, do an homage to a famous local architect (Brazil had a large Niemeyer display), or have theoretical work showing what the great minds of the country are up to (the US's choice). For the individual's displays, they either show a major project under way (like Toyo Ito's opera house- a cool idea, but I wonder how it will really feel with no windows...), or, especially the younger firms, they do a theoretical project showing what their firm thinks about. I was really hoping I would be inspired by great work, and there were some really interesting and innovative projects, but I'll admit that a lot of it felt just like studio for adults.

My favorite project was one by a Korean sculptor, Do ho Suh, who decided to take a building facade and make it a ceiling. This is something that I think most architects have thought about at one time, how the 3-dimensionality of an elevation would translate into other planes. He did it really well, though, with a translucent blue fabric which allowed the light from a skylight above to come through, creating an extra layer of interest and magic to the experience of being sideways in the world.

I also liked this very simple dome created by a system of sticks. The structural idea was similar to that of closing the bottom of a box when you don't have tape so you overlap each layer. It allowed for the creation of a beautiful shape with almost no material. At first I assumed it was created by some computer program that analyzed which structural members were needed, allowing you to remove anything that wasn't. However, in reading the description provided by the firm, Amateur Architecture Studio, it became clear that they just found a geometric system and worked with it.

But really the best thing of all was a video provided by the Japanese firm SANAA of the construction workers on a job site doing exercises all together before starting work. It was such a great image of Japanese culture, and it was really amusing to hear the reactions of the Italians to the idea of doing this exercise before starting work!

eeeeew!

Ah! The Italian countryside! Cool breezes! Great vistas! And... bugs! Yes, the bug quantity here is just shockingly high. Whether it's the swarming giant gnat/grasshopper like things under the pines by the car, the enormous inch-long flies buzzing when you read outside, the wasps trying to make a nest under the loggia, the huge ants that are suddenly crawling on your flip-flop-clad foot when you look down, or, of course, the mosquitoes, all of these are rather expected outside, and that's okay, because it's their world too.

But inside, it's still a world of bugs. We were already working hard to eradicate the mosquitoes, when John had to turn his vigilance to the wasps who had started looking inside for a cozy home. He takes down around four a day, but they keep coming.

And then we noticed the centipedes, which have been increasing in number. Oh, and then there was the millipede I found by the bed, which is a truly heart-stopping creature, 2-1/2 inches long with pincers on its tail. I had just managed to conquer my fear and squish him with the handle of a wooden spoon (it was tucked into a corner), calmly lain down on the bed again, when a chunky spider crawled down the front of my nightgown. This led to further shrieking and leaping off the bed, this time by both my husband and me. It's no surprise that John had a night terror the other night. When I asked him what he was seeing? "A bug."

But I expect another night terror tonight. This morning when I got up, John invited me over to see something on his computer. I had brought my water glass from my bedside and was slowly sipping to re-hydrate after the night when he suddenly yelled at me to, "stop drinking!" My jaw dropped, the water I had in my mouth fell out, and then I noticed the large spider I had been about to gulp down floating in the bottom of the glass. Eeeeew. I think I might need to get a lid for my water glass.

chock full of memories

I think there are two kinds of short-term rental home out there. The first are investment properties bought specifically with vacationers in mind. They are tastefully decorated, set up to run well with property managers and such, the only downside being that the kitchens can sometimes suffer from bad knives and thin pots. The other kind is the family home, passed down for a few generations, and now rented out occasionally. That is the kind of house we're in currently.

Family homes speak volumes about potential memories. The paintings on the wall, the books and games on the shelf, the home-made chandelier all speak of previous occupants. There are fifty bistro glasses in the china cabinet- how many parties were thrown here? There are photos of Audrey Hepburn in the bathroom- who was her fan? The framed charcoal drawings on the wall of the dining room- were any of these drawn by an occupant of the house?

I find the experience of living in someone else's home intense. Every day I'm wondering whether someone went to China to buy that figurine or if it was a gift? Was someone religious or did they just like simple wood-carved crucifixes? Walking past any painting or tsotchke makes me imagine the family that lived with them or chose them. Especially things like the ceramic bird in the bathroom that was clearly carefully glued back together after getting smashed.

Meanwhile John sees it as a house full of props. He'll suddenly grab a candelabra and limp into the room imitating Quasimodo, or grab an Egyptian statue that kind of looks like a telephone and pretend to take a call. Clearly the memories of this house pass more lightly over him!

Flopsy

The white-yellow dog has completely adopted us. She spends all day in the yard or under the table on the loggia. A few times she has nudged the door open with her nose and tried to sneak into the house, but as much as we like her, we know where this is leading, so we always firmly send her back out.

John named her Flopsy at some point, but usually just calls her Flopper. I think the latter is the more appropriate name because she often does that flop onto her back that some dogs do to try and get you to rub their belly. Since yesterday was finally a bit warm here, John put out some water. She gulped it down. Now John is a slave to the water dish, and I think Flopsy will probably only leave to get her breakfast.

The best part is when the church bells ring (the bell tower is straight up the hill from us). Today is Sunday, so they tolled every half hour or so all morning. And Flopper joins them, howling away. It made John and I laugh every single time.

Italian mac & cheese

Today I discovered something truly wonderful: bucatini al cacio e pepe. I mean, the translation in the menu said cheese and pepper, so I should have known what I was going to get, but you never know what kind of cheese it will be, and so I was nervous when I ordered because what if it was some kind of stinky smelly cheese? But no, it was mild, salty, and just like Kraft Mac n' Cheese. The pepper added a hint of maturity to the hole mess.

And then there was the bucatini: spaghetti with a hole down the middle, like if you took one of these noodles and cut it into one-inch slices? You would get the exact pasta Kraft puts in their box. But here it's these thick tubes that you can roll onto your fork.

The meal brought happy flashbacks of cheap meals during grad school, but felt much more sophisticated. Yum.

haircuts

Today we got our hair cut. Yes, both of us. I was just going to get my bangs trimmed, but then this morning I realized it had been months since my last haircut (mid May?), and I should just get everything trimmed. John thought he should probably get a cut as well, since he has to present his book at a gala event in Berlin in a month and if it's a bad cut, he wanted time to let it grow out.

So we went up the hill to the one hair-cutting shop in Radicondoli. Two sisters run it, one of them very pregnant, and most of what they seem to do is style older women's hair with curlers. For some reason, though, we both trusted them and sat down. John proceeded to chat with the two sisters (and a woman there with curlers still in her hair) about the weather in Los Angeles. Meanwhile I decided my hair was too long and asked my sister to cut it up to my shoulders.

It was a risky move on our parts, but we think it paid off. I love my new cut, and John's nerves have been assuaged. We'll both go again before Berlin, me to trim my bangs, and John for one more cut.

new four-legged friends

We're still really enjoying this farmhouse so far, and we've learned that we have a few fuzzy friends in the neighborhood. First, John went into the kitchen to make coffee one morning, and surprised a little mouse on the counter. He says the mouse looked up at him like, "wait, what are YOU doing here?" before turning and scurrying away. We haven't seen any signs of recent visits from him, but our food is now safely ensconced in pots with lids.

Then, while sitting in the yard reading a few days ago, a large yellow dog came up to me and demanded some attention. She's very sweet and I guess she belongs to a local shepherd (according to the owners of the house), and if you sit in the yard, she will find you and want a pet. Yesterday as we set out to walk to town there was a large rustle in the bushes and the yellow dog emerged. She was thrilled that we wanted to walk to town and joined us, leaving to run her own errands once we got there.

Last night while John was out in the yard reading, a beautiful striped cat with yellow eyes joined him. She then came up to the door and was very upset that I didn't want to let her into the house. All the animals seem a bit surprised when we don't let them in and we can't decide if this is just their ruse to guilt us into opening the door, or if the owners have an open-door policy when they're here. Either way, we're enjoying their company when we're outside. Now if the horse that we sometimes see running on the hill came down to visit....

our new home

Yesterday we said goodbye to Passignano. It was a bit bittersweet- while we were ready to move on, we'd really found our place in the town. We had a final lunch at our usual cafe, and they wouldn't let us pay for it. Then we went to get some final fruit for the road, and the fruit vendor wouldn't let us pay for it. Everyone said we'd been so nice and always full of smiles and extracted a promise we'd come back next summer. It was very touching.

Around 3:00 we got on the road, and only got lost once trying to find this little town, Radicondoli (raw-dee-KAWN-doh-lee). It's not listed on many maps, and even when it is, they don't really show all the roads. Plus, it's even farther out in the middle of nowhere than we thought. But by 4:30 we arrived, settled in our farmhouse, and couldn't be happier.

The house is on a promontory overlooking the surrounding hills and valley. It's nice and cool with a brisk breeze. They have fabulous chairs in which to read. Above the house on the hill is the little town, a 15 minute walk on dirt roads. We both feel like we've really gotten away.