letting the locals take the lead, continued

Well, I will surely always remember this day in Parma. First of all, it tried valiantly to fight off the fog each day and for a period of a few hours, it succeeded, before giving in again to the winter clouds.

Secondly and more importantly, I will remember the time I spent with the Parmigiani.

And so again I am up early, wondering if my eyes will learn to shake that pinkness associated with too little sleep (I blame Ocean). I eat the same delicious breakfast, artfully presented by Patrizia.





And then, at 9, Patrizia and I set out.

She had invited me to go to the market with her and I was happy to tag along. It's twice a week, she says. And it's very interesting. Full of Parma flavor. Are you thinking maybe of taking some good dried mushrooms back with you? I'll show you where to get them.

And lo, the sun comes out again.






We turn to the blocks where the market stalls spread out. I tend to bypass the European stalls with clothes and goods of a material nature, concentrating on the foods instead, but Patrizia isn't so dismissive.

Take a look here: crazy, but beautiful, no? She points to a lovely little undergarment, then to a hat, a shawl...
They're good brands, discarded by the big stores. Look!
I tell her that in my retirement, I haven't the need for special clothing.
She looks at me blankly. We're speaking in English and I think she must not have understood my words. I repeat it, using other formulations.
She remains truly puzzled. Here, we're taught from early on to always look after our outside and our inside. To dress well, look well, eat well, talk well. It's important for the whole person, no?

I have no argument, except to say that perhaps in the States we've neglected lately the "look well dress well" part.

I buy my dried mushrooms. She banters with the seller. It's as if they were friends. Maybe they are friends. She knows this market inside out.





And then she walks me to another set of blocks, where she has arranged for me to spend many hours with her friend's wife, Ricarda (her friend restores old painting in Parma and, too, he is a painter whose paintings adorn some of the walls at the b&b).
Listen, Ricarda is older and she speaks no English, but I think your Italian is good. You will manage. I know you will.

Patrizia exudes confidence in me. About herself -- she is self deprecating, even though I'm pretty darn sure that she really likes who she is in life. My parents, they are much younger than me... she'll say vehemently. You cannot walk many paces with her without cracking a smile.

What Ricarda knows is perhaps not English, but she knows and loves Italian cooking. She and I will be cooking together this morning. But no meat dishes please -- I tell my co-conspirator, Patrizia. I can't bring back recipes for veal, it just wont work at the farmhouse!

I enter Ricarda's home on the top floor of an ancient building. The walls are filled with art...






... and I mean filled with art.






Ricarda herself is lovely and genteel, dressed as if she were to cook, but also to host a grand feast.

We enter her spacious kitchen which, due to the sloping roof, has the feel of a secret attic.

I got ingredients for three pasta dishes, she tells me. Tortelli with potatoes, torelli with chard, and lasagna Genovese -- with pesto and potatoes. No meat! -- she grins a full-faced grin.

This is, to me, a wonderful set of dishes. Not only might I make them at home, but, too, it is what people eat here. It is what she knows. It's what a person from Parma would have been raised on.

I ask her who taught her to cook.
No one! She says. But when pressed, she admits to using recipes passed down from her own nonna (grandma). Of course. It starts somewhere.

We make the potato stuffing (which, predictably has much more than just "potato" in it).



(I'd never considered cooking potatoes in a steamer before)








We make the ricotta and chard stuffing. We make the pesto and the bechamel sauce for the lasagna.

And finally, we make the pasta -- eggy and soft -- by hand.  


 
such orange yolks!



Dig in those palms, she tells me, watching my too gentle a touch.







When I go to rinse my hands, she reaches into her drawer to get me a fresh towel.






I cannot believe it! You iron all your dish towels? I ask, rather bluntly. She laughs. A complete waste of time, isn't it? Yet somehow I feel she doesn't really think it's a waste of time.

We're ready to throw it all together. Well, she's ready. I find that making the pockets out of the thin bands of pasta, so that no air bubbles remain inside is tricky. Push out the air first! -- she says again and again. By the sixth time, I get it right and after that we work in tandem, producing very many very wonderful looking tortelli.
















... to the background of a CD. She hums bits of a melody and I say -- you're a romantic! She answers -- it's not just any music, it's Francesco de Gregori. I tell her I taught my daughters to love Italian pop when they were very young. She reaches for the two-CD set that had been playing. I want you to have this. I offer no protest.

Ricarda wants to send all the food we make together home with me but of course, this wont do. We decide to gift it to Patrizia.

After sampling the tortelli ourselves.






Delicious!!

She walks me back to the b&b and we side-step a little across the river... (could it be fog again?)






... because she wants to show me an out of the way little shop with all sorts of Italian cooking tools.
You need a tortelli wheel, she says. You don't have one?
I don't have one. They're cheap and I know I can get one in the States, but somehow it seems right to be looking for one with Ricarda. And she finds it, right there at the market, as the cooking tools guy is packing to go.
She is taking it to America -- Ricarda tells him.
Well now, maybe you want the professional one for 14 Euro?
This, this is perfect -- she picks up the cheap one for 3E. My kind of shopping.

At the b&b, Patrizia is thrilled with the food. You know I hate to cook, she reminds me.
Ricarda claims I managed well with her rapid Italian. Indeed -- in addition to the cooking tips, the recipes, her thoughts on food, I learned about her family and of course she knows all about my two daughters with their very Italian sounding names and, too, about Snowdrop. I show off a photo of the littlest one on my iPhone. Snowdrop is grinning impishly at my camera.
She is so smart looking! Patrizia tells me. I beam.


The thick fog rolls in on this, my last evening in Italy. I go for my last longer walk. No museums today. No visits to the ten sights I have on my "must see" list from Patrizia. I have to put off the visual beauty of Parma. I am, tonight, focused on her people.

And here's a surprise, though maybe it should not be a surprise: the streets are packed! Not hundreds out there, but thousands -- weaving in and out of the dense fog.






The joy of a stroll together on the weekend before a holiday -- no, this is not something you can stay away from.






(A kids clothing shop? Let me look inside...)






And the Duomo is suddenly experiencing a busy spurt as well. Families come, they go in they go out. Why? Is there a service? I open the doors.






No service -- they all come to take a peek at the Nativity scene. It's not much, by the standards of the really flashy and elaborate Nativity scenes, but they come nonetheless and they look, and the kids, being Italian, run around the vast spaces of the church and then they leave.


At home again (how weirdly comfortable it is to call it that), I sort through notes and photos. Patrizia comes down and we talk about websites, Ed, friends. Will you come back -- she asks. It's a question with a very easy answer.






I eat dinner at another Patrizia favorite -- the Angiel d'Or. She worries that I wouldn't like it -- it's a little proper, she tells me.
I look at the prices. Not bad at all!
It's fine. I have a skirt I can wear. I'll look proper.

In fact, it's not at all staid. Tables are filled with families -- some with misbehaved children, others with perfectly behaved children, couples, young groups of friends -- this place has it all.

And the food is incredible.

I overeat. I mean, it's my last night for the Prosciutto di Parma and though I asked for a half portion, I got charged for a half but given a full. Then the tortelli con zucca (pumpkin). But someone messes up here and they bring the tortelli con something else, definitely with a meat component. I decide not to protest, because it's plenty good, but the proprietor notices and comes over and insists on bringing a few of the pumpkin pasta tortelli. Of course I eat those as well.






And then there's the house specialty which I have yet to figure out, even as I ate the whole thing. (It's a veal roll and I am guessing, based on taste and all the other rolls they favor in this part of the world, that there was plenty of bread, butter and cheese in the stuffing.)

So it was a superb meal. I'll have to admit -- the best of the best from my trip here.


And then I rush home -- a short walk down heavily fogged over streets...






... and I call Ed, expecting and in fact hearing the inevitable: Isie boy has passed on to another cat life. We knew it was coming. He truly was the oldest cat I have ever known: all rickety and bony and with hallowed eyes. I'd not been photographing him because I am sure that he would wish you would remember him from how he was when life seemed infinitely warm and never ending, out there on the porch with us (and especially his beloved Ed) at summer time.






It's the only time that I am so very glad that Ed hadn't traveled with me to Europe. He could be there in the final hours with sweet sweet Isie boy.


Tomorrow I leave for Paris.

letting the locals take the lead

Every now and then, when I visit a new place, my hosts suggest that I spend a few hours with a local. For example in Islay, Andrew, my inn keeper, put me in touch with Becky the Wellie Walker who took me on grand walks around the Scottish island, and Eddie the master Scotch craftsman who opened whiskey doors for me that would have stayed firmly shut otherwise. The days I spent rambling around with them were truly priceless.

Here, in Parma, after listening carefully to my stories about traveling in Europe, my hostess Patrizia suggested that I spend at least part of the day with Laura. I agreed. And so most of what you'll read for today will be about food. Not so much the consumption of it, but the art of producing some of this region's culinary treasures, as seen through the expert eyes of someone who knows this side of Parma inside out.

As she brings down my early tray of food, Patrizia says -- there's fog. It's magic!
I appreciate her upbeat tone, really I do, but I tell her that I've known nothing but fog since I came here and though I agree that it's pretty, I feel a little like a I do after a long winter in Wisconsin. I wish I could at least catch a glimpse of spring. Or in this case -- sunshine.
She is not to be put off: magic! Truly, everything is just that much more beautiful!

And then she serves me an elegant breakfast, agreed upon the day before, because I do not want more food than I will eat and so it is the perfect breakfast with everything that I love...





But I eat it in a hurry. Laura is picking me up at 9.

Who is Laura -- you ask. Well, she is an enterprising young woman, born and raised in Parma and she is starting to do what I once tried to do with my Field to Table project of some dozen years back: she wants to show off the family and in one case the cooperative producers of local foods. She'll be taking me to three different places, all just outside of Parma:  La Traversetolese -- makers or Parmiggiano Reggiano cheese, then the family Conti -- curers of Parma prosciutto (a mother and daughters operation), and finally Picci Acetaia -- the Balsamic House of the Picci family (a father and son affair).

Not interested in finding out about what makes this part of Italy hum? I can't even imagine that possibility. You can't just sprinkle cheese on your spaghetti and fake balsamic vinegar on your salad without knowing about what you're really doing or eating. It's not all that it appears to be!


Parmigiano Reggiano

We drive through a misty landscape. In the distance, I see hills. The Apennines -- Laura reminds me. Beyond them there is the sea and Cinque Terre.

We're on our way to just one cooperative, where 1000 cows belonging to fewer than a dozen farmers, give milk to make just 38 wheels of Parmiggiano Reggiano cheese daily. (600 liters of milk gives you one wheel of cheese which, after aging, weighs about 40 kilo.) Every day. No days off for the cows and thus for the workers. Christmas included.

Now, to you it's all Parmesan cheese. Herein lies the problem. Italians eat their Parmigiano Reggiano in huge amounts. Too, they export it: to France, to Germany and third on the list  -- to the US. But Americans buy Parmesan cheese (a generic term), look at a picture of an Italian flag or the leaning tower of Pisa on the package and think -- I'm eating the real thing! And sometimes they'll also think -- what's all the fuss, this stuff isn't so hot.

That's because the American agencies will allow the misleading labeling practice to sail forth. It's a generic term! Let them think they're eating the real thing!

This makes the Consortium of Parmigiano Reggiano producers very upset. Why? Because they are so damn proud of their product and they want you to know which one is the real thing and which one is a knock off.

Laura didn't tell me this. It's an old story that has been making local producers mad ever since someone packaged some sweet grape juice, gave it some fizz and called it champagne, making the real Champagne producers fizz with with discontent.


We put on protective clothing and we enter the cheese making facility of Traversetolese.

Oh, the fragrance! Milky whey, bathing the curds that are then shaped into wheels of cheese.






We watch for a long time. I wont go through the process here. You have to go see this yourself. (Get Laura to take you: you can't just enter on your own. She has special permission.)

In addition to the Parmiggiano Regiano (THE official Parmesan cheese), this facility also makes a small batch Grand Special: flax seed is used in the production of it, adding omega 3 to the cheese. Too, it's less salty -- overall, a healthier addition, to meet a new demand for this kind of product. (I did not know that actually even the real Parmiggiano Reggiano is a healthier version of cheese -- it's made with partially skimmed milk and so the fat content is a remarkably low 26%).

I tasted the Gran Special -- it's good!  Laura said there's a vegetarian version too and there's talk of a kosher cheese. I joked that there should be a lactose free one, but she reminded me that actually an aged cheese is pretty much lactose free after 30 months.






Oh, such beautiful cheeses they are! With strict standards of quality control: testing, pounding, retesting, scrapping some that doesn't come up to snuff. But when there is that label, it says it all: this is the stamp of the real thing.






Laura pours me a bit of local Malvasia wine for my cheese tasting.


 


And I'm asked if I want some cheese to take home. But which one?? There's the young cheese (aged a minimum 12 months), the medium aged at 24-30 months, and the 36 month cheese. Laura says -- oh, it depends on your use: you'd want the medium for your tortelli erbetta - you know, pasta stuffed with cheese and swiss chard. But the 36 month old one if you're making the stuffed capeletti with meat in broth.

Well now.

I pick up some of the medium aged because it crosses over from an appetizer (with acacia honey -- yum!) to a pasta dish. So cheap here! So pricey (and who knows how authentic) back home.


Prosciutto di Parma

We're back in the car, leaving the cooperative and I note that an incredible thing has happened: the fog has lifted! Completely, totally!






We're driving up into the hills, past castles and vineyards...

 



... up, up to visit the family run Cotti Prosciutto making facility.

All of the Prosciutto di Parma is made in the hills, Laura tells me. (She knows a hell of a lot about this stuff!)  It's a very important requirement: the windows are always long and tall and they are opened in good weather so that the air comes in -- sea air that's purified over the mountains so that it is of the sea, but crisp and very special. It is what makes this prosciutto so great!

Prosciutto itself is not a protected term - it refers to the cured meat that comes off the hind leg of a pig. But there are two prosciuttos that are protected: one that is cured in this region of Parma (in which case it is Prosciutto di Parma), and the other which is cured in San Daniele (in the Venezia Friuli region and of course, then it is Prosciutto di San Daniele).

Which is better? I have to ask. This, of a woman from Parma.
She answers honestly: San Daniele is pressed and so it has less moisture and is more salty. Parma is the sweetest. We use only salt from Sicily - no other spices. In Italy though, 40% of all prosciutto is made in Parma and 13 % in San Daniele. Parma alone account for some 9 million hams per year. (There are 160 produces of prosciutto here.)
That's huge!
Well, it's going down. People now start to eat less because there is a retreat from red meats.
In the States we call pork "the other white meat." It's all in the advertising. She laughs.


The Conti business was started by two brothers -- both farmers -- in 1969. They both died, but the wife of one and her three daughters carry on.

I learn a lot about the pigs -- where they come from, what they eat, what breeds are used. This is tougher for me, especially when I learn that they are slaughtered at just 9 months (they don't grow after that, having reached their optimal 170 kilo).  Still, I am not a vegetarian and so I can't be hypocritical here. And I know these pigs were well cared for before they made it to the local Prosciutteria (a store that sells only... prosciutto).

An interesting part of the process comes after the salting and initial aging. These two rub in suet and if you think this is easy and you could do it with your eyes closed, think again. These guys are professionals -- they've studied their trade since they were 15 years old. They know how to rub less on the veins, how to move their fingers deftly over parts of the meat.






Okay -- the finished product, ready for more aging. A total of 24 months, on wooden racks for the aroma, under tight quality and sanitary controls, because it's the EU.


 



The stamp of approval:






We, by the way, import a lot of Parma prosciutto but we refuse to take any unless it's been inspected by our own vets. And we insist that the prosciutto producers pay for all our vets' travel expenses, meals included. Clever, no?

So, where is the market for this meat? 70% is consumed by Italians. Then US, then France, then Germany and the UK.

Michela, the youngest sister, prepares a plate for me to taste.






I tell her -- it's too much! Please do not be insulted but I wont be able to finish it! She smiles and nods her head and pours me some more of that same fizzy Malvasia local wine.

And of course, I eat the whole thing. It's lip smacking good!

And the view from the Conti production facility -- sublime.






Traditional Reggio-Emilia Balsamic


You know, when you eat in cheap places around the States these days, you very often get your salad with "balsamic dressing." And it's awful. Ed has always said he likes the taste, but I've been skeptical. I've obviously purchased "balsamic vinegar" for my own kitchen. And I thought I was so clever -- I picked up only the stuff that says "made in Modena." And still, often times it has left me unimpressed.

I think today I finally understood what the problem is.

It turns out that there are three vinegars that are allowed to use that term "balsamic."

There is the IGP Modena Balsamic that you will find in every grocery store across the world.
There is the PDO Traditional Modena Balsamic.
And there is the PDO Traditional Reggio Emilia Balsamic.

What you and I purchase is the first. It is allowed to sport the label  "made in Modena" if any one of the production components comes from Modena. A grape comes from the region? That's enough! Caramel color added there? Fine! Made in Modena! Even though it can really be made in Greece. Or anywhere else. You see the problem. There is no consistency. If you buy and use a balsamic vinegar ("made in Modena") that you think is sort of okay, stick with it because another one may be awful.


We cross the river that separates the Parma region from Emilia-Romagna (if we drove further, we'd be in Modena). In the small village of Cavriago, we pull up to the Bicci Acetaia, where Marco has basically taken over his father's business of producing the Traditional Reggio Emilia Balsamic.

If there are no controls over the IGP Modena Balsamic, the Traditional vinegars more than make up for it! Everything has to come from the given region: the grapes, the cooking of the must -- grapes, seeds, stems -- slowly, for 36 hours, no boil! And of course, the aging: in barrels of five types of wood (chestnut, oak, cherry, mulberry, juniper), for at least 12 years and so on and so on. Makes my head spin.

We look at the rows of barrels up in the "attic" -- this is where they're aged and moved. No air conditioning or heating allowed. It must be done in the changing temperatures of the seasons. Why? Because, that's the way it has always been done.


 


I thought initially that this work wasn't too hard once you put the stuff in the barrels. Sit and wait. But no. The moving, the rotating, the preserving, bottling -- all for a superb vinegar. No wonder they're mad that people use crap and call it Balsamic from Modena.

So where does this Traditional good stuff go? Italy. Canada. Japan. Russia.

Russia? I ask, surprised. Marco laughs. There are certain people in Russia who have too much money on their hands. And there is the embargo of European goods. So they come here, they buy a bottle for 40Euro (that's the least expensive one!) and they sell it to their rich friends for 400.

I'm shocked France isn't on the list.
I'm not. He tells me. Mediterranean countries don't rush toward this stuff. It fits especially well with northern European cuisine. In France, they use it in Alsatian cooking but not so much in the southern provinces. (His father also ran a "Balsamic vinegar" restaurant before he retired. They know a lot about food and vinegar pairings.)

I do buy something. For a holiday present. Can't say what or why. But it will come with my instructions: do NOT just sprinkle this stuff on your salad. Put just a drop over a chunk of Parmiggiano Reggiano... or stuffed pasta, after you've doused it with the cheese...



Driving back to town, Laura and I switch topics. Away from food (sort of), toward families. I know she is close to hers. I know that Patrizia is close to her mom and dad. I comment that in the States, families often live far apart and the relationship between mother and grown daughter is the topic of much discussion, often not the most honorable kind.  Laura nods her head -- we've noticed this in American movies. Every time a woman's mother calls, the woman rolls her eyes, like this. She demonstrates, not inaccurately. Ah, what people pick up about us!


It's after two when I am finally back at the b&b. I think I should take a walk, what with the sun and the warmer temps, but by the time I set out, the fog is rolling back in and the temps plummet to near freezing again. I go across town, past the art museum that I'm quickly running out of time to see...






 ... across the river, which Bertolucci mocked (quote snitched from Wiki): "As a capital city it had to have a river. As a little capital it received a stream, which is often dry."


 



... to the park. But rather than strolling leisurely...






... I take a short cut (as do others -- it's rather empty!)...






... and head back to town.

At least when I enter children's clothing stores, I warm up for a few minutes.

(admiring, contemplating...)






In the evening, I tell Patrizia about my day. We talk about inn keeping, about food. She tells me exactly what I should order tonight when I go to one of her favorite places in town (Trattoria del Tribunale).
Get the the tortelli (stuffed pasta), but ask for a combination, so you can try them all-- especially the one with cheese and chard, and the one with pumpkin and the one with potato. And after -- either the horse meat, raw or cooked, or the veal with potatoes. Oh, and you have to start with the fried bread and prosciutto.
I protest. I can't eat all that.
She thinks for a bit. Ask for a half portion of the fried bread and prosciutto.

I step out into the now denser fog...





... and head for the trattoria.

I eat the bread, the prosciutto, the four kinds of tortelli.





And the veal (I'll save the raw horse meat for another time...) and I even throw in a salad because I miss the raw veggies.

I do have a tinge of guilt. Not because it's so much food, but because I am eating a young pig (prosciutto) and a young calf (veal). I had told myself that I draw the line at eating animals that don't quite reach adulthood. Still, I'm doing it for my host and I must eat as the Parmiggiani eat, because otherwise it's unfair, right?

And of course, it is the best meal I have had on this trip.


P.S. It cannot be said that the Italians do not have a sense of humor. This, from the person at the table next to mine:






As I walk home, I see that the bars are spilling out onto the streets. No one seems to notice that it is foggy and near freezing.





Frankly, I'm not noticing much of it either. It's magic. Truly magic.

to Parma

I enter the dining room for breakfast. I'm the only guest this morning and so the table is set (by Luciana -- you can tell!) just for me.






It feels sumptuous, but I eat sparingly. It's too easy to linger, to listen to Luciana's stories (ask about the one where Claudio drives her to Verona at full speed!), to load the plate again and again with her home made bread, the cheeses, with the local almond cake, and before you know it it's lunchtime and you've missed your train. And so I force myself to get up, to pass on most of the food, to continue with the day.

The train station is just minutes from the Palazzo Arrivabene b&b and so I have time for a cloudy and misty morning walk through Montava's beautiful squares.

Because the distances are small, the blocks are starting to feel very familiar. Our street has the toughest cobbled stones to navigate.






The next street has the modest line of shops and it has several independent bakeries, even as to my eye they seem to be selling goods that look nearly identical -- the almond crumble, the panettoni...






Then I come to the square with the clock tower. If I were to walk two more blocks I'd be at the square with the Palazzo Ducale. No, no. Let me not go that far. Besides, at the foot of the clock tower, there is a bustling market today -- the type where it's more about cheap goods than food. Well, and flowers. Always there will be flowers.






It's really crowded now. A single armed police woman walks back and forth. I suppose she is part of Europe's escalated watch over crowded spaces.


 


But here, in Mantova, Paris and Brussels and even Milano and Roma seem far away. The imagination cannot conceive of those cities' dangers. We compartmentalize, based not on a reality out there, but based on what we want to believe. And perhaps that's okay. Anything to get through the day with a smile, no?

Did I really just arrive three days ago?

Back at the Arrivabene, I say my goodbyes. Luciana tells me -- we'll see you next year I hope. If travel decisions were based only on the graciousness of hosts, I wouldn't hesitate in saying "certo!"

Claudio walks me part way to the station and then I continue on my own. With my camera to keep me company. Photographing what is most visible to me now: the amicable conversations between people who take pleasure in that which is shared.






Alright. Let me not miss my train. Or rather trains. Remember, Mantova isn't easy to get in and out of. I must first travel to Piadena, wait there for 48 minutes, then catch the train to Parma. Nearly two hours of travel, even though Parma is only 65 kilometers southwest of here.

(The trip turns out to be actually easy. Piadena has a bar right by the station and I sit in the company of some dozen men -- they're all drinking fizzy white wine and talking in small groups as only older Italian men can talk. I sip my macchiato and pretend I'm not paying attention to any of it. In my head I calculate how many glasses of wine a grown man can consume if he starts in on it before 11 a.m.)
















And now I'm in Parma. You should already be thinking cheese and ham thoughts when I take on this city here, on Ocean. Let's put some more context into your associations.

First of all, you should know that Parma, at 180,000 inhabitants,  is more than three times the size of Mantova. It's a university city and recent discoveries (say the Parmigiani) indicate that the Parma University is actually slightly older than Bologna's university (whose birth dates to the 11th century, which just boggles the mind), making Parma U. effectively the oldest university in the world.

Now for the impressions. I'll start with one offered by Caludio (my Mantova host). He's no small town boy - he has a sister in Rome, a daughter in Milan and another in Montreal. But when I told him that I was going to Parma next, he said -- it is much more bourgeois than Mantova (I believe he used a different word, but this is what he meant).

I see his point. Part of it is the size factor, but mostly it is that Parma is, well, more bourgeois.

It's face is impressive! You know how when you first get off the train, a city will give you a feeling of unease, or excitement, or well being? Well, Parma does the latter. It is one visual delight!







My three nights will be at Al Battistero d'Oro - a three room b&b located in an 18th century townhouse, owned and managed by the absolutely gorgeous and gregarious Patrizia. Here's my room, quietly looking out on the courtyard.





Patrizia is the kind of person you want for a friend back home. She is compassionate and kind, full of clever ideas, with the good instincts you learn to admire. And she smiles reflexively and frequently.  You don't need to always love your hosts, but when room and owner align to form one lovely package, you feel enormously lucky. So I'm feeling enormously lucky right now.


Let's do some modest amount of sight seeing. I have a few hours before the sun sets (well I may ask -- what sun? It was supposed to be sunny in Parma today, but then, this mist rolled in...).

Two minutes from the b&b I come to the Piazza Duomo. Sure, there is the cathedral, but before we get to that, take a look at what I think is Parma's most spectacular sight -- the Baptistry. Begun in the 12th century, with long pauses of inactivity (when Verona's pink marble ran out), completed in 1307.






Inside -- frescoes and columns and statues -- all beautiful and all beautifully preserved. Stunning.


 



I may as well give you a glimpse of the Cathedral while we're on the same square, even though I actually went inside when it was already getting dark. You cannot appreciate the art of Correggio and Antelami from my photo, but hey, there is only so much that Ocean can do for you!






The historic center of the city is car free and therefore very quiet. Eerily so.






But when I enter Piazza Garibaldi (just a fragment of which you'll see below), there is a burst of activity and I feel the pulse of the city again.






What are they selling in those holiday booths?






Aged parmesan of course. And dried mushrooms. And ham.


It's interesting that Parma is regarded as, on the average, demographically older than most of Italy. It seems so young to me! Is it that the university has sprinkled its student population throughout, so that suddenly I see many men and women my daughters' age or even younger?

I'm hungry for lunch. It's not hard to find an interesting spot -- I pick a cafe-bakery called Malva. As in all such places, sandwiches are displayed on a tray and I see that there will be a lot of cheese and prosciutto in my diet for the next three days!

I sit down and order a focaccia with the ham, the cheese and arugula. It's absolutely delicious! (Accompanied by frizzante water and a warm tea. It really is cold outside -- surely not more than 40F, with 100% humidity.)






As I sit in the crowded with young people dining room and think about my good fortunes, I can't help but notice a very lively table of about fifteen people, young and old. A woman (herself probably around thirty) is clearly the focus of a celebration. I wonder why she is wearing a wreath of bay leaves. And then I hear it -- their chant: dottore! dottore!

A cake comes, photos are taken. Of just her. Of her and her parents. Of her and her grandma. Of her and her boyfriend.

And then -- and this is so out of the blue! -- she pushes back her chair and comes over to me and offers a piece of cake. I ask her if she is a doctor. She says yes, of engineering. And she returns to her group.

I don't know what prompted the move. I'd been so engrossed in my note taking and focaccia munching that I hardly saw her coming. Was it that I was sitting alone? Was it that somewhere in the course of the half hour we exchanged smiles?

(The young woman proudly welcomes my photo and stands up for it. The grandma looks stern, but her face softens quickly when she looks at her granddaughter, the dottore.)






Slowly, I walk back at the b&b. Passing pastel blocks and holiday lights.






And small shops, some selling lovely holiday sweater dresses for little ones...






Ah yes.. there's always the tug at grandmother in me. I see a granddaughter holding tightly to the hand of the grandma -- tug!






I let Patrizia choose my restaurants for the days I'm here. She has lived here all her life -- she knows what's what. ("People in Italy move only 100 meters from where they were born." She exaggerates, of course, but for many, this is not a great exaggeration.)

I ask her, too, about a place to grab an aperitivo. Somewhere not too far from where I'm to eat.
Can I suggest a terrible place? But of course. It really is terrible, but it's the place I go to and it is in many ways perfect.

And so in the late late evening, I am sipping a glass of white wine at Osteria Rangon and just a tiny bit missing the secret wine and bitters combination at the Caravatti.





I eat at the Gatta Matta -- just around the corner from my b&b. I love many things about the place, not the least of which is the fact that it has things on the short menu that I would never make: gray rabbit with almond milk and spices, boar with chocolate, raisins and polenta, deer fillet with pear sauce. I choose none of those, but it's grand to give them a moment's consideration.

In the end I eat the far less exciting cauliflower soup with cabbage gnocchi and pasta with pumpkin, sausage and squid.

Sometimes excitement has to take a back seat to the warm and the familiar.