Roman Catholics, with whom I am now surrounded, have an expression: giving it up to god. It’s an entirely apt sentiment for learning to live in Italy in a peaceful way. Never before have I felt that most everything here is (mostly) out of my control (even if that control is illusory). Paternalism is systematic and baked into the culture. Decisions are made for you and, while chances are good you’ll get a version of whatever it is you want eventually, it is accomplished in a time and in a manner that often little resembles the original intention. While there is much to celebrate here, coming from master-of-my-domaine-we-don’t-take-no-for-an-answer-24/7-America, it’s a steep learning curve to zen in bella Italia. - Years ago, a lovely, healthy walnut tree grew uninhibited next to the house. At the time, so many naïve years ago, it was actually a selling point for the rural property, complete with fantasies of the meaty nuts in their shells drying in the warm autumn sun on the back porch, or a much-anticipated after-supper tipsiness from hand-bottled nocino, the thick, inky liquor made from the unripe, green nuts. The dream, however, turned nightmare when ghiri, the state-protected, squirrel-like animals, used the tree as stairs to enter the house, pushing aside the roof tiles and chewing through the insulation before falling with a thud at my bedside one early morning. Really, argued the old-school contractor, you have one solution: rimuovere le scale. The stairs had to go, he unsentimentally suggested. After much teeth gnashing and hand-wringing, we averted our gay gaze, and let him fell that beautiful fucking tree. The tree’s stump lives on, but now it is the mushrooms that fantasize about how the walnut tree will avail itself to their existence. - #italy #mushrooms #learningtheropes (at Niella Belbo) https://www.instagram.com/p/CkbujoqtG5zAW_CqZtUf9IDV-0RDCfFPLr6UKM0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
