#69: Italy, February-June 2010
Losses, Gains and Repairs

February

We started the month traveling to Rome with local friends to attend a Chopin recital and returned another day to see “Avatar.” The film was showing locally in 2-D and Italian. We thought it worthwhile to trek back to Rome for 3-D and English, and we weren’t disappointed. Amazing creativity in bringing a complex world and culture to the screen.

Some days later, we were crossing the street in Amelia, when we heard a grunt, followed by a sound like a melon being smashed against the pavement. We turned and saw a man had fallen like a toppling tree onto this face, blood running from nose and mouth, body twitching in spasms. We rushed over, and he turned to look at me, an unforgettable expression of pain, confusion and need. Luckily, a municipal policewoman was near, and she immediately called an ambulance. In the meantime, a couple of State Foresters came running and applied what little first aid they could. Russell picked up a paper the man had dropped and discovered it was a lab report which seemed to indicate that he had serious medical problems. It wasn’t long before the man was whisked off to the regional hospital. We later learned that he’d had a cerebral hemorrhage, with no prognosis known at this time. Some weeks later, I’m still haunted by my inability to help someone who needed it so.

February has been filled with rainy days, often downpours, and it wasn’t long before mud washed onto our road from the field above. Then the auxiliary heater in the veranda wouldn’t start, so we called the plumber. Marco soon fixed it and took off for his next job. But his van hydroplaned into our gate, smashing one of the wrought-iron panels and knocking over a post with a photovoltaic cell. I called Giacchino, our iron-wizard, and he said he’d come as soon as it stopped raining. Amazingly, it did that afternoon, and he was here with helper in no time. They banged the gate back into space, soldered it here and there and rehung-it, so we can keep it closed with a bicycle lock and chain. Unfortunately, the lull in the rain wasn’t long enough for the electricians to come and repair the photovoltaic system. That means we can’t operate the gate from inside the house or with a telecommando from the car. For now, it’s a tedious walk through the mud to use the lock’s key.

As I sit far away in Europe and read or watch TV about what’s happening in America, one of the things that strikes me most is how we have reached the point where we must make difficult choices, but no on seems to want to accept that responsibility and sacrifice. Everyone’s ox will be gored. Shouldn’t we remember our parents and grandparents who sacrificed so much during the Depression and World War II so the we could enjoy a better life? Time for each of us to sacrifice now for future generations. Even if we don’t have children.

March

I don’t know if we’ve ever had a month like the one just past, plagued by ill health, death and domestic disaster. There was good news, too, but mostly it was a time of challenges.

I spent my birthday in bed because of equilibrium problems. I’ve had this condition before, and it’s always passed in a couple days. I don’t get dizzy; I’m like a toddler learning to walk. The difficulty usually first appears in the dead of the night when I try to get up and go to the bathroom. Luckily, Russell was there to hold me upright, and I’m now walking like a senior citizen instead of a two year-old.

Early in the month, we learned we had a long-standing leak in our water system, causing us to owe the supplier thousands of euros (one euro = $1.35). About the same time, the oven went on the blink, as did one of the toilets. It took a couple weeks to replace the wonky electrical element in the oven, but the toilet’s still not functional, because plumber Marco’s been busy trying to fix the kilometer-long water pipe.

This line traverses hill and dale from the main junction in the nearby village of Montecampano. We scheduled a field-inspection by a Water Authority hydrologist. Manipulating his fancy German pressure-reading instruments, he pinpointed the leak location at a joint under a dirt lane frequented by heavy tractors. Then we had neighbor/handyman Alessandro use his backhoe to excavate a trench exposing the leak followed by a second channel rerouting the repaired line closer to the hill, thus avoiding tractors passing over the joint in the future. Marco spliced the line and installed a modern valve, this time protected by a concrete box to permit future maintenance. This repair sealed the leak but failed to restore full volume of flow. Marco speculated that the final 200 meters of the line, between the joint and our intake, either has an additional leak or is partially blocked by a deposit of calcium from the high-mineral content of the water. Under Italian regulations, he can’t certify full repair, entitling us to dispensation from paying a king’s ransom for leaked water, until this remaining mystery is solved. Alessandro is scheduled to return to excavate meter by meter. 

Meanwhile, Alessandro, directed by Marco, used a pneumatic drill to open the concrete near the outbuilding and beside the house to find out if we had more than one water leak. Once that was done, a strong smell of gas escaped. Marco used a magic wand that squeals in the presence of gas, and it indicated that the smell was not caused by the drilling. The gas may have been oozing underground for some time, probably due either to ancient pipes or incorrect installation. Unfortunately, all this happened just before Easter weekend, so no work can be done until Tuesday, Monday being a holiday in Italy. Alessandro and Marco will return on Wednesday to fix all this. In the meantime, Marco assured us the leak isn’t serious, so we can turn on the gas and the heater with we need them, turning them off at night or if we’re away. 

All this couldn’t happen at a worse time, when prospective buyers are visiting weekly. But we couldn’t sell in good faith with water and gas problems. Such buyers are rolling through at the rate of two per week (pretty good for an old house out in the country). Several seemed really to like the place; fingers crossed and candles lit.

While all this was going on, we received an email from Jane Shetler Ross (the woman who introduced Russell and me years ago). She reported that her father had taken ill and passed away within the space of 24 hours. Jane’s mother, Harriet, has been one of my closest friends. Our relationship began when she was my mentor at university and grew over the years to be a sharing relationship of two equals, despite the age discrepancy. Russell and I called Madison, Wisconsin and talked with both Harriet and Jane. I’m so glad we were able to do that, because one week later, Harriet died suddenly of a perforated bowel. I am truly bereft and can’t really take it in. We were planning to see each other when I would be en route to live in California. This woman who was an important part of my life for nearly fifty years is gone. I know that, and yet I don’t really know it. Over time, I suppose it will sink in, and I will learn to live with the loss. But for now, it still feels like she’s just a phone call away.

Final challenge: we learned that the increasing pain in Russell’s left knee was due to a torn meniscus, possibly the delayed result of too many marathons run in D.C. in his mid-thirties. Surgery is scheduled for 16 April, the day after his birthday. In the meantime, as he describes it, he “hobbles stiff-legged around Amelia like a WWI vet.”

That was our March. April represents a new beginning, and I am determined to live it with hope.

April

April was the month we got lots of things fixed — water, gas, knee and finger (sort of).

Repairing the water leak turned out to be more complicated than expected, but not as bad as it might have been. Marco and Alessandro, working together, discovered the second leak was in an easily repairable place. And so they did. As far as the gas leak goes, we had to wait for some dry days, so Marco could run a copper pipe from the outbuilding to the house and Alessandro could cement the holes closed. The Water Authority inspector said he’d never seen such detailed documentation as we had prepared, including photos, so he expected we’d be granted the maximum discount from our humongous water bill.

A cuckoo is singing in the woods nearby. When I first moved here, while Russell was working in Laos, I thought I’d go crazy with all the cuckoos sounding off every few seconds. Then slowly, the cuckoos’ songs dwindled, until there were years when we didn’t hear one. And I missed them. We learned that the decline of the cuckoo in continental Europe was because the Maltese shot them for lunch as the birds flew north after wintering in Africa. This slaughter was totally illegal, but the Maltese authorities seemingly turned a blind eye. Not sure if they’ve got new glasses, but this cuckoo singing his heart out gives me hope that maybe there’ll soon be more once the fledglings fly.

I’ll let Russell tell the story of his knee surgery:

April 16, Rome: The surgery to repair my left knee’s meniscus was quick and professional. The German surgeon operated in a former convent, now a small hospital still owned and staffed by nuns (tough but caring, if that makes sense). The whole intervention was a smooth assembly-line: 8 am check-in and thankfully simple form-tilling, 9 am blood test and EKG, 10 am move to my private room and prep for op, 11 am surgery, all done by noon.

It was reassuring to find all limbs intact and Nancy at my bedside upon waking from anesthesia. But the scope had revealed my knee condition had been more serious than foreseen. All the cartilage coating the end of my femur had worn away, and a spur was causing most of the pain. The doctor was confident he’d been able to deal with the irritation. I stayed overnight in the clinic as a precaution, and his next-morning inspection confirmed I was ready for discharge after a supervised test cruise on my spiffy crutches. 

The following week was painless, due in part to daily doses of a powerful anti-inflammatory. I started immediate leg strengthening exercises and daily walks, abandoning crutches after only two days. Writing this a fortnight later, I have some discomfort but 80% flexibility in the repaired knee. Can’t be sure yet I’m totally out of the woods but hoping for the best.

Now for my own boney news… You may remember that last year I twice jammed by my little finger and then bent it back over my hand. All within the space of two weeks. Accidental, of course, and definitely painful. I assumed it was soft tissue damage, went off to the States with RBS and generally left the injury to its own devices. When it didn’t feel better by July, I went to see a hand specialist, who looked at the x-rays and said it wasn’t broken. Her anti-inflammatory Rx helped, so I thought I was on the mend. A lo-o-o-o-o-ong story short, the finger stayed swollen, painful and distorted. Once Russell had had his successful surgery, I thought it might be useful to consult his orthopedist. I took him the old x-rays, and he made new ones. Both clearly showed that the finger had been broken. But, as he pointed out, I’m neither a surgeon nor a professional pianist, so there’s not much point in going into the operating room, re-breaking my pinky and putting it in a cast. So I’m to visit the physical therapist for a few weeks and report back to see if it’s improved.

A lesson from our interactions with potential buyers: it takes two to tango. Definitely true of last month’s prospect-couples — while one spouse fell in love with our property, the other wasn’t ready to write a check. 

Despite knee surgery and painful finger, we’ve managed to keep the grounds in reasonably good shape this spring, thanks in part to helper Mario and son Marco, who’ve been coming while RBS can’t kneel. The lilacs, wisteria and iris are finishing, but the roses are starting, and the day lilies will pop open any day now. Such a lovely time of year, each day bringing something new just outside our windows.

May

I drive through the gate.
Where’s that inky silhouette lying amid the vivid spring green?
I look across the field.
Where’s that streak of black-and-tan in pursuit of something only he can perceive?
I hear the rasp of frog song from the pond.
Where’s that panting breath from legs that have run so far?
I smell May’s honeysuckle, lavender and broom.
Where’s that dark scent of fur warmed by the sun?
Where’s Zack?
Where’s that beautiful dog, armed with strong heart, willing intelligence and a disposition so agreeable that one can only wonder how he came to be a foundling?
Where’s Zack?
Gone.
Drifting first to sleep with the two who loved him holding and stroking so he wouldn’t feel alone.
So he would know how much he was loved and appreciated.
Then the final drug to send him away from his last days of suffering.
When the legs could no longer run, when the heart beat too fast, when the body failed to function.
The right thing to do.
But oh so hard to say goodbye.

We had to put Zack to sleep toward the end of two weeks of daily rain, the ground so wet we couldn’t dig a hole for a grave, so he had to go to a crematorium in Spoleto, where they just dump all the animals together twice a day. Now we don’t even have his ashes to bury alongside Cally’s, which we brought all the way from America so her memory could grace our new life here. But they both live in our hearts. I dreamt of Zack just the other night, protecting us from harm as he so often tried to do, even risking his life to drive off the viper so long ago.

On a happier note, the physical therapy helped my finger a lot, even though it seemed a bit strange. The ten days of therapy consisted of holding my hand inside a magnetic ring for twenty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of massage with a metal doohickey that projected long radio waves into the tissues. Despite my perception of electronic voodoo, the swelling and pain went down significantly. A return to the orthopedist found him pleased with the results and an admonishment to squeeze a tennis ball daily, first in cold water for five minutes, then in hot for five.

Because of Russell’s surgery, we didn’t get to take our annual trip celebrating our birthdays, so we scheduled a knee-celebratory tour to Trieste instead. This Italian city on the border with Slovenia is a place I’ve long wanted to visit, and it didn’t disappoint. A former Venetian outpost, it came under the sway of the Hapsburg empire and is a delightful mix of Italian and Austro-Hungarian. For example, one of the typical local dishes is goulash, and the beer’s terrific. But you also get marvelous seafood, as we did when we took a ferry to the nearby village of Muggia and its special Trattoria Risorta.

By Tiesse at Italian Wikipedia – Transferred from it.wikipedia to Commons., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3711552

We were in Trieste for three nights/two days and felt we could have easily added another, so many were the sights to see. We managed to fit in quite a bit, including the 500 year-old Castello di San Giusto, high on a hill above the city, and the 19th century Castello di Miramare to the west. What a contrast between the two — one built to defend the city, the other as a pleasure palace by the doomed Archduke Maximillian. Years ago, on our honeymoon, we’d visited his Chapultepec Palace in Mexico City, where he died trying to protect a South American empire that was never to be. It felt like we’d come full-circle in his life and ours.

June

Aika has come to live at our house. This eight year-old, prize-winning showgirl and producer of “strong puppies” has been loaned by the kennel where Zack used to stay, so she can have a rewarding retirement, at least until we leave. It’s a win-win for everyone. The owners, who breed and show German Shepherds, get to know that Aika’s rambling around a large fenced-in yard instead of being shut up in a kennel most of the day. We get to have a dog around the house, but one quite different from Zack, not just in gender, but in looks and temperament. If Aika were too much like Zack, it might be too painful to have her around. The only question is: when the time comes to leave, will we be able to say goodbye??

Russell’s knee continues to heal. He’s feeling better than at any time since his mid-April surgery. Let’s close this letter with his report of a potential buyer:

The initial email was innocuous enough, a clipped reponse in Italian, to our International Herald Tribune ad about our property: “Interesting price. Send details. Cash buyer.”

We replied with our standard fact sheet and, whammy, the prospective buyer hit us with six more emails in a single weekend. Identifying himself as “Dr. Gino Bianchini, PhD (Engineering), he volunteered his colorful life story. An “80+” Italian-American with a much younger Czech wife, he labeled himself an oilman, historian and author. He was keen to return for his final years to central Italy where he’d been born. Because he couldn’t visit our property before end-of-August (and implicitly was concerned he’d lose out in the interim to another buyer), he offered us 35% above our asking price, in cash, secured by a bank guarantee. He said he was content to buy sight-unseen, relying on our description and our agent’s website photos. All he asked from us in return was a recommendation of an Umbrian bank, where he could open an account to import his “tens of millions of dollars” in royalty-derived capital.

It sounded too good to be true, so we conferred with our Rome lawyers and Umbrian real estate agents. All smelled a rat and urged us to walk away. The offer was too generous, and too rushed, especially without on-site inspection. And the request for a bank reference rang alarm bells of money-laundering. We moved quickly to email Dr. Bianchini and reject his offer. We haven’t heard from him since!

A series of confirming postscripts: We couldn’t find the famous gentleman on Google. The street address he gave in Prague turned out to be false. And the bank account he proposed as his source of payment was in the name of the Nigerian National Oil Corporation — Nigeria, as you probably know, being the #1 origin of internet scams. Arrivederci, Gino. It was fun while it lasted…