[00:00:01] Hello, and welcome to Life is like a detective novel where I discuss how the human mind has a natural desire to solve the mystery of life. My name is Bailey Alexander, and through these stories and interviews in my latest book called Personal Legends of Piemonte, we discover how 12 Northern Italians fulfilled their destiny. Basically, how they figured it out, either by letting life unfold or by celebrating the treasure beneath their feet. And often by rearranging the details until the product is perfect. And Piemonte produces so very many of Italy's finest products. I lived in Piemonte for seven years, and eventually it began to feel like a pilgrimage. Not necessarily one in search of penance or a blessing, but it became known that I was there to learn some very key life lessons. So I interviewed wine and cheese makers, herbalists, a famous chef, a bar owner, a teacher, a bureaucrat, and a car mechanic named Luigi. Today we meet my hero, Alberto, and talk about how a home is so much more so. Hey, let's go. Andiamo. Chapter 11 in Personal Legends of Piemonte. And I'm going to read you part of the story before the interview. And this chapter is called the Hero.
[00:01:13] Apparently, our home had a split personality. It took a few seasons to figure out, and both required my full attention. I didn't have much to spare because external pursuits kept distracting me when I wasn't on my knees weeding. The majority of my time was spent running around trying to identify dozens of new blooms. Items planted by me were easily identifiable with simple nicknames like rose and lily. Sure, sun devilles require a few syllables, but long term residents taken root before we arrived on the scene could be as tricky as a menagerie. So many to memorize. By the time autumn arrived, I just gave up. Then I became consumed with the wine harvest. We were surrounded by it. Our lawn was level until the front border. Then the angle shifted dramatically. Thistles and junipers with their spiky thorns spread out menacingly in between me and hundreds of rows of vines cascading down into the valley. When seasons have their say, let life happens awfully fast in this part of the world. Under an azure sky, in such heat, once the grapes form, they grow quickly. They ripen, sweeten, and then they swell under the sun. And it's liberating to surrender to their essence. The Vendemia is a major event in Piemonte. At first, key players appear minor, like the little red and black buckets. They lie so low you can barely see them while driving by. Lined up dutifully in between the vines. There are thousands everywhere. One minute they're spilling over with grapes, the next, their precious contents are carefully poured into the trailers over and over again. If left alone, they may tip over when the pickers and their clippers abandon them for a midday meal. The days can be long and the work exhausting, so while they pick and clip and bend for hours, they keep one another entertained by saying nothing at all. They talk constantly as they finish one row and wrap around to the next. And the conversation continues and flows and never stops until the last cluster of grapes is put into those little red and black buckets. The rhythm accelerates as various brands of tractors and trucks take over our windy roads. Gratefully, we give way to millions of crystal clear green and red grapes glistening beneath the sun. You'd think vineyards would lose their attraction, but they've only just begun. This is when they really come alive. Colors so vivacious they change so quickly within a few weeks, shifting from green to passionate red. Then the grand finale when coral, orange and deep ochre take over. By the time their leaves find their way to the ground the next season on its way, these amusements kept me from making a mental note of my home's quirks, but didn't stop me from admiring her summer ensemble. She does look impeccable, draped in sun from floor to ceiling, wide shafts of light streaming onto her tiles, transforming the subtle terracotta into a floor that feels alive. When I look back out the windows, the view might as well be Rome. To the left, I see Loizolo and smile. Then Bubio rests in the distance and a couple more towns ask for attention until the Ligurian mountains decide we've seen enough. The highlight at night occurs to the right, where I can watch the moon set over the hills of Monferrato. The performance never dims and she receives rave reviews from everyone. Then Autumn casually skids in. Her visit is brilliant and far too short. The pool closes and long shadows slowly cross the patio. Granted a reprieve, I use the time to varnish a couple dozen shutters. When they're finished, they're ready for winter. But am I? By late November, I see signs of brooding. Perhaps I've neglected her. Things begin to break. The pool pump, the dishwasher. Then the stovetop in the kitchen keeps threatening to explode. My first friend on our new frontier was a laid back character named Max. His family ran a nursery in Bubio, but he didn't believe in the hard sell. I I had a fetish for flowers, so I appreciated this. A guy so relaxed, his favorite Expression was tranquil, tranquil. I doubt he ever had trouble falling asleep. But when I turned on the stove, he jumped higher than I did. The gas rings lifted in unison. I called the local company and the guy arrived, aptly named Guido. He validated my idea of a gas leak by taking me around to the back of the house and placing a lit Bic lighter beneath the gas valve. Then the broiler became fussy. Guido arrived a couple of times to service it with a cigarette attached to his lower lip. The entire time I kept walking outside, crossing my fingers, muttering. When it became obvious a new broiler was necessary, I called another gas guy to install it. Then the electricity began to dance. Tu belare. We were the last home attached to the power line that crossed our mountain. The electricity was complicated to fix, and the days were getting shorter and darker by the day. For better or worse, she was not a typical Piemontese home. Could be why we fell in love with her in the first place. The former owners had torn down the family home and leveled the property for a never ending lawn and pool. The design they chose was unique. We didn't have small, sensible rooms that were easy to heat. There wasn't the mandatory long proper staircase greeting you at the front door in the middle of the house. No, she was wide open, though not as innocent as her smooth surfaces promised. At the back, her U shaped staircases took their time, guiding us upward to another landing replete with wrought iron railings, elaborate, an arabesque theme. We saw her true personality on the upper story. Either end provided a mirror to the other, with identical bedrooms and bathrooms facing off with the room in the middle. The that one. We made an office to keep her honest. In her defense, she was generous. Her expansive lower story allowed me to assume she was uncomplicated, her backside straight and conventional. Outside there was a small narrow section with just a small patch of grass to mow, leading to an outdoor oven on the back patio before a hill cut straight alongside the pool, full of yellow blooms called genestra, to occupy the eye from spring to summer. But in front, in spite of all the windows and shutters, she was composed of one long and subtle curve from the front door to the back, as if to imply she was flexible, like a sailboat. We used to own one and parked it in front of our houseboat, so I should know. I began to think of these two homes as bookends with upper and lower stories in reverse. I tried to kid myself that they were similar. Our houseboat had a solid piece of concrete beneath and felt secure. If someone took their motorboat or jet ski for a joyride in our front yard, we felt a subtle shift beneath our feet. This was the reality of a floating home, so I thought solid earth might install vulnerability. Just the opposite. She inspired my first fever dream. An early winter snowstorm took over the land. Initially, I didn't mind being alone. Snow can be a fine companion. Pretty and quiet. It was easy to convince myself. My husband's travel itinerary was fluid and constant. To know the forecast of so many days of snow in a row wouldn't have made a difference. You can't stop a nomad. Looking out to the Ligurian Mountains, I was grateful for the contrast. To the right, you'd be surprised to find a pool sat beneath a meter of white snow. To the left, above ground, the forecourt and the garage. The tall gate was electronic, and I kept it open when it snowed. Alberto and his tractor needed access, and I felt relaxed by his arrival at 5 in the morning. He cut through the silence and I knew he'd make my day easier before it even began.
[00:09:11] One morning arrived without a sound. I slept in and let the dogs out late. Outside the front door, I felt happy for a few feet of freedom. Alberto was probably waiting for the snow to stop. Gigi and Gaston disappeared quickly. My ears adjusted to the muffled sound from the snow. My eyes tried to adjust to the blocks of bright white light staring back. I was confused. It felt like I was on the surface of the moon, looking down. There was the shadow of the path carved out by my snowblower the day before. A tiny red contraption that couldn't possibly compete with the weather. I pushed it for hours, making concentric patterns around the forecourt. All that determination had disappeared overnight. I looked up with gratitude to the broad beams extending from the house, keeping the outdoor tiles visible. The snow was mounting slowly. I tried to find signs of life and suspected a piece of my postcard was missing. Scanning from left to right, the rose garden was buried behind it, the black wrought iron fence barely visible. The eventually, a stage was set before me. I could view the mise en scene. It was the trees, as if someone had stolen them in the middle of the night. Maybe I'd taken them for granted. Two dozen fir trees, hyper elegant exclamation marks, dramatically letting me know my work was done at the end of the day. Rarely did I feel compelled to work beyond the gate unless it was the Hortensias. But where did they go? Oh, they were there, lying horizontal in the mist. Exhausted, terrifically tall trunks layered with tiers and tiers of branches, passed out after a heavy night of wet snow. It must have taken days. My home was too new. Still a puzzle. Until I could solve it. Way up there, at the top of the hill, the first must have surrendered, then the next, with little choice for the rest. The last one sat across the entrance to our home, no longer firmly rooted in the soil. What took decades to create, now gone. I was locked in my paradise, now a prison. I had five hectares before me, with only one way out. My mind was amazed. Fear and anxiety led to frustration. Whom could I call for help?
[00:11:31] Enter Alberto. Actually, Alberto had entered the day. His aunt and her husband transferred the keys to the house. Alberto was standing right there, as if he came with the keys. His smile was wide, his eyes attentive. A face full of soft angles. And down below, two boots strapped to the ground.
[00:11:51] I couldn't find any lines of pain, age or worry on his forehead. He appeared without guile and instantly likable. While being introduced, I couldn't help feeling relieved. I wasn't even fussed that he appeared to belong, while I felt like an intruder in my new home. His family had owned the valley for generations. For seven years I lived in Loetzolo and rarely saw him without his tractor. He'd owned it since the 70s and kept it in mint condition. We always had work for him, but he didn't have much extra time. One day he cleared some of our bamboo. It was getting in the way of our path to the Pozzo, our well. We cut it down and put it to the side. When I drove up from Canelli one day, just before reaching the Rosa Hortensia, I saw Alberto and his tractor moving the bamboo. The sun was setting behind him on the hill. His silhouette offered one hand working the gear and the other hand in mid air, as if to keep his balance. The impression was of a cowboy riding a wild bronco and having one hell of a good time. When we shared a long private road, you could stop off at Alberto's home first or continue past the shed where I once fell off Audrey. Because of the mud, a very sharp corner. Delivery trucks could cause damage and hit the trim extending from the top of the shed. If you made it safely around the shed, a steep section took you past the vines, then the hortensias on the left and the woodshed to the right, taking you all the way to our home at the top. During spring and summer, I'd entered our private road at the bottom and looked for Alberto. All I could ever catch was a shapeless hat flowing on top of the vines, moving down one row and turning around to the next. All was right with the world. Nothing fazed him. He came over for dinner one night and shared the following types of stories. A few years ago, there was a major storm. His roof fell off. No worries. His friends came over the next day and put it back on like it was a raincoat. When I called him about the fir trees, I soon saw his tractor turn around the corner and drive up alongside the invisible Hortensias wearing a shapeless hat for all seasons. He stopped and we talked across the tree while his friend Valerio parked his car, a small Panda model, next to the shed where I stocked the wood. Alberto had a lot of friends. Valerio and Alberto reviewed the situation, tied the tree to the back of his tractor with the rope and drove down the road and came back and dragged another tree like a piece of string. One time he asked me to join the hunters for lunch at the shed at the Hunters Lounge at the bottom of our road. A couple of hunters were cooking a beautiful bolito while Valerio stood at the wooden table, cutting up eggs with his half moon gadget, dancing and laughing with his friends. The fire was burning and the men were telling the same jokes they'd been telling their entire lives, drinking Barolo and Barbaresco while Valerio completed his delightful version of Salad Ni soie. Francis called these guys Italian rednecks, and being half Piemontese, he should know they live in the countryside of Piemonte. In many cities, this would be considered fine dining. When his daughter was off to college, we gave them furniture, a few bookcases and a couch at Owens in Seattle. The secret shared between a mother and daughter. One night on that couch had changed my life. I talk about this in my first book. And when I saw Alberto drive away with that couch and that memory, I knew he was the only person I trusted to take such an item away. A month after my fever dream, the snow melted. Alberto came back to cut some of the wood from the fallen fir trees. The project would take a team to clear the land. Alberto wanted to help in the meantime, when he cut some of the trunks into chunks. Every once in a while, one would stick to his axe by design, and he'd wave it around in the air a couple of times before letting it come crashing down for a perfect split. His friend Valerio was there, in good spirits as I carefully carried chunks of wood and placed them in the shed, one by one.
[00:15:54] Alberto may or may not be the nicest guy in the world, but. But he's my hero. He has a wife named Monica, one daughter, plenty of work and his beloved tractor. The order and priorities may change depending upon the day. One time I was bitten badly by a wild cat left by the former owners. My dogs caught it one day and were pulling at the cat from either end. Stupidly, I tried to save it. I detached the dogs right before the cat bit me hard, then ran away. Monica took me to the hospital. She stayed with me the entire time, as if leaving was out of the question. She always had a one liner. She doesn't utter them. They kind of roll out of her mouth, as if simply admitting a truth. I may not always understand what she speaks because she speaks so fast, but she always makes Frances laugh out loud. They are solid, and Alberto is my hero. Optimistic souls insist there's a solution to everything. Alberto makes me believe it. Not without my own fears, I suppose. I've always had a fascination with death. The youngest in my family by many years, my grandparents died when I was five and I had many questions. When my brother died at 45, I had more and death became a preoccupation.
[00:17:07] Spending so many hours in the soil deluded me into thinking I could overcome this quiet obsession. As if I could dig my grave each day and walk away. Perhaps Alberto is why I stopped spending so much time in the soil. Life goes by, and each day probably doesn't differ from the day before. Their attitude follows suit. Loezolo, like most towns, offers a festival. Unlike other towns, everyone attends the party in Loeotzolo. No longer a sleepy hamlet, she awakes and faces her own metamorphosis. Every corner is full of energy, offering anticipation. Each cobblestoned alley filled with tables displaying various food and varieties of wine. Witty conversation may not permeate the environs, but everyone partakes in the ambiance, the camaraderie, the music and the quality of al fresco dining. The tables they set up in the center are long and it's hard to find a seat. But you will. The dancing begins at night and continues as long as the moon shines. The wine is quite fine. The diverse selection of food is fantastic, with local cheese and salami and steak tartare is divine. A Nigerian resident sells delicious honey. She makes it herself. Her niece is one of the children I teach in the school. Her name is Good News.
[00:18:27] Alberto and Monica devote hours of time planning the party. I see them under various tents, serving something sweet or slicing a salami. Doing their part to make the event a success. Residents make themselves sparse throughout the year, but on this day an entire cast of characters comes out to play and create a little magic. So, hey, thank you so much for stopping by for a listen. And I have a book signing next week for the Personal Legends of Piemonte. It will be held in Rome on Via del Moro on April 10th at 7pm at the almost Corner Bookshop. And please note that the book is in both English and Italian. The first half in English, the second in Italian was professionally translated and we worked really hard to get it right. So if you're getting ready to visit Italy, you can brush up on your Italian and additional information can be found on my
[email protected] so hey, ciao for now. Riverci.
