Friday

Valdagno is a quiet town of 30'000 inhabitants, situated at the foot of the Southern Alps. It's a midway between the industries, highways and pollution of the bassa Padana (the foggy northeast part of the Po valley) and the peace of the tiny mountain villages. Even the mornings are moderate - though the streets will see groups of elderly ladies entering the cafés for their morning cappuccini and pastries, though there will be young mothers walking their dogs and an occasional office worker dashing across the street - the place will still be at it's own measured pace compared to the bustle of, say, Padova. But all of this changes on Fridays.

Friday is the market day. Indeed, as Veneto is an area of few big cities and many small ones, the market is economically divided between the number of towns in the neighbourhood and travels to a different place every weekday. The market arrives early in the morning - trucks after trucks of clothes, fruit, shoes, cheese, kitchen utensils, carpets, fish. (Even the beggars arrive with the market, always the same ones. Do they hitchhike?) The cars pack out tables, a roof, and an unimaginable number of various articles, and the day can begin. Suddenly each open space in the centre is packed with people eyeing the goods, bumping into each other, seeing everyone they know, trying on sweaters, counting out coins, choosing between various types of oranges. The town is unrecogniseable. Streets around the centre buzz with cars: little old ladies driving their twice-a-week round in their tiny Fiat 500-s; irritable drivers finding the usual streets closed and traffic slowed down by the little old ladies; cargo trucks stopping at all imagineable places to unload; streams of people crossing the road apologetically...

Someone making a proper market round should start at the north end, near the statue of Marzotto (the legendary creator of the local textile industry and with it, Valdagno) and browse through the tables of yarn, buttons and endless shoes before crossing the road to the clothes section. The clothes section holds an array of inexpensive more or less fashionable items, quite enough for people not looking for famous trademarks, or with children that grow out of their new pants in a matter of days. The clothes are set conveniently next to the drills, saws and other tools to give a chance for the men to entertain themselves while the women shop for socks. The movement between the tables is slow, giving the people a chance to get a good look at the merchandise, but also passers-by, the weather, their companions, and the like.

The passers-by are indeed something to look at. One can rarely appreciate just how multicultural Valdagno is, but the market is one of these occasions. There are the locals, talking to each other in broad dialect, but then there are the colourful Indian and Bangladeshi women in small groups, dragging their pretty children along from one table to another; the relaxed Ghanese; the serious Russian women chatting in low voices; the Chinese, selling scarves at 3-8 euros apiece.

Moving along from one table to another, buying a little bit of this or that, one arrives to the underwear (finally something frill-free!), the belts and bags of dubious origin, the baby clothes, the carpets. Passing from the Piazza del Comune to the last part of the market, the tone of selling and buying changes completely. It's the food. The atmosphere changes from a multicultural bustle into clearly Italian, and differences between the shopping Italians and others are increasingly visible. The pace of the walkers, so tranquil and dreamy before, goes through an abrupt change. It's not a question of mildly planning to or not to buy something. The routes are clear and habitual - which of the three fruit-stands to go to, how many oranges, how many paprikas, what kind of salad. Olive oil should be extra virgin. The yoghurt should be local. Orders pour out, the saleswomen pick, weigh and pack the vegetables in an instant. Anything else? Hands fill with heavy bags. Finding the wallet and the correct sum becomes increasingly difficult. But we're still missing the cheese.

The cheese! Going to a market can be a ritual, but nothing can compare to the full process of buying a week's cheese. There are two cheese-trucks. In time one learns to prefer certain kinds of cheese from one and others from the other one (because there is a difference). First, approach the cheese stand. It will already have a number of people in front of it, so one can get a good look at everything. But it's always the same. Italians love their stability in food. (The only seasonal change are the fresh malga-cheeses from the dairy houses in the mountains at the end of the summer.) Thus, on a usual Friday, one would order some mozzarella or stracchino - very fresh, almost not even cheese; then something generally light, maybe 200 grams of Asiago latte intero? Or cacciotta... Some of both, then. Asiago is a highlands barely an hour north of Valdagno that produces all levels of Asiago cheese. The maturing process makes all the difference, so it means a true variety. So, for something mid-aged it will be Asiago again, for mezzano dolce is the best. (An adventurous-feeling Valdagnese might try Provolone or something instead, but this would be something rare.) Moving along - how's about something stronger-tasting? Gorgonzola makes a perfect addition to all kinds of cheese-sauces. And most of the pasta dishes don't go anywhere without an addition of grated parmesan. Cheeses as old as this (aged 2 years as a rule) should be ceremonially tasted before decided on. If it goes (and it always goes), the clerk will pry a chunk off the stone-hard cheese wheel with a short knife. By this time the pile of cheese on the counter will be considerable, but usual. Paying will leave a hole in one's budget, but it's worth it.

Gradually the crowd disperses - from half past 12 onwards it's lunch-time. The mothers hurry to cook and the rest of the families hurry to be on time for the food. It takes some time for the market to pack itself neatly into the cars again, but they will soon be on their way, leaving behind only a pile of cardboard boxes. At early afternoon Valdagno is again as sleepy a place as can be: everyone will be at home, quietly digesting their lunch, and the town centre is left empty for a random wanderer observing the shadows on the walls.

280m

It's snowing!!

venessián

In a way, Veneto is an unlucky place for foreigners, especially the areas outside the cities.
What I mean is the linguistic variety so typical to Italy. Veneto is one of the regions where the local dialect is still in booming everyday use. As the standard Italian is the one once used by Dante, more or less the Tuscan way of talking (without the particular "h" that they like to pronunce in every word), your average Venetian will speak something only remotely recogniseable. True, most of them will switch to Italian when they understand they're not talking to a local. But not all of them, and most of what is said will have passed already.

Among locals, Italian is used only as a written language and in highly official situations. Everywhere else from the marketplace to the bank, the things will be done in venessián. It's not political, though it might seem so. Simply, the people will use their first language by default unless something suggests otherwise. Italian connotes a distance, and thus will seem strange to speak in one's kitchen. Then, regardless of the education system and the media being all in Italian, without a regular speaking practice this average Venetian (if aged over 40), won't be able to speak the official language even if they tried.

I'm sharing a flat with two Italians. As cosmopolitan as they are, speaking Italian to each other merely due to my presence is too strange to do. Thus, even though everything spoken directly to me will be in Italian, I get a lot of passive venessián practice from day to day - from my flatmates, their families and friends. By now I understand almost all of it, am able to pretend to speak it to some extent, and have started to mix some words into my Italian without noticing. It was only a matter of hearing it enough - what at first sounded like a smooth babble broke into understandable words and phrases at one point with no effort whatsoever. I do think of this as my greatest linguistic achievement to date. And I've come to appreciate that a local talking to me in dialect is his/her way of introducing familiarity into the conversation, and to be taken as a compliment - it means I'm not acting the part of the stranger in the situation.

So what is the difference? Linguistically, venessián is closer to French (of 200 years ago) and Spanish than Italian. Obviously, with the influences of the media and everything else, the differences are smaller nowadays. But the heritage is still visible in a Venetian that speaks English with a hint of Spanish pronunciation and understands much more of spoken Portuguese than a Milanese would. Mainly, what happens to the official Italian in Veneto is that everything is softened down - ch (k) turns into ci (ch), z (ts) turns into ss; o is dropped off the end of the nouns (veneziano - venessia:n), the l and r is pronunced only halfway, the sharp past participle ending "-to" disappears in elongated vowels. I guess one has to hear it to know what I mean. By other Italians this is considered as one of the ugliest dialects of the whole country. I think of it as a sign of diversity and authenticity.

Then, apart from mere regional or linguistic differences, there is the half-political pride of the 1000 years of the Serenissima - Republic of Venice that still lives on in the Veneto. After all, once upon a time the Venetians controlled the market, a large part of the Mediterranean coast and the international communication of the time (venessián!). But this is something else.

The main possible practical value of the venessián is visible in the tourist-ridden money-making Venice. A ride in a gondola negotiated in English will cost x euros (depending on the mood, weather, season etc). The same ride negotiated in Italian will cost 2/3 of it. But if you know how to approach the gondoliere, and say in a stretched intonation, half-rolled r-s and with an air of not really caring about the response: "ció... mi porti to a San Marco?", you'll probably end up paying only a third of the tourist price.

Why would I mind learning a language that allows me to roam a place like Venice without the mark of a foreigner?

cheesecake!

During my time spent in Italy I've understood something interesting - even though it can be acceptable to be late anywhere to some extent, it is intolerable to be late for lunch. Food is what one should be on time for, no matter what.

Well Italians are famous for their food. The simplicity, the taste. It's wonderful, and everyone can understand why it's being copied everywhere - even a copied version of Italian food will be good. (This is excluding the pastas boiled for 20-minutes and pizzas made with ketchup, which is another category - una bestemmia, and will be described later.) The way to keep this standard all through the country is a complicated set of rules and categories that any self-respecting Italian will cling to. For example, the strict rhythm of dishes in a meal - pasta first, meat later, and not together, but separately. The all-around ban to capuccino after 10:30 in the morning. The necessity to keep the salty and the sweet strictly apart - milk is sweet, rice is salty, so no milk soups, no rice desserts. Obviously this will become an obstacle while tasting some foreign foods (the Portuguese sweet rice, the Norwegian caramel cheese, etc) and turn to seem stubborn.

Once an American friend of a friend of mine taught me to make the cheesecake. It was the way she was used to making it and it was exquisite. So I've never taken to change the recipe, as it was perfect the way it was. When I took to making it in Italy, it was nothing more than an attempt to make a nice cake for the others to try.

As I mentioned that I want to make a cheesecake, the first reply I got was - but let's make tiramisù, it's much better! When I was looking for Philadelphia cheese in the supermarket, my friend said - but why should you use Philadelphia? Use mascarpone, it's much better. And you know, people won't want to taste the cake if they know it's made with Philadelphia. It's strange, because Philadelphia is salty.

Obviously I was convinced that the sour Philadelphia is what makes cheesecake proper (because mascarpone is rather a texture than taste, and the cream they use here, panna, is rather sweet though used with salty food) and that otherwise it would simply be just an oversweet cake with no special qualities at all. Thus I entered in a series of discussions over what a 'cheese' means (because ricotta is a cheese too, and not salty, and used in cakes), what 'a recipe' means (under which conditions should it be changed), and most of all - what Italians feel about their food.

What Italians feel about their food is most of all security. Things are done in a certain way because this is how they have been for centuries. It is allowed to try strange things, but in any case black bread or other foreign elements will never integrate with a real Italian. Try it - find an Italian that has never lived abroad and had to put up with strange food on a daily basis. Offer this Italian something coming from another country, but something that doesn't have international prestige - nothing like Swiss or Belgian chocolate, that is. Take cookies from the Netherlands (classifies as 'the north', hence means 'bad food'), or candy from an obscure Eastern-European country, and offer these to your Italian as something you seriously consider worth trying. The Italian, being a polite person, will have to accept. He will nibble a little bit off the edge of the cookie or candy, with an expression not unlike one tasting wine, decide on something, and then remark (if it's good): 'ah, si, we have something similar...' or (if it's not good) 'well, hm, it's particular / strange / we're not usually putting these things together this way... Is it typical to your country?'

This trying-session will undoubtedly be the last time this particular thing will be eaten by the Italian. It's obvious. Italy already has everything one needs to eat.

edit: I added the recipe too - Lindy's cheesecake.

to Alitalia!

This is a true story of our amazing adventures as Alitalia passengers on our way to and back from Prague for the new year. We were supposed to fly out on the 27th of December and return on the 5th of January. The way it eventually turned out will definitely beat all of my Ryanair/Easyjet adventures and give a valuable insight into Italian organising.

At first, it seems a bit too careful to leave home at 1pm for a flight leaving at half past 6 in the evening. But with the country-line bus usually taking at least an hour to reach civilisation, and the trains moving as it happens (75 minutes late, and the only way of reaching Venice), we arrive in the Marco Polo airport barely in time.

The three queues don't seem to be in a particular hurry, as the huge clock over the departures board is showing 40 minutes until take-off. For the first half-hour we don't move at all. 10 minutes to take-off. The poor Japanese guy is still standing, humble back turned to us, at the first check-in desk. The Russians in front of another queue need a translation by phone. Restlessness show in every face. Will we catch our connection flight? Do we have to sleep in the airport? People meet each others' eyes in search of news, or just a comforting eye-roll – yes, I too think it's outrageous. The tiny Dutch woman in front of me keeps dashing off to the information desk, turning more and more red every time.

Some talk of fog reaches the end of the queue. 5 minutes to take-off. The “estimated time” so politely added to every check-in notice board is still 18:30 for the flight to Milano Malpensa, an airport roughly 4 hours away by train. Malpensa, the most important transport centre of half of Italy, the biggest airport of Milano, serving the sprawling mess of a city with the official population of 1,3 million (same as whole Estonia), has happened to be built in an exceptionally foggy area. This means that the airport's strict schedule rules apply only for the passengers, but not for incoming or outgoing flights. Because of fog. Or something else that can be called fog. The rumours moving along from person to person is the only news we receive.

At departure time, a strict-looking woman in a uniform appears to divide the line. The ones whose flight is still scheduled to leave from Malpensa, and the others. - Where are you flying? - Milano. - And then? What is your final destination? - Prague. - (she checks her list) Alright, stay here. It's clear that we won't fly anywhere tonight. In the meantime, the official-woman has found the Russians, and keeps repeating: fiiinnnaaalll destination! Milano, yes, and then?? I see a nerve going in her temple, as she shakes her papers with white knuckles. Apparently the poor Russian woman doesn't understand a word, shakes her head helplessly and repeats to each question: Miljano... Miljano...

Half an hour after scheduled departure time, we have tickets to another flight for the next morning and a promise of paid accommodation for the night. Along with a Greek tourist group and two queues of delayed passengers. The tension has fallen a bit. Nervous as everyone is, they know there is nothing left to do but wait. People are sorted into double and triple rooms. A bus comes. There aren't enough seats, and we are given a taxi instead. It's definitely more comfortable, and the driver is talking in a broad Venetian about all the eccentric tourists he's transporting. We arrive before the bus and park next to a Ferrari on the hotel's driveway. Our accommodation is a five-star 18th century villa, with doubles for 255 euro for a night.


Villa Condulmer

As all the passengers file into the elaborate hall, the anxious faces change. Expressions of indignation turn into curiousity, and then disbelieving smiles. The place is something we've never seen before. The elaborate walls, Murano glass chandeliers, gold-lined mirrors, soft sound-muffling carpets. I, and most likely most of the group, would normally never set foot in a place like this. And, indeed, we do look remarkably out of place. The pot-plants spill some leaves in surprise. Glancing up at the carved ceiling, we lower our voices and straighten our backs, half-heartedly wishing to have worn something smarter than travelling-sweaters. Many will rush off to their rooms to change for dinner.

Considering they could have had only an hour notice of receiving 50 people at once, the kitchen performs admirably. We have a choice between a fish-menu and a meat one, the skinny waiter informs us in the best standard-Italian. The fish-menu is an insalata di mare (sea-food salad) for a starter, the first course a taglierini con frutti di mare (long pasta with assorted seafood), and the second course a branzino con verdura al vapore (fish and steamed vegetables). The meat menu is culatello con verdura (the most tender of Italian hams, with vegetables), tagliolini con anitra (a long pasta with duck), and tagliata di manzo con spinaci (tender beef with spinach). We get an excellent sparkling white wine to start. From the appetizer onwards, my Italian companions go through every detail of the meals and find it to be at least one of their best dinners ever in sense of preparation, quality and style. It's true. The food is wonderful, and I see even the lamentuous Dutch woman looking happier.

The boys round up the culinary experience by ordering some French cognac from 1938, paying 9 euro for each glass, and staying to enjoy all their money is worth for as long as the wide glass allowes them to. To Alitalia! To a good night's sleep! To Alitalia! To Le Corbusier, 1938! To Alitalia!


The flight goes on

We take the bus to the airport at 5 in the morning. Yawning, we check in, nap until the boarding time and find the flight delayed by half an hour. This cuts our time for changing flights in Malpensa fine indeed. But the airport is still foggy. We're delayed for another 10 minutes. Is that how long it takes for the fog to blow off? Apparently it does – we finally take off from Venice. I'm sure to miss our second flight, as we run a record-breaking 5 minutes across the terminal from arrivals to the gate. The second flight is delayed by half an hour, and our queue mixes with people hoping to fly to Delhi – old men in turbans, forever-young hippies in flip-flops, huddles of brown-eyed children. But even this flight takes off eventually. We're amazed.

The time spent in Czech Republic moved by fast enough. It was a great chance to enjoy some snow, ski, sleigh, drink beer and do other things people generally do for relaxing in the winter. By the 5th of January we were quite tired from it all and the thoughts of our own beds seemed more and more appealing. Until the check-in desk tells us that our flight to Milano Malpensa is delayed by two hours. As it's hopeless to catch our connection flight to Venice this way, it means a night in Milano, and probably not 5 stars either. The information desk says they can put us on another flight to Rome. Yes, please, this way we could at least arrive by midnight.

But Rome is notorious for it's transfer flights. As the trip itself hardly takes any time at all (though the noisy Napoletan family right behind us makes it feel much longer), we arrive in good spirits, happily looking forward to arriving home. We finally leave an hour later, after Daniele has reported his missing backpack. It was to be expected, and we were lucky to retrieve the other bags – after all, Rome is a mess in the best case, a black hole in the worst. But the luggage is found in a few days and despite having flown 4 flights, not even one of them without a delay or some other problem, we are left excitedly telling anyone who would listen about villa Condulmer.

La Befana

I used to be quite impressed by the fact that the Italians still have strength to keep partying on the 6th of January. (The only thing that happens in Estonia for the 6th of January is that people throw out their Christmas trees and stop calling the new year new.) It seemed to be another reminder of the main difference between Protestantism and Catholicism - the latter have more parties.

As the day has come and gone, I'm left wondering if it's really a festivity in itself or just a piece of Christmas gone astray.

Befana is an old woman, represented as a kind witch, who enters the houses through a chimney to bring the kids candy if they've been good, or a piece of coal if they've been bad (or a representative black rock-candy as on the photo). As the tradition is older than Christianity, Befana might have been a local version of Santa Claus and originally celebrated for the Winter Solstice, 21st of December. The fact that after delivering the candy Befana will be burned as a vaguely anthropomorphic wood statue placed in the central piazza, gives the whole event a slightly morbid feel. So what is it, a pagan tradition that couldn't have been discarded completely, has thus been postponed to the Epiphany instead and fitted with an Inquisition-style stamp to make it theologically correct? One of the explanations is that burning the figure of an old woman is a representation of leaving behind the old year and starting with the next. Fire seems to have a direct connection to the Sun that will start to gain strength again after the lowest extreme.

In Estonian terms this could be a combination of Santa's little helpers (päkapikud) that bring (or don't bring) candy to the slippers of the children all through December until Christmas and the bonfires of the Summer Solstice celebration (jaanipäev) and a generic a-reason-to-drink day as, say 30th of April, volbripäev (something similar to Halloween). But I can't think of any festivities that would actually include a witch or burning it.

The modern Befana-celebration bears the unmistakable marks of being a clearly non-Christian festivity. Rather than the last chance to take a look at the elaborate preseppe (nativity scene) in the local church, it seems to be a chance to take a day off work, meet everyone at the piazza, take a vin brulé (mulled wine) or a frittella (a type of thick pancake) off the street stands, discuss the past holidays, make plans to go skiing and warm your backside at the burning Befana.

As for the tradition of calling the holidays finished - our plastic pine is still firmly standing in the living room. After all, it's still allowed to wish people a happy 2007. There's no rush.