May 2003 Archives

Next appearance: BookExpo America, Los Angeles, CA, Friday, May 30th at 2:00 p.m. and Sunday, June 1st at 11:00 a.m.

I should point out that the whole Martha thing wouldn't have happened without the gracious assistance of Katharine Weber, who passed her ARC of the book to Martha's producers and gave them an occasional prodding. By way of thanks, all of you can rush out and buy one of her books: Objects in the Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear, The Music Lesson, and the forthcoming The Little Women (due in September).

I'm lately returned from the wilds of Chapel Hill, NC, my hometown, where I was fortunate enough to have a reading at McIntyre's Books that approached being the perfect author experience. The store itself is intriguing, with dozens of staff recommendations appearing on every wall, with cushy chairs deposited in strategic places throughout, and with a large and varied inventory to explore. Better yet, there's a room upstairs that's specially set up for readings (though it's lined with shelves, too, so you don't feel as if you're reading in a hotel.)

At 2:00 on Saturday, this room began to fill with people from just about every walk of my life on the Hill: my aunt, who'd brought along a posse of her friends; my brother's godmother, a dear family friend since I was in nursery school, with her camera in one hand and a stack of books to be signed in the other; no fewer than three ex-housemates, along with their spouses and children; performing partners from Transactors Improv Co., the John Santa Band, and Terminal Mouse, as well as the owners of the club where the latter group played most of its shows; several of my family's closest friends; a knot of drama rats from Chapel Hill High School; the former mayor of Chapel Hill and his wife; the parents of several of my CHHS classmates; one of my Culbreth Jr. High soccer teammates; and Kelly and the boys. Three of the people in the room had been members of our wedding; Kelly and I had been in a couple of theirs. I used to date one of them, too. Knowing this assemblage to be unique, I started the reading off by taking two photos of the audience.

The reading itself went very smoothly. I had picked out a couple of sections to share, giving the nod to bits where audience members and I had common experiences, but I left room to read others based on the audience's questions. I've been running my readings with the philosophy that my voice, uninterrupted, can keep an audience entertained for only so long. I'll read a short section--no more than five minutes--and then answer questions, which may or may not be based on what I've read. The questions at McIntyre's were good ones--and many of the best ones were asked by complete strangers, of whom there were perhaps 20 in the room. When one of the questions addressed an issue that I covered in the book, I tried to find the section where I covered it and read it aloud, and then it would be time for more questions. The format seems to work, and it keeps the audience more involved in the event, which is after all the purpose of having them there. In this case, the evidence that it worked is contained in the fact that I signed a bunch of books for the complete strangers in the audience, and in the fact that McIntyre's sold out of The Verb 'To Bird'; the event organizer informed me that mine was the first sellout of 2003. I felt a little proud of that.

My proudest moment, however, would be the one just after I'd finished reading the end of chapter four, where I explain at some length that my bird feeder was stolen by squirrels. Though the story is absolutely true and the information provided is accurate, it's a very silly section, played mostly for laughs. And it got 'em. When I reached the concluding sentence, there was applause. It was very sweet applause.

I should note that I've gotten applause before, particularly as a member of the abovementioned bands, troupes, casts, and teams, but this felt different. For one thing, it was spontaneous. It hadn't come when I concluded the other sections. And it's not like there's any kind of convention dictating that there should be applause at the end of a piece of reading; when you finish a song, or a scene, or a play, the audience members know they're supposed to clap for you, but this they came up with on their own. And I must admit that it felt good to get applause for something of my very own. I've played my own songs for crowds, yes, but I've almost always shared the resulting applause with other musicians; they deserved it, mind you, in some cases more than I did, but being part of a group gives the interaction with the audience a different dynamic--not better, not worse, but inevitably different. The applause on Saturday came because I had read aloud words that I had composed about an experience that happened to me; I hadn't relied on the interpretive talents of anyone else to make my words connect with the audience--and they did connect. It's an enormously gratifying feeling, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a rush of Sally Field-like validation.

I won't have the deck stacked in my favor like that when I go to Los Angeles or Brooklyn, but I think it'll be somewhat easier to face the road games now that I've played in front of the home fans. They're very forgiving when you clang one off the rim. But man, when you actually sink a basket in front of them--well, all I can say is "I love this game."

5:32 AM

Next appearance: McIntyre's Books, Fearrington, NC, Sunday, May 25th at 2:00

Now, about this whole Martha Stewart thing:

The short version is that on Thursday, May 15th, I taped a segment for "Martha's Favorite Books." (Here's the evidence.) It will air sometime before Father's Day.

The long version may or may not tell you a lot more. While Kelly and I were in Rome, we visited an internet cafe and I checked my e-mail. Paul Dry had sent me a note to tell me that a producer from Martha Stewart Living Television had contacted him. The producer had read The Verb and given it to Martha, who had liked it and wanted to use it for a segment of MFB. Would I be interested in coming to Connecticut to tape a five-to-ten-minute segment?

Kelly, reading over my shoulder, actually sat down hard on the floor of the cafe.

What she, Paul, and I understood very clearly is that this is the sort of promotional godsend first-time authors and small publishing houses rarely receive. When an Emmy-winning nationally syndicated TV show offers to promote your book for you, the only logical answer is "yes." I sent Paul a note to that affect and told him I'd get in touch with the producer as soon as I returned to the U.S.

Of course, anyone who's met me for more than fifteen seconds will recognize the other thing that Kelly, Paul, and I understood very clearly: that Martha Stewart and Peter Cashwell go together like braised calf livers en croute and Milk Duds. There would seem to be little connection between us, other than the usual carbon-based/bilaterally symmetrical/opposable thumbs kind of similarities. For all intents and purposes, I don't watch television, mainly because we live in the Broadcast Hole of Virginia, where only one channel is reasonably clear (and that's only when the weather's good). I've never paid any real attention to Martha's magazine because I don't decorate, garden, cook, do crafts, arrange flowers, or own a home, and these seem to be the primary interests of her readership. Heck, there isn't even a K-Mart nearby for me to scour for Martha's product line. In short, if I'd been asked to predict which TV show would be likely to contact me about an appearance, I would have guessed something on Animal Planet or the Discovery Channel--heck, I'd have guessed "Space Ghost: Coast to Coast" or "Pardon the Interruption"--before I'd have guessed "Martha Stewart Living."

But a gift horse is a gift horse even when one doesn't know a stirrup from a riding crop, so I contacted the producer and arranged to drive up to Martha's studio near Westport, around seven hours' drive from Woodberry. The show is taped in a large building set back from the road in the midst of a wooded residential area; it actually reminded me of my old neighborhood in Chapel Hill, with winding, curbless roads threading through the trees, but with property values that were probably significantly higher than those of the professors' houses where I grew up.

Mark, the producer, met me at the entrance and took me to get a cappuccino at the commissary while we discussed my segment. He and I had previously discussed it on the phone, and based on my comments he'd written a short script outline for the interview--not quite two pages--giving a basic sense of the questions he wanted asked and answered. He made it clear that Martha might not follow the script--in fact, he said that she would probably listen to my answers and take the discussion elsewhere based on her own ideas about what I said. For Mark's purposes, he could edit the segment more easily if I tried to gently guide our chat in the direction he'd laid out, but giving Martha the answers she asked for would be the first priority.

In short, this was the perfect assignment for a teacher with improv theater experience.

I didn't get much face time with Martha, who on that day was in the middle of taping two and a half shows. I sat in the production room for about forty minutes, looking in on the taping by the internal monitors, which were shown on an enormous screen around which were shelved five Emmy awards. (I'd never seen an Emmy before, naturally, and was intrigued by the differences in coloration from year to year; some appear much yellower than others.) Onscreen, Martha appeared very poised; she moved smoothly from question to question, when she had to say a pre-commercial blurb a second time, she wasn't fazed by the need for a repetition. She did grimace once while arranging some roses, noting that something in the bundle didn't smell at all right, and she did use "murky" as a verb once, but otherwise she seemed on top of things the whole time. The segment before mine involved a man who whittles duck decoys, and he showed Martha how to cut a stump of pine down into a Bufflehead duck. She put penknife to wood with skill, and seemed very enthusiastic about the efficiency of his draw knife.

How did my segment go? I don't exactly know. I think it went well, but the proof of that pudding will be in the broadcast, which should come sometime in the next three weeks. Martha did a couple of on-air blurbs praising the book as "a great Father's Day gift," a sentiment I wholeheartedly endorse, and I read the section of Chapter Four in which my bird feeder is stolen by squirrels, but the rest of the segment will be our interplay, and that's hard to judge from the inside, so to speak. I learned one thing about her in the course of our chat: she knows a lot more about birds than I had expected. I also learned that her commissary makes a good cup of cappuccino and a solid reuben sandwich. The rest I think you'll be able to see for yourself.

4:07 PM

Oh, and don't forget:

I'm appearing at the Hilton Head Island Audubon Society Nature Festival this weekend, and will be reading at the Hilton Head Barnes and Noble on Saturday, May 17th, from 5:00 to 7:00. Come by if you get the chance.

NEXT EPISODE: My close encounter with Martha Stewart.

3:27 PM

THE ITALY TRIP

Leg Four: Rome

As April moved to a close, we delivered our Ford Focus back to the rental agency in Orvieto and hopped a train for the Eternal City, passing through some remarkably long tunnels en route (and suffering extreme ear-popping pressure changes in the bargain). The cab ride from Termini station to our hotel was a bit tense, thanks to the lack of seat belts, but we arrived safely at the Hotel Spring House, which sits within two blocks of the Vatican City walls. Our seventh-floor room and its terrace were near-palatial, which made the fact that the elevator went only as far as the sixth floor somewhat easier to bear.

With all the transit, we didn't have time to do any real sightseeing, but we decided once again to take Rick Steves up on his restaurant recommendations, which took us to Antonio's Hosteria di Bastioni near the Vatican walls. There we discovered what may be the best salmon I've ever tasted; Kelly's came grilled, with just seasoning and a little lemon, while mine came grilled with green peppercorns in a sauce of supremely tasty (but mysterious) yellow sauce. For total meal satisfaction, Pergola in Orvieto edged this one out, but it was a near thing.

Kelly may vote differently, as her quest for tiramisu was at last concluded. It had been on the menu but not in the kitchen at both dall'Onesto in Florence and La Palomba in Orvieto, so Antonio's was the first place able to bring it to the table. I'm not a big fan of custardy things, but she let me taste the espresso-soaked cake, and it nearly made my fillings buzz. She looked kind of like Bernini's St. Teresa in Ecstasy through most of the dessert course.

On May Day--yes, we hit Italy over Easter, Liberation Day, and May Day--many things were closed, but St. Peter's doesn't follow the secular schedule, so it became the focus of our afternoon. How can one describe St. Peter's? I can't really call it anything but "too much." In size, layout, and decoration, it goes into counter-Reformation style and comes out the other side; it makes Baroque itself look minimalist. Almost all of the innards date from after Luther, but one gets the sense that somehow they offer the best possible evidence of Luther's complaints about the Church's excesses. As churches go, it's a peacock--lavish, filigreed, pompous, conspicuous. Or maybe it's more like a rapper, boasting of its size, its power, and its bling-bling. After all, the marble floor includes marks showing where the world's other great churches would fit if they were set inside the nave. It was impressive, but I'll admit I didn't expect to see, set in stone, the results of God's Own Pissing Contest.

There are some pieces of real artistic potency--Michelangelo's Pieta, the ancient bronze statue of St. Peter with the eroded toes, Bernini's dove window beyond the altar, the crypt of St. Peter--but they're often almost lost in the swarm of marble, gold, and miscellaneous statuary. The tomb of Pope Alexander VII is an astonishing display of ornate carving (and a whooooooole bunch of red jasper), but to me it spoke a lot more about the hand of Bernini than the hand of God.

Kelly's summary: "I've never felt this Protestant in my life."

We opted not to fight the mile-long line to climb the dome and instead went back to the hotel to turn off our brains (otherwise known as "to watch Air Force One.") To my surprise, I got another lifer from the terrace as a Yellow-legged Gull flew overhead. We finished off the day with a meal at La Cucaracha, the Mexican restaurant across the street from the hotel; I had enchiladas verdes and a Dos Equis and felt strangely at home.

The next day saw the re-opening of the Vatican Museum, but the line to get in was so long that we opted to spend the day doing the consumerist thing. We grabbed some Moleskin notebooks, a pair of red wrestling-style boots for Kel, and some hard-to-find CD stuff for me: a greatest hits collection by Kid Creole and the Coconuts (WHEN, I cry, will Fresh Fruit in Foreign Places be available on disc?!) and a compilation of Sheila Chandra tunes. Kel also snagged two singles we'd been hearing for the past week, a Panjabi MC tune and Jarabe de Palo's ridiculously infectious "Bonito." We dined at La Rusticella, another Steves rec, where the appetizer buffet was enormous (and crammed full of people within twenty minutes of its opening). Next door we discovered Gelateria Millennium, which had the best selection of gelato flavors we'd seen, but was still no Pasqualetti's.

Next morning we got up and got in line for the Vatican Museum thirty minutes early; alas, a few thousand other people had had the same brilliant idea. Still, we got in only about twenty minutes after the doors opened. I was soon struck by the number of pieces donated by various popes and cardinals--men whose names were prominently displayed on the pieces, though the sculptors' names usually weren't--and tried to remember the chapter and verse that mentions the virtue of anonymous giving. We moved through the ancient world's treasures fairly early, taking our time with Laocoon and a few other pieces, but found ourselves most moved by the museum's not-so-well-known collection of modern religious artwork. After seeing weeks' worth of art that was primarily about what we see, it was nice to see some pieces that were more about what we feel: Weirent's cartoony/medieval-style Life of Christ panels, Cantatore's Crocifesso 1962 mosaic, and Casorati's beautiful, understated Angel of Night were absolute stunners. Still, the Sistine Chapel is amazing, despite the mob of tourists packing it (and surreptitiously videotaping it, in some cases).

During the long march back to the entrance, I began imagining a gigantic Vatican yard sale, where dozens of Madonna con Bambino statues are priced to move. With the proceeds, we can mine the asteroid belt or irrigate the Sahara.

For lunch, we got hustled at the Pizza e Birra ("Pizza and Beer") trattoria on the Via di Candia--really the only time we felt taken advantage of during the whole trip. The counterman talked up a variety of dishes & quickly slapped 'em onto our plates. I had only pasta and a beer, while Kelly had the recommended fish dish, pasta, and a beer When the bill came, it was 43 euros. Caveat emptor. We washed the taste out of mouths by dining at Antonio's again that evening, getting a full meal for 44 euros; this time I went with the swordfish--delicious in the extreme--and Kel tried the salmon w/peppercorn sauce, which was just as good on the second night.

And from there, it was one more night in the hotel, a quick dash to the airport, a foggy wait in the terminal, and a layover in Frankfurt before we were heading home again. For two weeks, we saw delights of all sorts, got gobs of ideas for the book, and ate like kings; with all the walking we did, I think we even avoided putting on the pounds. Best of all, we've left plenty to see when we return--the Accademia, Venice, Pompeii, the classical sites of Rome, Etruscan monuments of all sorts. But if nothing else, I've learned that I can function in a place where I don't speak the language, which is a lesson well worth learning.

When I spoke to him after returning, my brother demanded that I tell him whether England or Italy was better, which was kind of a silly question; for one thing, I've lived in England, and have toured Great Britain from end to end on several other occasions, so I know it far better than I could know Italy after only two weeks. But in the end, it's apples and oranges. I never encountered a particularly good Italian beer, but I already know what dessert is waiting for me in heaven: a big dish of bacio from Pasqualetti's.

Ciao, Italia.

3:16 PM

THE ITALY TRIP

Leg Three: Civita

We departed Orvieto regretfully, but with great anticipation for our next stop: Civita di Bagnoregio, sort of a miniaturized version of Orvieto. It's a medieval hill city that sits atop an island of rock in an eroded bowl-shaped valley of clay. And for once, I'll abide by the "picture is worth a thousand words" rule and show you what it looks like. Only fifteen permanent residents remain, and there's only one dog (Biro by name), one restaurant (Antico Forno), and one B&B there, all of them owned by Franco Sala, my nominee for Best Host in Italy. As we knew from reading our Rick Steves Italy guide, getting to Civita requires crossing the 900-foot pedestrian bridge from the town of Bagnoregio, and because we'd parked in the wrong place, Kelly and I had added a good quarter-mile of steps to the distance, all of it naturally accompanied by our baggage. Luckily for us, Franco was in the kitchen at Antico Forna, and he immediately welcomed us (in English), sat us down with water and wine and bread, brought us some delicious penne in a red sauce, and sent us off to nap for a few hours. None of this appeared on our bill.

Exploring the city itself takes very little time, obviously, but staring at the surrounding countryside from atop the cliffs can easily occupy you for days. I also found myself staring at the local birds, which were determined to make my life list a good bit longer right from the get-go. I'd logged a Sardinian Warbler and a Eurasian Nuthatch before we'd even reached the bridge, and when Kelly and I went out to the city gates to look once more on the astonishing beauty of the valley, I was startled by the sudden appearace of a rosy- tan bird with black-and-white wings in a nearby tree beside the walkway. My first identification was Eurasian Jay, but it suddenly turned in profile and revealed both a long, thin, slightly decurved bill and a long, thin crest; it was a Hoopoe. Before I'd left home, I'd jokingly told the kids that this absurd-looking, ground-feeding creature was the bird I most wanted to see in Italy, and here it was--less than thirty feet from me, in a tree growing a hundred-odd feet from the valley floor, in plain sight. And so help me, it really does say "Oop oop oop." Kelly can confirm it.

After dinner in the B&B's dining room, I walked back over the bridge in order to move the car. I reparked it near the bridge on the Bagnoregio side, began the walk back to Civita, and found myself flabbergasted by a whole new view of the city's beauties: by night, with lights shining on the entranceway, it almost floats above the darkness, but the surrounding hill cities have their own distant green-and-orange lights, all wavering gently in the heat haze that rises from the earth. I caught my breath. It was like being in one of the Tanu cities of Julian May's Saga of Pliocene Exile. I've never once felt like I was in a fairy tale, but this was the closest I've ever come.

I woke early the next morning and did the Birding Thing, logging my first European Jays and my first Turtle Dove, as well as hearing my first European Cuckoo. We went for a country drive and saw the beautiful Lake Bolsena (as well as my first-ever Black Kite) before stopping for the only mediocre meal we ate in Italy at some German-oriented tourist trap restaurant just south of Bolsena. Upon our return, we staked out a table in the garden at the Belvedere Inn atop the headlands overlooking Civita; there we finished our books and I wrote some postcards before taking one last look over the valley--whereupon I immediately spotted ANOTHER lifer--a Great Spotted Woodpecker. I had to put an addendum on a couple of postcards to my birding buddies.

We dined at the base of the bridge, in the Hosteria del Ponte, which has impressive aquaria and a mighty nice wine list. Darkness had fallen by the time we started crossing to Civita, but we could easily hear everything in the valley--including a horrifying cry that sounded like a woman, a fox, or some combination of the two being tortured. Kelly decided it was a bird, and that I ought to go look for it. I believe my exact words were, "He'll have to fly over the fucking bridge for me to see him." Nonetheless, I pulled out my field guide and started looking for night birds by the light of one of the bridge's lamps. Kelly walked back toward the base of the bridge and said, "That's not it, is it?" It was, actually--a Tawny Owl, which was sitting atop a tree only a few yards from our parked rental car. It was there for only a few seconds before it fell silently back into the forest in a swirl of grey and white feathers, but along with the Blue Rock Thrush I'd glimpsed earlier that day (and confirmed the next morning), the owl was the ninth lifer I'd spotted between Bagnoregio and Civita's gates--an average of one every 100 feet.

It's a magical place. Go there. Pet Biro. Tell Franco we said hi.


4:34 PM

THE ITALY TRIP

Leg Two: Orvieto

On the list of my life's serendipities, this one will rank high. We'd originally planned to spend several days in San Gimignano, but couldn't find lodgings for more than one night. The problem seemed to be that April 25th is Italy's Liberation Day, and a significant number of its people were vacationing for the weekend. I'd been in touch with practically every Sienese, Tuscan and Umbrian hotel and B&B listed in our Rick Steves Italy guide without success, but had no luck finding lodgings in easy driving distance of San G. I kept at the search even after we'd reached Florence. Finally, starting to feel desperate, I decided to try Orvieto, a town Steves mentions, but one we hadn't planned to visit--and there I found success. There was a vacancy at the Hotel Duomo, only a block from the city's cathedral, and I booked it for Friday, Saturday, & Sunday nights.

The drive from Florence to Orvieto was surprisingly straightforward, though we didn't realize at first that the A1 was a toll road. The scenery was predictably stunning--hills, orchards, villas, mountains, vineyards--but nothing had prepared us for our first sight of Orvieto. It sits on a mesa of tufa rock, a flat-topped tableland perched 300 feet above the surrounding Paglia Valley, and it commands the attention of anyone in the valley. The road passed through its less scenic sister city, Orvieto Scalo, then looped up to the city itself, which is itself commanded by its enormous cathedral, which is--there's no easy way to say this--striped. The walls are horizontal rows of marble blocks, alternating white and dark green (almost black). It looks like it was designed by Delmar from O Brother, Where Art Thou? after a long contemplation of his prison uniform. Our hotel room had a good view of it, as well as views of the numerous rooms, pubs, and narrow cobbled streets; once you looked out the window, you might as well have been in the Quattrocento. The room itself, however, was sleek and modern--a refreshing change from the Renaissance vibe outside.

The view from the cliffside gave us a good look at a monastery in the valley, as well as a chance to see birds of all sorts darting from tree to tree, both above us and below us. Pigeons were revealed to me as masterful fliers, turning the winds beyond the cliffs into their personal playground; they dove with falcon-like swiftness and control all around us. European goldfinches, among the most beautiful birds on earth, flitted from evergreen to evergreen all around us, accompanied by two birds I'd never seen before: European serins, beautiful little yellow-and-brown finches with buzzy voices and jittery habits, and a yellowhammer or two.

We were already thinking that the Steves guide had led us to a mighty fine place, so we figured we'd trust his recommendation for a restaurant and visited Pergola. Oh, my. Aside from the excellent bruschetta and a tasty, reasonably-priced bottle of Orvieto Classico bianco, we had the best main courses of the entire trip. Kelly ordered the chicken cacciatore, which arrived in a peppery red sauce about as unlike American tomato sauces as the wine was from Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. It was accompanied by black olives, which seemed to have been elevated by the sauce into a whole new food status--magnifico! I had been unable to decide on an entree, finally letting the waiter decide: "Pollo o struzzo?" "Struzzo," he replied without hesitation, and so it was that I had my first taste of ostrich. If I hadn't known what I'd ordered, I would have felt sure I was eating steak--rare, lightly browned, and perfectly seasoned. Kelly and I traded bites, made ecstatic moaning sounds, and swilled down more Classico. The waiter finally appeared to give us our bill, and Kelly looked at him and said, "American food sucks." He burst out laughing.

The next day we ventured into Underground Orvieto, a complex of man-made caves on the plateau's south side, where we swiftly realized two things: one, that we weren't going to bother visiting San Gimignano with all that Orvieto had to offer, and two, that we were going to have to use the city in our book. The caves had been a combination of things: an olive-oil mill, a quarry for building stone, a series of Etruscan wells, a columbaio (pigeon roost) during siege times, even a WWII bomb shelter. When we emerged, we decided to check out the Duomo itself. (Yes, it was striped inside, too.) The windows are half stained glass, half translucent alabaster, and the Chapel of St. Brigit contains some stunning frescoes by Fra Angelico and Luca Signorelli--some of the most inspiring artwork we saw during the whole trip. Though the church's facade was covered with scaffolding for renovation, I found it a very impressive place to visit.

But then we discovered the most impressive thing in all Orvieto: Pasqualetti's gelateria. I tried the bacio flavor, chocolate and hazelnut, and thought I might begin to cry. The next day we returned and I decided to test them by selecting a radically different flavor--raspberry sherbet. It was fruity and seedy and turned my tongue purple; it may have been better than the bacio. I was convinced: it's the best gelato there is.

That night our sleep was interrupted by our neighbor. At first we thought he was moving furniture by night, but we soon realized he was snoring, to a prodigious degree. That or committing some unspeakable act on an innocent pig. We arose somewhat blearily and spent a lazy Sunday window-shopping and visiting the medieval fortress at the "low" end of the plateau. For lunch we snagged a small jar of black truffles--18 euros--just to say we'd tried them. They're very good, certainly among the tastiest mushrooms/fungi I've ever had. They're not worth 18 euros for a small jar, though. After the long haul back to the room, we discovered that our hotel TV had MTV, so we were able to turn off our brains and check out a number of videos, many quite intriguing (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jarabe de Balo, and Panjabi MC among them.). That night I threw caution to the wind and tried wild boar; my Obelix-like tendencies had been strengthened, perhaps oddly, by the sight of a boar's leg on display at the local butcher shop--with hide, bristles, and trotters intact.

And for dessert? Pasqualetti's gelato, of course--mocha hazelnut this time. By Toutatis, this is living!

6:13 PM

THE ITALY TRIP

Leg One: Florence

I really prefer the Italian name, "Firenze." The name "Florence" sounds a bit mundane for this city. Granted, our lodgings were pretty mundane, too: the Hotel Fleming, which sits in the Novoli section of town, close to the airport, but not terribly close to the historic sites. We arrived on Easter, meaning that just about everything was closed, so our first dinner in Italy was eaten at a Japanese restaurant: Sakura. Luckily, the combination of my pidgin Japanese and pidgin Italian was enough for purposes of ordering a meal.

We spent Monday investigating the area around Firenze's cathedral, the Duomo, but not the Duomo itself. We visited the Baptistry, a separate (and older) building with an octagonal structure intended to represent eternity (the 8th day being one beyond the week's worth of Creation) and a dome full of astonishing mozaics. Dante was baptized here, and I have no doubt that he took away memories of the figure of Satan, black and bestial, with three mouths gnawing on three sinners. The Duomo's main art treasures were moved to the nearby Duomo Museum after the awful flood of 1966 inundated the cathedral itself, and we spent the afternoon being very impressed by Donatello, who is fully deserving of his status as a Ninja Turtle. Speaking of TMNT: by dumb luck, during our lunch trip into the street market area, we stumbled across the Basilica San Lorenzo and discovered that its basement contained an exhibit on Leonardo's machines--many of which had been turned into working wooden models. We spent a good long while snapping photos and taking notes there, let me tell you.

We bussed our way back to the hotel and walked to dinner at a somewhat nearby restaurant: Dall'Onesto. The bruschetta was potent, with garlic so strong it actually hurt a little. Mmmmmm.

Tuesday saw us hopping the bus and walking to the Ponte Vecchio, where we discovered that the Arno River contains not only a school of very large tourist-fed carp, but a happy group of otters--not what I expected in downtown Florence at all. We visited the Pitti Palace, spending most of our visit wandering the spacious, shady Boboli Gardens, from which we got a number of breathtaking views of the city. We then wandered the Oltrarno district, examining the medieval gate and wall, picking up some wonderfully slubby yarn for Kelly, and coming across the best cappuccino I've ever tasted at Dante Trattoria. On the way home we stopped by the Mercato Nuovo (New Market) to buy Kelly a leather bracelet and rub the nose of the bronze boar in charge of getting visitors back to Florence. For dinner, we went cheap: I stopped by the Coop grocery for bread, cheese, and fruit, which we ate in the hotel room.

It was time to get fully touristy on Wednesday, so after a leisurely morning of window-shopping, we went to our 12:15 appointment at the Uffizi Gallery determined to do the medieval/Renaissance art thing with gusto, and for nearly three hours, we did. We marvelled at Botticelli, at Leonardo, at Hans Holbein, at Michelangelo, at Fra Lippo Lippi, and at various unknown medieval talents, taking time to marvel at the sight of two pigeons mounting each other in turn, which doubtless disappointed at least one of them. Knowing we'd seen too much to take in, we snagged a very large book about the museum, bussed home, and hit the Dall'Onesto again--a happy choice, because en route I saw my first Italian life-list bird: a female Blackcap, perched in a tree above the sidewalk.

I succumbed to the pressures of consumerism on Thursday, purchasing a pair of Italian boots for 55 euros. I immediately put them on, since my Nikes were lighter & easier to carry, and broke them in at the monastery of San Marco. Despite the Fra Angelico paintings in each cell, the TWO rooms set aside for meditation by Cosimo di Medici, and the THREE rooms given to Savanarola, the Dominican life did not appear terribly glamorous, and Kelly and I had no trouble imagining how cold the cells would be in winter--the naked rafters above the cells are easily visible from the halls, and there's little sign of insulation up there. For contrast, we visited Il Cibreo for lunch. It's a multi-business enterprise: a restaurant, a cafe, and a soon-to-open grocery, all owned by Fabio Picchi, the son of the couple who hosted my brother during his collegiate semester in Italy. The restaurant is pricy, so we hit the cafe; the cafe has a more crowded environment and a more limited menu, but since it uses the same kitchen as the restaurant, we didn't feel we were missing much. I had a basic but superb meal of paper-thin ravioli with butter and fresh parmigiano cheese. Droolworthy. That afternoon, we finally found the Quattrocento Medici area we had been seeking: the Riccardi Palace, where Lorenzo lived before he became Magnificent. And then we were off; on Friday, we'd pick up our rental car and head into the Tuscan countryside.

At the hotel, I checked my e-mail and discovered that Publisher's Weekly had given my book a glowing review. Eep.

To be continued...

10:38 PM

We're back.

I'll be telling tales of Italy at some length in the future: the stunning views and primo gelato of Orvieto... the dreamily anachronistic beauties of tiny Civita... the pungent kick of bruschetta in Firenze... but for the moment, I thought I'd better get started with more mundane matters: for instance, where I'll be in the month of May (and the beginning of June).

UPCOMING PERSONAL APPEARANCES:

*Saturday, May 17: 11:30 a.m.
Hilton Head Audubon Society Nature Festival, Hilton Head Island, SC

*Saturday, May 17: 5:00-7:00 p.m.
Hilton Head Barnes & Noble, Hilton Head Island, SC

*Sunday, May 18: 12:20 p.m.
Hilton Head Audubon Society Nature Festival, Hilton Head Island, SC

*Monday, May 19: 7:00 p.m.
Virginia Beach Audubon Society meeting, Virginia Beach, VA

*Sunday, May 25: 2:00-2:45 p.m.
McIntyre’s Books, Fearrington, NC

*Friday, May 30: 2:00-4:00 p.m.
Book Expo America, Los Angeles, CA

*Sunday, June 1: 11:00 a.m.-1:00 p.m.
Book Expo America, Los Angeles, CA

The Verb 'To Bird' has now gotten favorable reviews in Library Journal, C-Ville Weekly, The Raleigh News & Observer, Publisher's Weekly, The Charlotte Observer, and (in a few days) Booklist.

Meanwhile, the print version of my online home, The Readerville Journal, in which "Loose Canons" appears, has been named one of the year's best new magazines by Library Journal.

And for those of you keeping tabs at home: I picked up a dozen new lifers in Italy, including the Hoopoe, a sublimely ridiculous bird with boldly-pied wings, a conspicuous crest, and a hooting cry of "Oop oop oop." This is the sort of thing for which I got into birding in the first place.

5:21 PM