Lonely days & nights

Sometimes you can be lonely even if you are surrounded by loads of people. We only need to look at cities and the amount of lonely people who occupy a sprawling urban mass, all chocker block on top of each other, unaware of life taking place around them. Some of these lonely people find solace in writing, some in getting take outs every night, washed down with a bottle of wine. Some spend all their time online, talking to their cyber friends. Some just stare at the wall and wonder what the hell went wrong. Sometimes even a neighbour you've had for twenty years is a stranger. If you think about it, have you ever gotten as far as saying 'hi'? In fact, have you ever had eye contact? That is far too intimate for anyone quite happy festering in their own comfort zone. I am happy this way. Eye contact is overrated.

So many people, so many characters, singletons, playboys, playgirls, office workers, artists, hustlers, and street vendors criss crossing the streets of every city in every country. So lets think of ways we could potentially (and we'll leave it there) bring people together in a city. There are all sorts of community groups that have been created by the good, happy, and annoying. These groups involve people i.e. Pre-natal groups (is that a community thing?), book clubs, Alcoholics Anonymous, knitting clubs which are for people who thin they look cool, knitting. Knitting club is about being seen, not so much about knitting. Knitters often wear vintage, arrive on a bicycle, and are probably enrolled on the Textiles & fashion course at the local uni. If you don't knit, you are certainly not cool. Yoga - you can take up a yoga class, and go for a spirolina smoothie (or whatever is the new super food or lets say trend) with your new found health freak yoga obsessed friend afterwards. Or how about a mega workout at the gym. A spinning class perhaps. Spinning consists of cycling on the spot with pumping music and a highly energetic trainer pushing you beyond what is humanly acceptable regarding exertion. After a spinning class, you, or another newbie may fall over when you get off the bike, so watch out. The problem with spinning is that you are cycling in a hot sweaty box of a room (the one I am in) As soon as I get on that bike I know I have made one of the biggest mistakes of my life, I look around me, the instructor is there, I could do a runner, but I'm too damn polite, and not quick thinking enough to come up with a feasible excuse. I lose my opportunity to flee, and am now stuck in a box room, no beautiful trees to look at, or ponds to avoid. Just sweat noise and shouting. One of my ideas of hell. I am in hell.

When you are stuck out in the countryside, and a foreign one at that, things aren't much better. Foreign land, foreign language, foreign culture. At first it's lovely and wonderful and the sun shines a lot. Then that creeping feeling edges in 'Why am I here, what the hell am I doing?!' Frustration at the lack of city style things available sets in proceeded by a bout of severe grumpiness. Then the frantic online hunt starts for any other same language speaker. Where do I start? Ex pat forums I suppose. I am not an ex pat myself per se, I flit between countries, I am nomadic, cool, out there. Or so I delude myself.

I trail a few forums looking out for anyone in Le Marche. They seem few and far between, and any foreigners living the good life here are hours away from where I am. Trail trail trail. Click click click. Nothing nothing nothing. Oh, something. Finally. I spot an interview with an American couple running an agriturismo in Piobbico - that's not horrendously far! Excitement replaces melancholy and I browse the article. The agriturismo is aptly named 'La Tavola Marche' (www.latavolamarche.com) and it looks rustic and fab, just what you'd expect from an agriturismo. Welcoming and cosy, and the people who run it sound lovely too, I think that they are almost Italian, plus the guy is a chef. They have been in Italy for two and a half years and moved from New York where they had been living for the past eight years. Great, city folk, I am definitely getting in touch with them. So I write an email detailing pretty much how sorry for myself I am feeling, and that surely there must be some more English speakers around? And that I would love to swing by their agriturismo to meet them. Signed, Best wishes, Becky.

'Send'.

Now that I am feeling a bit more alive I can get on with things other than vegetating. A few days later I open my mailbox to a ping and find amongst all the junk I receive an enthusiastic response from Ashley at La Tavola Marche. Before having a read I check out my spam box. The usual emails are languishing in limbo, emails from Reverends in Nigeria informing me of an enormous inheritance, and the 'FBI', also in Nigeria funnily enough. In fact, the 'FBI' uses gmail (very smart), and if I do not report my details to them, I 'will surely be in trouble'. Very interesting how the 'FBI' uses ticking off style language to trap their suspects, it must be a highly effective method. I must also be on their top wanted list, I have had about ten emails from the 'FBI' this week already.

After a few seconds worth of entertainment and a childish urge to respond to the spam emails using Bart Simpson style humour, I get back to the email from Ashley. She sounds really friendly and tells me to swing by any time, as they are usually in. Great, my pathetic and self pitying email is the best thing I have achieved all week in terms of being vaguely productive. I say that I'll come round on Monday afternoon, boyfriend in tow.

On Monday afternoon we merrily set off towards Piobbico. I don't know much about Piobbico apart from that fact that it has a Hollywood style sign saying 'Piobbico' in the hills above the town. The sign adds a touch of glamour to this small and charming town and conjures up memories of me hanging out in Franklin Village, Hollywood. Good times. After taking a wrong turn, we arrive at La Tavola Marche. A beautiful rustic farmhouse sits away from the dirt track road set amongst the trees and hills. A tall and friendly looking person pops out of the doorway with bundles of energy and a smiling face. Ashley! She greets us warmly and accepts my bedraggled looking bunch of Salva and goes off to find a vase. Jason is upstairs somewhere finishing off some of the cleaning while the guests are out. The wine is appears on the table within minutes of being there, so we feel right at home. Some aged pecorino cheese and some prosciutto make for a great aperativo and we chat merrily about the local area, the warmth and friendliness of the place and the two chefs have a gander round the garden exchanging cooking tips. We meet the chickens, the cat. After a few hours we hit the road to head back for dinner. We leave Jason cooking up a scrumptious meal for their guests, say our goodbyes to Ashley and off we go. We are definitely meeting up again

In the car we both agree we had a lovely time, and you know what, getting the wine out immediately is very Italian and a sign of hospitality. They got it right on. Success.

Www.latavolamarche.com

Food, sex, and restaurants.

I love a nice drive in the countryside, which is why on this occasion I am feeling pretty perky. The wind is blowing through my hair, the convertible MG is roaring along the dusty country roads snaking its way up taking us higher and higher into the hills....Ok, I am fantasising now. Only about the wind in the hair and the convertible bit. The rest is absolutely true. If you must know, we are driving a Fiat Qubo, a strange looking vehicle that is shaped like a cube, which you may have already guessed, and runs on Metano (methane) which at 10 euros to fill up the tank allows for some long distance fun. And excursions up modestly sized mountains. On this occasion we are making our way to Sant' Angelo in Vado, somewhere I have only ever driven through on our way back from Tuscany. We have an excellent reason to grace this quaint little town with our presence; Il Piatto del Duca is in full swing and we want a taste of the action. Or lets just say that having a meal for 20 euros including wine at a top Michelin starred restaurant is a major factor in our decision process as to where we are going to eat tonight.

Il Piatto del Duca is a foodies dream. Ten restaurants in the Montefeltro area of Marche are in furious competition with each other to create a dish based on the renaissance kitchen. The dishes must contain lamb and spices such as cinnamon and ginger. Most of the restaurants are located in Urbino, Rafaello's birthplace, the hub of the renaissance movement. Punters eat like renaissance dukes for a mere 20 Euros, savouring aromatic lamb and whatever else the chef in question has conjured up for the professional jury who are ready to taste, and the popular jury, us mere mortals eagerly anticipating this gastronomic feast of the senses. The winner gets to host a huge Renaissance style banquet in the Palazzo Ducale – I wonder exactly what that involves apart from food, and a lot of it.

We pitch up in Sant' Angelo. It is a beautiful town, in keeping with the renaissance theme that is apparently going on at the moment. It is surrounded by a moat; something that never ceases to fascinate me. Moats are so romantic. It is obvious from the outset that this place is made of of one way streets and little alley ways. Cute, but now we have to find this restaurant. We stop outside a bar, and my boyfriend gets out to ask some guys who are having a drink and a chat about whatever it is they are talking about, how we might get to Taddeo e Federico.

Excuse me could you tell me where Taddeo e Federico is please?

'Eh?' they look bemused. Are you organising a rock night there? (Apparently my boyfriend looks too grungy and could not possibly be going to a better restaurant). All four of them chime in at the same time, telling him that this street is a one way street, and you can't turn into this one, and when you get to this point you must bla bla bla.' Wow, this place is miles away, and it sounds damn complicated. Needless to say, confusions reigns. It slowly dawns on us that things are much more complicated than they need to be, so the bf decides to take charge of the situation.

'Is it possible to walk to the restaurant from here?' (ha, gotcha! Try complicating this one!)

'Yes yes, go straight on, take a left past the statue of the pope, second right. It's just behind those buildings.' Is there a carpark near the restaurant, yes there is. Suddenly complex becomes ease.

'And how long is the walk? About 1 minute.'

Right. Well that's that sorted then – some people really do not appreciate the concept of a nice walk. It is not always necessary to be dropped on the doorstep. I like a nice walk, and this town is perfect for it. I love the old fashioned lamps that hang merrily from the buildings, think Paris, and London a long time ago.

Ten minutes later and we are warmly welcomed by the owner of Taddeo e Federico. And I don't notice any funny looks related to our current fashion faux pas. The grunge and tourist look is apparently accepted. Good. We are led into the dining area, which is done out very nicely, with attention to detail and a traditional twist. The jury are fully immersed in a lively conversation and greet us cordially as we enter the adjoining dining area. My attempt to sneak past unnoticed doesn't work and I am forced to gingerly acknowledge the smiling faces. Realising then that we have not interrupted them, the mild sensation of seclusion which consumes me on a regular basis dissolves.

We are led to our table and I take a seat. A wobble table, of all the tables in the restaurant, we had to get the wobbly table. Every time one of us places a limb on the table, it violently shakes. I start to get annoyed and get up to use the bathroom, in which I may find a piece of cardboard, or something. No such luck. I only spot cotton towels displayed very neatly for us bathroom users to dry our hands with. Can we also take them with us? This bathroom baffles me. I turn on the tap and it runs for ages, I am actually not sure if it will stop, and my frantic fiddling with the handle does nothing. I can't figure out where to put this damn towel. Perhaps I can just stuff it into my bag? I decide not to as I am overcome with a temperate feeling of paranoia – they might have cctv (the UK really has given me a complex about cctv). At this point the tap finally stops running, and I make my escape, leaving the towel on the side.

Back at the wobbly table which is no longer wobbly – I look down to inspect the offending table leg and identify a piece of cardboard. Excellent. Now I can relax, and the evening gets off to a start.

We are given a talk on the history and typical qualities of Renaissance food at which point I realise I don't have anything to scribble down notes. Typical. I am dressed like something out of the Timmy Mallett show (or even Timmy Mallett himself). What I do manage to pick up information wise is that dishes were based on four conditions concerning the human body – hot, cold, dry and humid. All these qualities needed to be conveyed in the competitors dishes.

We are given a bottle of wine with our meal, which we enthusiastically recognise as one of the Terra Cruda wines that we tasted at the Terra Cruda cantina, a Vettina which is one of the basic wines, which makes us feel extra knowledgeable, and me extra smug. Redemption feels so good. We are served up the following two dishes:

Soft juicy pear baked in the oven infused with red wine and cinnamon. Beautifully layered on top is cheese which has been drizzled in Sapa, a viscous sauce made by slow cooking the must of red and white grapes. It is slightly sour tasting with a caramel after taste and is a speciality in Marche. The pear melts on my tongue and I take small bites to make it last as long as possible. I am already in heaven, this dish is simply divine.

Next up is the Pappardelle and lamb. This dish takes me to the next level of nirvana. The pappardelle is home made using a mix of whole wheat and white flours, roughly ground. The cinnamon lamb and sauce sauce compliment each other perfectly. This dish is aromatic, perfectly balanced, and is simply delicious. I am already thinking about the next restaurant I can gatecrash. I'll make a real effort to look stylish this time. Because it won't be last minute.

The desert – oh yes – this was not listed on the menu arrives and my eyes are wide open (so is my mouth). I greedily follow the waiter with my eyes, or lets be more specific, the desert around the room until it finally reaches our table. We are all on the edge of temptation, we are refraining from eagerly tucking in while one of the judges gives us another talk about the desert. I don't even hear what she has to say as my main concern is watching the desert, and making sure it does not go missing. The desert is made with rice, grapes and walnuts and is some kind of tart. Fantastic with the passito that is poured into our glasses. Passito is a sweet wine wine, and this one is a Ben Rye from Pantelleria, Sicily.

Throughout the course of the evening a poet, who looks very retro cool, gets up, and reads passages from books that to me sound rather sexual. I happened to give my boyfriend a book for Valentines day called Sex and cooking, or Cooking and sex by AnnaMaria Tedesco – these Latinos may be dramatic, but they have an eye for the important things in life. Well, the poet didn't read any passages from the AnnaMaria Tedesco book, but certainly from other writes with sex & cooking on the brain. I suspect that the renaissance was all about food and sex. Salute.