Every year the Verona Fiera (Convention Center) hosts VinItaly, a regional wine expo which draws an international crowd and puts our little city, for one week, at the gravitational center of global wine hangover. We went last year with Peg and Paul Spera and the Thomases. Kind of a drag, really. We had hoped there would be great food samples to fortify the stomach against all that free booze, but we were mistaken. They really only gave you a handful of crackers. After two hours of tasting, we were done like fun, buzzed out and bleary under the high hot convention center lights. We managed to visit only two of the twenty regional pavilions and it was a rough bus ride back to Borgo Trento, let me tell you.

Surrounding the main event of VinItaly, enotecas (wine bars) in the city hold events throughout the week, promoting the various locales and products. They call this whole program “Fuori VinItaly” which means “Outside VinItaly”. This year, Scala Colore will be creating a series of posters to be shown at some of the events and of course it’s for us members to provide designs. We have a series of wine-related sayings to choose from and may illustrate the one of our choosing as we see fit.

Lawren and I come up with a paper-cut image and it looks pretty fine if I say so myself. Fedino digs it at least. It’s a good way for me to get more stuff in print, these Scala Colore gigs. In December, Lawren and I did a page for their Verona rock band calendar and there’s a real satisfaction in seeing your work go straight from the desk to the printed page. We don’t get paid or anything, but that’s cool for now. We expect something to come out of our association with these cats and, to that end, we’re doing the right thing as members, making ourselves available for group projects and delivering good work.

Plus, Fedino is such a prince. We totally dig his main associate as well, the other Federico (who is called Fedone). The whole group is pretty simpatico. They’re all politically proper, creative and funny, serious Verona hipsters.

In 1990, a geologist found dinosaur tracks on the side of a mountain near Rovereto.

Closeup of an ostrich-like toeprint.

More Orme Photos >

Sabbionara d’Avio castle, on the road to Rovereto.

Roveretto Castello.

Associazione di Pescatori Dilettanti.

‘No Mosques in Trentino’
Two weeks before the elections, the Northern League uses fear to get votes.

Funny to think that this is our third Lunedì Pasqueta since coming here to change our lives. The first two we spent at Charlie’s house in the hills above Parona, but this year there will be no festa. Easter fell early and the weather will be too cold for outdoor events.

We had rented a car on Saturday to run errands, thought to spend our Lunedì Pasqueta on a giro. We are both a little groggy from the festa, with that heavy, day-after-wine hunger. We drive up into the hills looking for an incredible artiginiale food store Roberta introduced us to last year, Corrado Benedetti, Via Croce Del Schioppo. It’s a kind of savory mecca, everything hand-made in the regional tradition, meats and cheeses and wines and bread; they have this lardo spread that just kills us. It is what it sounds like- lard, but not that stuff they use to grease the grills of U.S. diners. This is top-shelf lard, rendered smooth, blended with herbs and so purely meaty you could swoon.

There’s a huge crowd, everybody stocking up for the festa day, and we must wait our turn. It’s a torture watching them slice the salami; we follow the little tastes of cheese passed to the customers in front of us (who of course have to sample everything before making up their minds) with eager eyes, drool at the thump of the lead pounder flattening out perfect veal cutlets. Finally it’s our turn. We get sorpressa, an awesome kind of fatty salami, stracchino which is a spreadable cow’s milk cheese typical of the Lombardy region, several fresh rolls, and, of course, a jar of that killer lard.

Back in the car, under Mary’s watchful eyes, we split the bread with our fingers and spread on the cheese. Two slices of meat is enough to fill the sandwich out to perfection. This is how you best appreciate the food of Italy. They don’t whip up incredible sauces, don’t play games with flavor and consistency. There is no fusion here, no desire to explode the palette. It’s just simple, hearty food, made right where you stand, and totally satisfying- especially if you’re a carnivore.

The day is lovely, clear and bright after a period of rain. It’s still quite cold up on the heights and we see patches of snow among the evergreen trees. We had come this way back in 2001, that magical day where we just drove around in a dream. I remember how we bought gas at an auto-pump with those crazy lire. Today we pass and immediately recognize the same little station, clinging to it’s lonely curve of the two-lane mountain road.

We end up in Trentino Alto-Adige, a lovely, mountainous region, disembarking in the small city of Rovereto. There is a castle and a centro storico, a museum of the Italian army, a cold and sparkling branch of the Leno River which runs on to join the Adige. Just outside of town, we go on a steep hike to view dinosaur footprints. In Dante’s time, there was a massive avalanche in these mountains which is mentioned in The Inferno. He’s describing the descent into Hell as similar to the scene of rock-slide and ruin along this great flank of the mountain, a scene still vivid today as you climb along a path to the area where the footprints were discovered. Dante says, in Canto XII-”…qual è quella ruina che nel fianco di qua da Trento l’Adice percosse, o per tremoto o per sostegno manco” which roughly translates as “…which is like the ruin that struck the side of Trento Alto Adige, either by earthquake or landslide”.

The footprints are awesome, pressed deeply into a flat slab of what is now rock. Nutty to think this stretch of rock was once the muddy floor of a steaming pre-historic jungle, somehow covered and sealed whole by the earth, hardened over millennia, and spit back into the sun by the great avalanche of Dante’s day. In my mind, I can place that twenty foot track of prints back into the moment of their impression. I can picture the land entirely altered, darkened, dropped down to sea level, filled with strange cries and the creakings of the giant lizard as he lumbered by, living his instinct life ages before the human imagination recreated him from bones.

One gross thing. Along the river walk in Rovereto, where they have campaign posters arrayed for the upcoming elections in April, there is a Lega Nord announcement, a referendum to ban the establishment of mosques in Trentino Alto-Adige. The posters are plastered all over and many have been angrily ripped down. We see a family of Middle-Eastern or perhaps North-African folks walking past a bank of them. There is a father and mother, a teenage boy, and a daughter of maybe nine or ten years. Quite possibly they are Muslim, though the mother has no head-scarf. They are nicely dressed in Western style and seem happy together as they come upon a swath of these ugly, hateful, dumb-headed announcements. One of the posters has been ripped down and a piece of it rests, crumpled, on the sidewalk. Lawren and I notice, as they pass, the little girl take a strong kick at that piece of poster, sending it flying into the grass. Brava! Remember that the Lega wants to ban Mosques for legal immigrants to this country, those who follow the rules and pay the taxes, who contribute to this dwindling Italian society where the birthrate lags behind the death-rate, those who have every right to worship however they see fit in what is supposed to be an open, Democratic society. And The Lega is one of the fastest growing political movements in Italy today.

It’s our seconed Easter here in The Vicolo. We had just moved in last year when we hosted a major feast for Peg and Paul Spera, Jim and Carol Thomas, and my brother Rich. This year we have a pretty healthy guest list too; Josh and Audrey, Rosa and Vasily (Catalina doesn’t feel well), our new friends the French couple Gaelle and Geoffroy and their kids the toddler Blanche and the newborn Salome’, Roberta and Michael….

Sadly, the weather is drizzly and cold so we can’t take advantage of our killer terrazzo, though I cook the meat outside on the grill which is essential. We have lamb, kielbasa, and rabbit, mashed potatoes and cauliflower, greens, Nana’s rolls and that crazy pineapple/bread bake. Josh and Audrey bring cakes, so does Rosa, and there’s just a silly amount of Chiaretto courtesy of Roberta and that killer enoteca right by Lake Garda.

I love how the men all congregate around the grilling meat, despite the cold air and spitting rain. Everybody wants to hold the tongs and kind of manipulate the food a little. There is actually no single language in which we are all fluent, but Italian ends up the default most often. It doesn’t matter, though; everybody’s having fun, Lawren did an incredible job with the food, and that Chiaretto goes down so easy.

After coffee, I regale our guests with another Italian song I’ve learned recently, a sappy love ballad called “Come Triste, Venezia” or “How Sad, Venice”. We ate early in the American fashion and so L., Mary, and I are left alone with the mess of dishes and empty bottles around nineteen hundred hours.

Marco is the owner of La Molinara, a very sweet osteria right around the corner from Vicolo San Salvatore Vecchio. We first saw each other at the gym and I gave him the nick-name of “Signore Palestrato” which roughly translates to “Mister Ripped”. It was during the California Ingham’s visit that we went to Molinara for the first time and we struck up an acquaintance with Marco. Ever since then he’s been busting my balls as I know I’ve mentioned herein. These days, my Italian is good enough that I manage to spar with him pretty well. He’s a Pisces too and his b’day is today, so we arrange to meet at the bar next to Molinara for a drink around 18:00.

It’s gonna be an Italian night tonight. I have another appointment at 21:00 to meet our buddy Fede at his little apartment on Piazza Vittoria Veneto. We bumped into each other as I was leaving class this AM and arranged to get together.

I have discovered this incredible Italian rock star who broke out in the late 60’s and died in ‘98, Fabrizio De Andre. He’s a total myth here though I’d never heard his name before Ugo and Luca insisted I check him out. De Andre is thought of as a kind of Italian Dylan, a poet and singer in the open hearted troubador tradition, one who had fame and money at his fingers but shrank from these enticements while never flagging in his creative energy.

Fede is truly a global aesthete, a fan of all the arts who keeps a huge collection of books and music and fumetti (comic books) and loves turning me on to his favorite stuff. Naturally, De Andre is in his top five. I have expressed to Fede my desire to get deeper into more recent Italian creative product generally and he has assured me that he can make me a fine program.

Marco is funny. He actually compliments me on my improved Italian. Lawren thinks he has a crush on me. He’s kind of a kid but he’s sharp too. His Mom is German and his father Italian but he strikes me as cento per cento Italian. The Mom loves us. She helps Marco out, working in the restaurant, and we always have great conversations when we visit. Sadly, she’s not there tonight. Marco is joined by a college-age friend, a pretty Italian girl whose name I forget. Lawren gives her a little astrological run-down; folks here love Horoscope talk. Marco insists we come over to the restaurant while he starts up his work night- the dude’s working on his birthday! He gives us a nice bottle of Soave wine, a plate of this awesome smoked mountain goat ragu, and a slice of torta with sweet after-dinner liquer. He will accept no money.

After, I head over to Fede’s. He has gotten me an MP3 from a friend of fifteen De Andre albums, plus he loans me a book of the complete songs with chords and lyrics. I am starting to learn one of the most famous, most iconic De Andre songs, “Il Pescatore” or “The Fisherman”- “all’ombra dell’ultimo sole/ s’era assopito un pescatore/ e aveva un solco lungo il viso/ come una specie di sorriso” or “in the shadow of the sun sunk low/ an old fisherman sat and dozed/ and a long groove, deeply traced/ travelled like a smile upon his face.” That’s my translation, not word for word but the meaning’s there. Anyway, this verse is like “the answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind” here in Italy. The story is great; the Murderer comes upon the old Fisherman on the beach and asks for something to eat and drink. The Pescatore makes no judgement, no comment. He can likely see by the eagerness and haste of the Assassino that he is being pursued, but willingly shares his bread and wine. The Assassino drinks and eats and is transported to a memory from childhood. The Pescatore says nothing, his face obscured by the rays of sun behind his shoulders and the Assassino flees. A moment later, two gendarmes arrive on horseback with rifles, asking if a murderer has passed. Still, the old man says nothing, standing in his place before the sea in the last rays of the sinking sun. Awesome!

Yippee, my birthday. I wake to an email from one of the roughly two dozen New York illustration agencies I’ve recently contacted, impersonally rejecting my work as “not right” for them. Add this one to several others I’ve received in the last couple of weeks (when they’ve bothered to respond), and I’m batting .000 with illustration reps.

So this starts my day on a bad note. Thankfully, Lawren is there to cheer me up, treating me like a king, being supportive about my skills, assuring me that the stars will be lining up in June. She cooks a delicious fish stew which we eat over polenta, chilling out with “Rai Tre” at the little kitchen table. The Italians will go to the polls mid-April and the campain season is in full tilt.

A nice talk with Mom over Skype phone. She and Rich want to come to Italy end of September. She can bring her little dog, JoeJoe. We will spend a week in Rome.

It finally happened- Brett Favre, #4, three-time league MVP and Super Bowl Champion, has retired from football. I actually teared up when I heard the news. It’ll never be the same, this game of football, without the knowledge that somewhere, on some field, in some contest, the great Brett Favre will be doing his thing.

I heard on the radio about a study someone did relating to testosterone. They observed fans during sports events and noticed that, when something big happened in the contest, levels of testosterone in the spectators almost equalled levels observed in the athletes. This rings true to me from my own experiences on both sides of the sports equation. There is a profound empathic connection between player and spectator. Watching Brett Favre play over the years, I’ve felt chills run up and down my body, felt my spirits soar with a kind of general vindication, felt so crunched and low that it really took me a few hours to feel normal again. That may be an indication of stunted emotional growth, it’s certainly irrational, but there you have it.

I should say that it’s not only about Brett where the “green and gold” are concerned. There’s Reggie White #92, Dorsey Levens #25, Antonio Freeman #86, Robert Brooks #87, Frank Winters #52, Bubba Franks #88, Rob Davis #60, Na’il Diggs #59, Chad Clifton #76, Mark Taucher #65, Bernardo Harris #55, Cletidus Hunt #97, Donald Driver #80, Darren Sharper #42, William Henderson #33, Kabeer G’Baja Biamila #94, Aaron Kampman #97, Nick Barnett #56, Ryan Longwell #8, the hot Al Harris (that’s what Lawren thinks)# 31. The list goes on.

There will never be another like Brett Favre. I’m just grateful to have been able to see the man play so many times. What lies ahead for The Pack? We’ve got a young, talented roster and this kid Aaron Rodgers looks pretty hot to me so we’ll just see.