A Skiing Novice Hits the Italian Alps

When I say novice, I mean novice. Allow me to explain. I tend to hibernate all winter, much like a bear. But once the warm weather arrives, it’s a different story. I’ve never met a beach I didn’t like. Packing for my ideal vacation involves bathing suits, flip flops, sun dresses and tanning lotion. The hotter the weather, the better. I notice humidity, but it doesn’t interfere with my day.


However, none of this stopped me from joining a ski trip to the Italian Alps.

First thing was a call to my Sister the Skier to borrow her clothes. “Sure!” she said, “come right over.” So I did. She was thrilled to share her skiing excitement. There was long thermal underwear, ski pants and a shirt with

Maybe I can't ski, but I can pose.

sleeves that hooked over my thumbs to prevent wind from whipping up my arm. It was here that trepidation started to creep into my tropical soul. There were special socks with padding designed for comfort in ski boots. (I was warned not to wear these in regular shoes; I have no idea why.) There was a hooded ski jacket with special interior pockets for money & ID. “Why would I need ID?” I wanted to ask. But when visions flashed through my mind of being lost among the Italian Alpine trees, freezing and waiting for a Saint Bernard with a cask of brandy, too cold to move my jaw and say my name, I decided not to ask.

The wardrobe extravaganza wasn’t done. There were special gloves with compartments to slip something called a ski pass. There were little squares of hand warmers wrapped in gold foil in case the gloves weren’t warm enough. There was a knit woolen hat that fit snugly on my head, guaranteed to produce hours of hat hair. Then there was the gator. This wide circle of fleece slips over the head and rests around the neck. Yes, this is on top of the special shirt, turtleneck, jacket and hood. “In case it’s really cold, damp and windy, this comes in handy!” said my Sister the Skier, in a joyful tone more appropriate to lending me a diamond necklace for the Oscars than spending an afternoon in the blinding cold. But this kind of baffling enthusiasm, I would soon learn, is typical of ski lovers. She offered her goggles. I declined, saying that my wrap-around style sun glasses should work just fine. Of course, I had no idea. I just needed to say ‘no’ to something. I was being buried in bad news.

Arrival in Italy: I meet my compatriots and I’m desperately seeking other novices. I meet two beginners, but no novices. Instead, I mostly meet dyed in the wool veteran ski club members. Their individual and collective enthusiasm is contagious, although I have no idea why. I find myself looking forward to cold and snow. I wonder if I’ve gone insane.

Not very convincing, is it?

Day One of Skiing: It’s early morning when I amble to our communal breakfast in my Suit of Many Layers. It’s an effort to bend my elbow to feed myself. “Are you skiing today?” Several people ask me. “Of course!” I answer, under the heady effects of ski-loving Kool-Aid. It seems foggy outside to me, but no one else mentions it. I conclude that it must not be an issue.

We make our way to the ski shop where I hang behind and watch the veterans navigate the equipment. Everyone knows what they want. Everyone knows what to do with what they get. Everyone can’t get out of the shop fast enough and onto the slopes, which are increasingly obscured by the fog. I watch their smiling faces as one by one they hoist a pair of skis onto one shoulder, an arm casually thrown over the front for counter-balance, both poles in the other hand. It all looks easy, smooth and cool. I’m excited because soon, I will look just like them.

I wait until everyone in my group has their equipment, as I am in no hurry. I enter the shop and catch the eye of an unsuspecting staff member. He naturally expects me to be as knowledgeable as everyone else in my group. He is in denial when I am not. He has a hard time believing how clueless I am. His denial prolongs the process and makes me irritable. I keep asking for help anyway, as I have no option. Finally, he gets it. He helps me into the ski boots and locks me in. I can’t believe how uncomfortable they feel. “They’re really tight; is this normal?” I ask. “Yes.” I stand. “I can’t straighten my legs; is this normal?” “Yes.” But I instinctively try to straighten them anyway, and feel a shooting pain up the back of my calves with every step. I look out the window and the fog is now so thick that I can’t see the mountain, which as I recall is about 100 steps away and straight up. I can’t imagine 100 steps in the fog with this pain shooting up the back of my leg. In this moment, I can’t imagine why anybody skis.

He hands me the skis and poles and is happy to see me go. I slowly and painfully make my way outside. Someone takes pity on me and says “If you walk heel-toe, it’s easier.” I try it and it is easier. Not easy; easier. Not painless; easier. I decide to take what I can get.

Now it’s time to throw the skis over my shoulder and look cool. But like every other aspect of this experience, it’s harder than it looks. The skis are heavy and slippery; traits you want on the slopes but not on your shoulder. (This may explain why skis are worn and not carried during the skiing experience.) The skis are held together back-to-back at the bindings, so the bindings are facing out. And they’re uncomfortable. And they’re smack in the middle of the skis, so I slide them in front of my shoulder. This is more comfortable but now I’m struggling to balance them. I finally get them set and step out with my first heel-toe and the skis slip completely off my shoulder. But that’s OK, I can catch them with my other hand. Oh, no I can’t. I have a pair of poles in that hand. Now skis and poles crash to the ground. I decide the shoulder-carry is too cool for me right now. Instead, I hold the skis vertically in one hand, poles in the other. I am mystified why anyone would consider this a good time.

I slowly make my way toward what I hope is the bunny slope. I can’t really tell because the fog is now so thick that the mountain has disappeared. I just travel haltingly in the direction of other skiers. Finally, I can make out a kiosk and the other 2 “beginners” in my group. I catch up to within shouting distance of them. They are above me on an incline and I can’t imagine how I’ll get there. I’m now off the pavement and on the snow, where I believe the skis were meant to be. So I drop them and realize I have no idea how to get them on. My friend Cindy, who thinks she’s a beginner but is soon revealed to be an intermediate, shouts instructions on how to attach the skis.



Me with my intrepid skiing friends: Cindy Bigras, Susan Van Allen & Lisa del Percio.



Riccardo, our instructor, shouts in my direction and demonstrates the horizontal, incremental creep one performs to move up a small incline. I imitate him and snail my way up. It’s then that I notice individual drops of blood in the snow. I am horrified. Who is bleeding? How were they injured? My eyes follow the crimson drops that lead to a man lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, looking more like he’s on a couch across from a TV than losing vital life fluids in the frozen earth. I realize he’s had a nose bleed and is collecting himself. His skis are still on and he looks OK, certainly calmer than me. It’s another example of the ever-optimistic skier. No need to get off the slopes; just wait until the bleeding stops, pop back up and swoosh down the mountain.

Dear Lord, take me to the beach.

Bar Italia - Feeling Good Where You Are

Carolyn: Denis Franceschini is the owner of Bar Italia, a close-knit, thriving restaurant on New York City’s Upper East Side at 72nd and 2d Avenue. Before opening Bar Italia, Denis spent 20 years at Cipriani’s, eventually becoming the Executive Chef. During his career he opened 23 Cipriani restaurants all over the world, including Argentina, Uruguay, Hong Kong and London.

For the last 6 or 7 years at Cipriani, Denis cooked for anywhere from 1000 – 1400 people every day. He handled Ivana Trump’s wedding in Miami, Harvey Weinstein’s wedding in Connecticut, concert series with Marc Antony, Rod Stewart and Stevie Wonder. He also handled the all vegan menus required for Farm Sanctuary banquets held at Cipriani.

As much as Denis loved his career, he’s created something very different at Bar Italia. By design, Bar Italia is a small neighborhood eatery with an emphasis on service and customer comfort.

Denis is from the home of polenta, Borgo Valsugana in Trento, Italy between Venice and the Austrian border. Located at the foot of the Alps, Denis loved to ski and raced for 12 years. He graduated from the Culinary Institute in Lake Garda and began working for Harry’s Bar in Venice. From there he was brought to Cipriani’s in New York.

Now as a restaurant owner for the first time, Denis is learning every day.

Denis: When I used to be at Cipriani we were never chefs exposed to the public. We were very behind the scenes all the time. I learned more out of Bar Italia in 6 months than 19 years at Cipriani. Because I cook 3, 4 days a week and 3 days a week I’m spending in the dining room, so I’m still very involved in what is the preparation of the food and all. Like now, we'll go back into the kitchen to do the main prep with the guys, and then they'll do the expediting on my time. But I’m very, very involved in the kitchen as well.

When you own a place, you want to know about everything, you know. Like I’m spending an hour behind the bar with the bartender because I want to learn to do some cocktails. I consider myself the best busboy of the Upper East Side!

Carolyn: how would you define the menu at Bar Italia?

Denis: I do what I like to eat. One thing that I hate is having the menus. Because I think anyone should be able to eat whatever they please and like whenever they feel like it. And then you need certain dishes to be able to offer them, but I think the creativity, you know?

It’s easy to open a cookbook and follow a recipe to put it together. I mean, anyone can do that, you know? But you gotta put yourself on the spot, you have to put yourself on the line and say, what would I love to do? It’s very rare that a customer, my customer, orders from the menu. Because they leave it up to me and I’m not going to disappoint.

Carolyn: Denis’ priority is creating a place where people want to be. That includes himself, his family, the staff and the customers.

Denis: That’s what I think comes out, the great vibe from my staff. We all get along, we try to do things together. And we come up with new ideas together. Like yesterday was so much fun! Because we tried to put together a varied menu, doing a dish with a cocktail. I have an amazing bartender here, and creating dishes combined with a cocktail are all things to have fun, to enjoy ourselves with what we do. Especially because we spend in here what? 15, 16 hours a day we are here and we need to find a way of making these hours enjoyable, you know?

I want people to feel good when they are here.

Carolyn: Do you think that’s what sets your restaurant apart? I mean NY is full of good Italian restaurants. What would you say is different about Bar Italia?

Denis: The difference is that, if you look at this block, 77 and 78, there are 11 places where you can buy food or drinks. So it’s not about the product. It’s about how you serve the product, which is very different. I mean there are a lot of average places, a lot of average pastas, a lot of average wine, a lot of average everything. Attitude is not an average. Welcoming is not an average. There is something extra, something more, something that people appreciate. So it might be bad for me to say it, as a chef. It’s not about the product. But it is what it is. Time to face the reality of a restaurant.

Anyone can have a good plate of pasta, anywhere. In New York, believe it or not I think is a city where you eat pretty good kind of all over. There are a lot of good places around. But there are not many where you feel good where you are.

I stay 3 months, 4 months without taking a day off and some friends of mine took me out for my birthday. We went for dinner close by and after that, where did I go? I came over here. Why? Because I feel good to be here. For as much as it was 3 or 4 months that I was here every day, I came here because I feel good in here.

And that’s what I’m experiencing myself here. There is no more the Crazy Saturday or the Dead Monday. They are all steady days where my people keep coming back and coming back because they feel good where they are, you know?

Carolyn: Denis’ emphasis on a welcoming atmosphere comes from his own experience during his early years in Manhattan.

Denis: When I moved to NY, 17, 21, 22, 23, those years were so tough for me. Because not a word of English, young, no friends at all so, the loneliness that I went through myself, I really don’t wish it to anybody.

And Bar Italia for me was really about having a chance to give lonely people a chance to feel good where they are. Feel welcome, feel appreciated. Because New York, believe it or not, is full, full of lonely people. Full, too many. And you know what? It goes above and beyond how much money you can make out of it. But just to give people a chance to smile, feel good. That’s what it’s all about for me, you know?

Carolyn: Denis also has a message for the next generation of chefs.

Denis: This is the best job in the world. Dealing with people. Human contact. Come on, there is nothing best of this, you know? Hospitality. I mean, whenever you see these shows, what is it, Hell’s Kitchen? Which message do you give to the young generation? Which message are you sending to a kid who wants to get into a culinary institute, where where you spend $35,000 – $40,000 a year? No, this is the message: guys, you gotta be happy. You gotta feel like being in the kitchen for 14 hours. For as meatballs that you can make or filet mignon!

For me, life has to be a challenge; if it’s not it gets too boring, But I’m having fun at this.

Carolyn: To get an idea of the fun you can have at Bar Italia, watch the video of Leo, the bartender juggling flaming bottles behind the bar. Just go to the Links page at essenceofitaly.net and click on Essence of Italy at YouTube.

You can find Bar Italia on the web at Baritalianyc.com

This is Carolyn Masone for Essenceofitaly.net. Thanks for listening!

How This Amateur Learns Italian

As with anything we want to get good at, love is essential. And I love the Italian language. I love how the r’s roll, how the gn’s press the roof of my mouth, how the gl’s touch the back of my throat. I love how expressive it is; its drama and flourish and furtive whispering.

Although I’m half Italian, the only language spoken at home was English. Italian was a secret language my grandmother used with my father when she didn’t want the rest of us to understand. And it worked; none of us knew what they were talking about.

It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I got la lingua Italiana fever. At that time I took my first trip to Italy and did not linguistically prepare myself in the least. What was I thinking? I have no idea. But I as I’ve said before, I thought I was just taking a vacation; I didn’t know I was changing my life forever.

Since then I’ve used a variety of methods to improve my Italian. Am I fluent? No. But I’m always improving and that’s how I like it. To get myself started, I used an audio program that promised to prepare me with basic phrases in 30 days, which it did. It worked so well that these basics coupled with another trip to Italy (immersion; definitely the deep end of the pool) really improved my ear.

But I realized I was clueless about the written language. To help remedy that, I used a ‘teach yourself Italian’ book, which was a big help. But still, I wasn’t practicing the language enough to get comfortable. Then I ventured onto the internet and found a new friend in Italy who helped me practice written Italian while I helped him with his English. That was a huge help. Since then I’ve connected with more Italian friends, both in the US and Italy, with whom I get to practice speaking and writing.

If you are a music lover, this can be a great way to learn Italian. I’ve always loved music so it was natural to buy CD’s of a few artists I liked while in Italy (Renato Zero and Michelle Zarrillo reign supreme right now). Listening to this music makes me happy and relaxed, which lets my brain absorb the words even more. Since I’m curious about what the songs are about, it’s fun to sit down with the lyrics and my Italian-English dictionary (luckily, all the CDs I’ve purchased come with the lyrics. If yours don’t, it’s easy to get the lyrics online). This increases vocabulary, improves pronunciation, teaches idioms and shows me how to string the words together in a coherent way.

Another fun way to learn Italian is to take a class in Italy. I’ve done it a few times and it’s a great experience. My fellow students were from all over the world and shared the same passion for the language. We laughed and (almost) cried together as we tried to clear our linguistic obstacles. We learned that what’s easy for one person can be hard for another, sometimes depending on that person’s native language. Above all, we learned not to take ourselves too seriously and to roll with our mistakes. And sometimes, we really surprised ourselves!

Do you have a favorite way to learn a new language, or have advice about method that didn’t work for you? Let me know.

May Day in Siena - Part 3

This article also appears on our Italian Journal page.

Yes, breakfast was included in this wonderful sleep-over that Gabriele had arranged for us. It was set up in the dining room downstairs. We must have overslept because as we made our way up the hallway to the stairs, we saw that all the other guest rooms were emptied. The doors were open and Max’s hardworking mother was laboring away. Stripping the beds, opening windows, vacuuming, all in her measured, my-arthritis-is-acting-up sort of way. It slowed her down, but it didn’t stop her.

Max waited for us at the dining room table, complete with our place settings, a pot of espresso and a large plate with mounds of biscotti and fresh pastries. It seems Max’s Mom made these this morning, before she started cleaning the guest rooms. We had a few hours to kill before we were to meet Gabriele, so we settled in for a leisurely breakfast with Max.

Max seemed to be in his 30’s, attractive, lithe, with dark hair and those deep Italian eyes. The three of us talked about a wide range of subjects: Italy, America, working parents, children, cooking, Siena, girlfriends (he didn’t have one) and on and on. After about an hour, Max’s Mom emerged from the kitchen with a big smile and another plate of just baked pastries (we had pretty much decimated the first plate). That’s when we realized she had made these fluffy goodies and hadn’t just picked them up at the bakery. We feigned protest, but probably weren’t too convincing. After all, she’d already made them. We couldn’t let them go to waste. She walked slowly back to her chores upstairs and we continued to eat and pass the time with Max. We couldn’t help noticing that young, healthy Max was doing nothing while his mother did everything.

At one point, I went upstairs to use the bathroom. I was too paranoid to lock the door, so I just closed it and hoped for the best. As I was making my way downstairs again, Max’s Mom was walking a few steps ahead of me. Remember the slow, painful movements of this woman? There she was, singing a little tune and bounding (yes, bounding) down the stairs like she was 20. I was happy she was happy but still, what was going on?

I rejoined Lana and Max at the table where we hung out until we had to leave. There was quite a scene saying goodbye. Not so much Max, but his Mom didn’t want to see us go. She hugged us both so tightly we were getting confused. It wasn’t until we were walking over to the café to meet Gabriele that we put the morning’s events together. It seemed to us that Max’s Mom was probably like every other Italian mother we’d ever known or heard about: she wanted a wife for her son. She had morphed from cripple to singing athlete once she decided that at least one of us must have been interested in her handsome, available Max. Why else would we have spent so much time with him at breakfast? To Max’s Mom, he was the catch of a lifetime! What young woman wouldn’t want to hook up with Max and cook all his meals, do his laundry, clean up after him and then give Mom a hand cleaning the guest bedrooms, the bathroom, dusting, vacuuming, straightening? Ah, to two single American women it all seemed like such a mad whirl of delights! Really, we couldn’t walk to the café fast enough.

May Day in Siena - Part 2

This article also appears on our Italian Journal page.

After much shopping, eating, drinking and walking, it was well into the night and time to return to Acqua Calde. We got ourselves a cab at the taxi stand and started down the road. The driver spoke only Italian and seemed to be in a really sour mood. We, in all of our excitement of the day, had neglected to get the address of where we were staying or even the name of the establishment (did it have one? We had no idea). But we were confident that we would recognize the side street we needed when we saw it, and tried in vain to convince the driver of this. I say in vain because he became irate, complete with gestures, yelling and red face (as much as we could tell in the dark). We even showed him our money, in case he thought we weren’t going to pay him. We honestly couldn’t understand his anger, but we literally didn’t speak each other’s language. After much fretting and histrionics on all of our parts, he abruptly pulled over and refused to take us further.

To give you the sense of this moment, it was near midnight, pitch dark, a single lane road with tall grass on either side, no street lights, very little traffic, no houses, no businesses, nothing. We paid the driver (we were nothing if not honest) and started to walk the rest of the way to that side street we saw in our heads. All the way there, we tried to make sense of what had just happened.

We walked quite a while, but we finally got there. It was such a relief when we turned that corner and saw the little house. We walked through the front gate and tried to open the door, but it was locked. Oh no; we were never given a key! Just as we were sizing up the garden as a place to crash until morning, the door opened. Suddenly, we were staring at Max’s parents sitting on the couch in their living room, watching TV. Obviously not expecting visitors, Max’s mother had her hair up in curlers. Oh Lord, we used the wrong door! We backed up, apologizing profusely, out into the night.

We then found the correct door, dragged our tired selves up the steep, wide stairs, and went to our room.

I needed a bath. Leaving Lana relaxing on the bed (beside the non-working stereo, there was no other furniture), I took our bathroom key and headed out the door. The bathroom was down the hall, shared by all guests on our floor. Since it was very late at night, all the other guests were asleep, all the doors on either side of the long hallway locked up tight. So the bathroom was mine for the foreseeable future.

It was spacious with a large, sunken bathtub. The floors and walls were done in deep green marble tiles. It looks amazing but in my opinion, water and marble are a very dangerous mix. Instinctively, you try to create traction by putting a towel down on the floor as you stand by the sink or get out of the tub. But one quick move turns the towel into a runaway flying carpet. You grab hold of the nearest stable object to stop your momentum. Maybe it’s the sink. Or the slippery edge of the tub. Or the towel rack. Anything to keep from hurtling into to that luscious Italian marble you were cooing over just moments before. Now you’re wondering what you’ll scream as you skid across the floor. “May Day” perhaps?

Somehow, I made it out of the tub and got dressed without killing myself. I felt relaxed, refreshed and oh so ready for a good night’s sleep. All that stood between me and sleep was the locked bathroom door. So I gathered all my things and slipped my medieval-looking skeleton key into to the lock and turned. The lock made the noise, but nothing else happened. The knob didn’t turn. The door didn’t open. No problem, I’ll try again. So I did. Many, many times. Turn, clank, nothing. This went on and on. I wondered if I’d have to spend the night in the bathroom. My options weren’t pretty. I could try to sleep on the bruise-inducing marble floor or in the bruise-inducing bathtub. Then there’s the humiliation factor when the lucky stranger opens the door in the morning and finds me staring up at them.

At this point you’re probably wondering, what’s Lana doing? Well, keep in mind that the bathroom is all tile and porcelain, and the hallway is all wood, no rug. So the sound of the key incessantly turning in the lock is resounding all the way down the hall to our room. Lana is sitting on the bed, head in hand, crying from laughter. It’s not like she could help me. We had only one bathroom key between us. I was on my own. She was flirting with a hernia.

Eventually, the lock gave in and I won. Turn, clank, open. Remember how relaxed I felt after the bath? Forget it now. I was some combination of overtired, stressed, relieved and dumbfounded. I made it to bed and fell asleep just in time for breakfast.

May Day in Siena - Part 1

This article also appears on our Italian Journal page.

Let’s pick up this story at Il Querceto, a villa in Castellina in Chianti, during the last week of April, 1998. Laura, the owner, was an energetic woman who seemed to do the work of 3 people. She had already informed my friend Lana and me that due to the upcoming May Day holiday weekend, we would have to find other accommodations for the upcoming Friday night. This meant we’d have to pack up everything & vacate the villa Friday afternoon. However, we were welcome to return to the villa on Saturday & stay for another week (which we did; who says “no” to that?). No problem, we thought. Lana & I prided ourselves on traveling without compass or reservations. How hard could it be to find a place for one night? We had just landed in this cozy spot for another 7 days. Surely the gods are with us. Sometime over the next few days, I mentioned this situation to our Italian friend, Gabriele. He said he would find a place for us. Fine, we thought. Let’s go shopping!

As we flitted around Tuscany, we heard bits & pieces about this May Day thing. It seemed every Italian would take 3 or 4 days away, as this year it fell on a Friday. Hotels had been booked for months. We saw TV predictions of bumper-to-bumper traffic from everywhere in Italy on the way to everywhere else in Italy. Keep in mind that neither one of us had ever heard of May Day before, except as something you screamed if you were having a military emergency.

We didn’t hear back from Gabriele for several days. Lana & I discussed our options. We seemed to have only one: worst case scenario, we find some public place and/or a bench and stay up all night, returning to Querceto the next day. We’d take only a backpack each for easy transport, as Laura allowed us to keep our other luggage in one of her storage areas for the night. Thursday afternoon flowed into Thursday evening when our phone finally rang. It was Gabriele, telling us that he had found us “the last room in Siena.” Located through the ever-powerful Italian social network, one room of a rental property in Acqua Calde, just outside of Siena, remained unrented for Friday night. Gabriele would drive us there. This could work.

We piled into Gabriele’s car Friday afternoon and set off for Acqua Calde. Many winding roads later, we made a right turn onto a side street and pulled over. Walking through the gate to the front door, it suited Lana & I just fine. Quiet, surrounded by a green field and trees, we were welcomed by a large, enthusiastic Labrador. The front door opened and Gabriele did all the talking (in Italian, of course). We were introduced t0 Max, a late 20-ish, handsome and (we would later learn) single man who lived on the property with his parents. We met his mother who was very sweet but seemed to be just on the edge of physical pain. Every move she made was slow and deliberate, as if specifically calculated to avoid discomfort. Her smile was wide and warm, but we could see the pain in her eyes.

Meanwhile, Gabriele was wheeling and dealing. For all of us to hear, he confirmed the price of the room and how it would be paid (in cash). Max brought us all upstairs to see the room. The hallway was wide and our double room was at the far end. I was so happy to see a stereo set up at the foot of the bed. “Great! We’ll have music!” I said. Gabriele, smarter than I about Italian accommodations, turned to Max and said “Funziona?” (“Does it work?”) Max sheepishly replied, “No.”

The deal was made and as it was the middle of the day, Gabriele offered to drive us to Siena on his way back to Poggibonsi. That sounded great to us. After agreeing to meet the next day near a café by the rental property to bring us back to Castellina, he dropped us off and we were let loose in Siena.

Taking Down the Exhibit in Westchester

This article also appears on our Italian Journal page.

Although the exhibit technically ended July 31, 2008 the wonderful staff at the Westchester Italian Cultural Center were in no hurry to take down the exhibit. They allowed the works to remain until mid-September, when we finally began the careful dismantling process. Like all endings, it was bittersweet.

The exhibit had gone extremely well for the Center and for us. It was wonderful to read the comments written in the Visitors Book in the Exhibit Halls. Here are some of them: “Wonderful eye for beautiful scenes. Thanks for this mini-vacation”; “Le fotografie sono meravigliose!”; “Absolutely breathtaking – I feel as if I am there having wine & bread sharing happiness with my friends & loved ones!” We were so grateful to the Center for the opportunity, and they treated us so well throughout the experience, that we donated a 24x36 inch canvas of “Waiting” to the Center.

A narrow totem with 3 display screens stands in the front lobby of the Center.
Jefferson had created a slideshow of selections from the exhibit that played continuously on one of the screens. As the time for removing the exhibit drew near, Evelyn Rossetti, the Center Director, told us that the slideshow was so beautiful that she didn’t want to remove it. She asked if we wouldn’t mind leaving it on display in the totem. Mind?? Not at all! The slideshow had to be reworked because it had announced the exhibit dates. Here is the streaming video version of the new slideshow:



The Center also used my photograph, “Bogliasco Cliffs” for the cover of its Fall and Winter, 2008 Program Catalogue. Bogliasco is a small town near Genoa, in the region of Liguria, on the Italian Riviera. Here it is:


I had the opportunity to give a live radio interview about the exhibit on WGHT - 1500. You can listen to it here.

We had good press throughout the exhibition.

We’re very proud of the exhibit review that appeared in the Westchester County ArtNews Supplement to the Westchester County Business Journal, June 2008:



A wonderful article also appeared in The Herald News, focusing not only on the exhibit but on our collaboration:


The Italian Tribune:

Italy, Through the Eyes of Love, Exhibit is On!

The exhibit continues until July 31 at the Westchester Italian Cultural Center in Tuckahoe, New York.

Click here for directions: http://wiccny.org/contact.html#directions

Public viewing hours during May and June:

Tuesdays: 4:00 pm to 8:00 pm
Wednesdays: 3:00 pm to 6:00 pm, except 6/11
Thursdays: 4:00 pm to 8:00 pm
Saturdays: 2:00 pm to 5:00 pm

In July, by appointment only.

Admission: Free

This article also appears on our Italian Journal page.

Well, ready or not, the big day arrived! Luckily, we were mostly ready. Jefferson & I went up to Tuckahoe early to finish hanging the exhibit. We finished just in time for me to start training the docents at the Center who will take people through the exhibit on a daily basis when I’m not there. The docents take their responsibilities very seriously and asked me thought-provoking questions about the stories behind specific images and my approach to photography in general. I know my photos will be in good hands with them.

By the time the session was over, it was time to get dressed for the opening. Just before 6:00 o’clock, the first groups started coming in. It was a stream that continued for 2 hours. I managed to meet most of them, and it was wonderful to answer their questions and hear their stories about what Italy means to them. Many of them were of Italian descent, but not all. You don’t have to be Italian to love Italy!

Some of the people I spoke with were born and raised in Italy. They shared their childhood memories of large, close families, heavenly aromas from the kitchen and picking grapes from their grandparent’s vineyard. Some were veteran travelers who spoke of Italian vacations that turned into the best moments of their lives. Some focused on the people with whom they had traveled, long passed away but alive forever in heart and memory. To me, this is the true alchemy of Italy, turning strangers into friends.



(Click on the player above to view Jefferson's slideshow. This video introduction is displayed on a large flat screen TV in the atrium between the two Exhibit rooms.)

The Mandolin: The Serenade of Italy

This article is a transcript of our podcast that can be found on our http://essenceofitaly.net/ podcast page.

Carolyn: What could be more Italian than sound of a mandolin? Close your eyes and you’re floating on a gondola in Venice, or walking the narrow streets of Naples as the sun sets. Where did the mandolin come from, and how did it become the signature sound of Italy?

Here to answer these questions is the award winning musician, composer and arranger John T. LaBarbera. John has been playing traditional Italian music for over 30 years. He has recorded numerous CDs & composed many film soundtracks. His theater credits include several off-Broadway productions, including Souls of Naples with John Turturro, and his Italian Music & Theater Company, I Giullari di Piazza.

John has just completed a book called Traditional Southern Italian Mandolin & Fiddle Tunes, published by Mel Bay. Complete with a CD, this book is a rare treasure for music lovers. It not only explains the origins and development of the mandolin, but contains an archive of just some of the traditional Southern Italian music John has archived. Many of these pieces were taught only by ear from generation to generation, but never in written form. John T. LaBarbara is the first one to have preserved these pieces in writing for the mandolin.

It’s believed that the Italian mandolin descended from an Arabic instrument called the uod. The uod is a stringed instrument with a rounded back. It was brought to Europe in the 10th century and over the centuries that followed, Europe molded the uod in its own way. The uod developed into the lute and, in Elizabethan times, became a court instrument. Schools of lute music opened throughout Europe, but most notably in Naples and Venice.

In Naples during the 1700’s, the mandolin had a renaissance of its own. Master craftsman like Vinaccia and Calace refined the instrument’s woodworking with an almond-shaped body & a bowled back made from curved strips of wood. They also switched from using traditional gut strings to metal strings. These innovations made the mandolin more durable, louder and increasingly popular. It was well on its way to becoming the unmistakable music of Italy.

John: The mandolin really has that neapolitan sound, that Italian sound. What makes it sound very Italian, also, is this type of picking called tremolo.

Carolyn: In Italy, there was a long tradition of musicians earning their living as barbers. They brought their mandolins, violins & guitars into the barber shops and when they weren’t shaving customers, they played. It was a good idea since the profession kept the musicians’ hands better protected than working as laborers. Also, barber shops closed early enough to allow the musicians to gather in the piazza and play into the night.

John: Barbers were known to play mandolin, guitar and violin. Remember the Barber of Seville?

Carolyn: Yes.

John :Well, he played mandolin. I have a photo that was my friend’s grandfather & he was a barber & he played the mandolin & I have a beautiful photo from 1910 or 1904 of these guys standing there, playing mandolin in their barber suits.

Carolyn: Another key to the mandolin’s popularity was Queen Margarita of Italy, who reigned in the late 19th century. If she sounds familiar to you, it’s probably because the Pizza Margarita was named for her. The Queen was a patron of the arts. She sponsored painters, writers, musicians and founded cultural institutions. She also played the mandolin.

John: Because of that, then a lot of women were very inspired, she was very influential. She inspired a lot of women to take up the mandolin.

Carolyn: From this influence, Italian women formed mandolin orchestras and they played throughout Europe. As Italians immigrated to the United States, the orchestras came with them.

John: I could show you photos of women playing mandolins, in elegant dress, like turn of the century, Victorian era. The mandolin was also very popular up until the 1920’s. I still once in a while meet somebody who says, oh my grandmother played that, or I remember my mother had a mandolin.

Carolyn: What about the mandolin you’re holding right now?

John: This instrument I acquired around 1980, right after I came back from Italy. I had a guitar student, she knew that I play the mandolin, and she had an instrument that was her grandmother’s and she said that I’d like you to have it because nobody plays it.

Carolyn: Wow. So she just gave it to you?

John: She gave me this mandolin. The mandolin is from around 1900, late 1890’s-1900, and was made by the Martin guitar company. They also made mandolins.

Carolyn: Although the mandolin made its journey from the Arab world to the United States, its sound is indelibly associated with Italy. Maybe it’s because Italy loved the mandolin the most.

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