Going Gypsy Read online

  Actually, I give myself snaps for spending only one night pacing the floor and panicking. This was a big step toward overcoming my risk aversion. I hadn’t taken a big risk in years—unless switching from a Blackberry to an iPhone counts.

  For our new life-changing decision, I decided that before I could be comfortable taking on the world, I had one more huge task to complete. No further craziness would happen until our affairs were in order in the event of our certain demise.

  It was essential for me to be convinced that The Spawn would not be burdened if I went down in a hang-gliding/bungee-jumping/snowboarding/street-food–eating blaze of glory. They would have enough on their plates explaining to their friends how mommy was gored by a long-horned steer in rodeo clown school. They didn’t need probate problems to boot.

  We got ourselves to a lawyer to write a will.

  J. Biffington Goodmannerlyness, Esq., has a somber job and he is very good at it. J. Biff’s gig is like a prequel to the funeral director’s. Weighty, uncomfortable subjects are handled in a most serious and solemn way. He is calm and crisply coiffed but, unlike a funeral director, doesn’t smell of formaldehyde. He smells like soap. Squeaky-clean soap.

  We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and settled in to a distinguished wood-paneled conference room. His Bifflyness had no clue that he was about to embark on the most inappropriate client meeting of his young career.

  I’m not going to lie. Talking about my death—and what happens to the people I leave behind—is not my favorite topic, and when David sees that I am uncomfortable with anything, he morphs into a tastless nightclub comedian. Right off the bat, he opened with, “So, Biff, let’s talk about us becoming stiffs.”

  Poor J. Biff didn’t know what hit him. To his credit, he held fast to a calm demeanor and a strained smile. The Biffinator did his utmost to keep us focused on the task at hand. The more he tried, the more we felt like we had to crack him. He was so adorably serious.

  “So, how does this work?” David asked. “I mean, let’s say I take the big dirt nap the day after we sign it. What happens?”

  J. Biff calmly explained the process. His knowledge and expertise clearly garnered huge advantages over the do-it-yourself–type will. We could ask stupid questions and have a mediator for the inevitable heavy discussions and a sounding board for the intricacies of our family dynamic.

  We discussed the sixteen boxes we had in storage. I’d written things like “Grandma’s china for Decibel” and “For The Boy on his twenty-first birthday” on the corresponding cartons. A few unmarked knickknacks, pieces of art, and photo albums would be left for them to fight over. What good is a funeral without a scuffle or two? It’ll keep their minds off of my corpse—I am a very considerate mother, after all.

  I breezed through the bequeathing unfazed. That was the easy part, and that way my mortality stayed off in the abstract. Then J. Biffy brought up the living will. Ugh.

  Having personally gone through the pull-the-plug process twice—once with a living will and once without—I am a huge proponent of the advance directive method. Making life-or-death medical decisions under duress is not a burden I want to dump on my offspring.

  David, when asked about life support, without hesitation said, “First time I poop my pants, throw me off the back of the boat.”

  He’s scary serious about this.

  “I’m fairly sure if I offed you for soiling yourself, I’d be facing murder charges.” I turned to Biff. “You’re a lawyer, help me out here.”

  “She could face a significant amount of jail time.” Did I detect a hint of sarcasm? Uh-oh. The Biffmeister could be onto us. David settled for the safer “no drastic measures” option.

  Personally, I was more willing to give adult diapers a shot, so J. Biff gently ran me through some end-of-life scenarios.

  Funeral directions were a bit tougher. This really brought home the ultimate demise. I knew I didn’t want a grave that people would feel obligated to visit. Whatever part of me that makes me me won’t be there. Why visit a tiny plot of ground and bones?

  The disposal of my dead body gets tricky for me. In some ways I feel like it’s not any of my business what happens to it. Those choices should be left for the living. If they need a service and a burial for closure purposes, then who am I to deny them? But I’ve tried to talk to The Spawn about how they would prefer to deal with these inevitable issues, and they will have none of that. They take after me in that regard.

  I’ve looked online at some options, and there are a surprising amount of them. Burial at sea appeals to me, but entails obtaining permits and hiring a boat with a captain willing to take on the task. I don’t want The Spawn stuck holding back puking, seasick relatives’ hair as they are trying to grieve.

  Being ashes in an urn on a mantle might be a fun way to spend eternity. I could be passed down from generation to generation. Get used as a centerpiece for holidays. Sounds like a lot of fun until some great-great-grandchild drops me and I end up in a vacuum cleaner bag.

  I even found a company that will pour me into a cement ball and make me part of a coral reef. Talk about sleeping with the fishes.

  Once again David broke in with the wildly inappropriate.

  “I want to be stuffed and propped up in a recliner. Stick a cold beer in one hand and the remote in the other. Nobody’ll even notice. Dad fell asleep in his chair again. So, Biff, what are the legalities involved with that?”

  Gotta love my man.

  Sir Biffalot looked like he could use that cold beer right about then. He straightened his paperwork and looked at us seriously. “Clearly you aren’t ready for final arrangements. This is something you two need to discuss with your family and get back to me on.”

  We signed some documents and Biff told us he’d have the final will ready for us in a few days. That wasn’t so bad.

  The best part was knowing that The Spawn will have sweet, compassionate J. Biffington Goodmannerlyness at the ready when the time comes. He’ll know just how to act when they start wisecracking away their grief.

  We’ve already broken him in.

  8

  Sardinia Has the Best Donkey

  While Veronica had her bouts of panic, the sheer pace of events over the summer held my anxieties at bay. There simply wasn’t time to worry too much about any decision. Sell it, move it, buy it, and rent it, so far, so good. I projected complete confidence throughout the process, but that was mostly for Veronica’s sake. In reality, the doubts that I had were overshadowed by more immediate concerns.

  With the bulk of those chores and doubts behind us, only the renovation of the grease-coated mess of a condo that we were demented enough to buy blocked our path. But that would have to wait.

  On The Boy’s first day of college, we were getting on a plane. Generic Midwestern College Town–Chicago–New York–Zurich and finally Sardinia. We didn’t really plan for the two events to happen simultaneously; it just worked out that way. As luck would have it, my short tour in Italy coincided exactly with our officially empty nest.

  I’ve always considered the travel and opportunity to see new places a huge plus to my occupation as a musician. It may not have made up for all of the time spent away from my family, but at least it was a bright side. In the nineties, I had the good fortune of making connections in Europe that led to more than twenty tours with half a dozen or more artists. The majority of that time was spent in Italy, and Italia became my home away from home. My agent was in Cuneo, my record company in Milan, and I had friends scattered throughout the country.

  Fortunately, I kept in touch, so I still get to fly over and perform every now and then. Even better, unlike back when the nest was filled and the brood needed tending, Veronica could join me and make it a working vacation, as well as a kick-ass kickoff to our empty nest.

  When I met Veronica she was terrified of flying, so much so that she nearly drew blood while squeezing my arm on our rough honeymoon flight. As the years passed, she got better. Still
, I always take her hand before takeoff. If we go down, we’re going down together.

  “We did it,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze as the plane pulled onto the Generic Midwestern runway.

  It was what we were both thinking.

  “I know,” Veronica said, and then added something totally out of character. “If we die now, it won’t really matter.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean if the plane crashes, the kids will be okay. We’re done. They can all fend for themselves now.”

  Wow. No lamenting at all—she was really letting go.

  “Well, I hope they won’t be celebrating our demise, but you’re right, we really have done it.”

  Our primary job as parents was complete.

  The first Sardinian concert was in the town of Sassari. It was more of a city than a town, really. With about a quarter of a million people, it’s the second largest on the Mediterranean island.

  At dinner before the show, our host, concert promoter, and veritable treasure trove of Sardinian lore, Gianluca, gave us the lowdown on local history and customs. We got a good laugh when the waiter translated a pork dish as “the beef of the pig,” and that turned the conversation to food, meat in particular. Gianluca, perhaps looking for a reaction, brought up that horse and donkey are the regional specialties of Sardinia.

  “This can be hard to eat for people not from our island,” he said with a wry smile.

  Was that a challenge? Had the gauntlet been thrown down? How could we face Gianluca over the next few days if we did not eat his “regional specialty”? Since, on a previous visit to Italy, I had been so hungry I could have eaten a . . . um, had consumed horse, that left us with ass. We must eat the ass.

  The next day, in a tiny piazza near our hotel, we happened upon an intriguing little café called Trattoria da Peppina. Perusing the signboard out front, we spied asinello, Italian for little donkey. Upon further inspection, baby burro was one of the least adventurous menu items. Spinal cord, small heads of lamb, various entrails and organs, three kinds of snails, and goat feet were all available for our luncheon enjoyment. There were also several offerings we couldn’t decipher, even with our fairly complete English–Italian dictionary. That must have been the really good stuff.

  We had no doubt that this was it, we had found our place. Since we were early—it was barely noon—we had the place to ourselves. The bartender/waiter/dishwasher/cook came out to take our order with a “Prego?”

  I replied with what I assumed was a perfectly normal order for this place, “Si, due pasta Bolognese, e un asinello per favore.”

  Veronica was chowing down breadsticks.

  “Are you trying to fill up so you won’t have room for ass?”

  “No, no, I’m just hungry. I can hardly wait for the ass.”

  “Yeah, right.” Then I mentioned hopefully, “It would be good if there’s a nice sauce to cover our ass, or even better, maybe they’ll batter it up and throw it in a deep fryer, you know, chicken-fried ass.”

  While we were enjoying our pasta prima piatti, the distinct sound of naked meat sizzling on the grill drifted in from the kitchen.

  Sure enough the ass was served straight up, grilled to perfection, all alone on the plate except for a lemon wedge. Perhaps by accident, but perhaps not, it had a shape that could easily have been seen as a toilet seat.

  “That’s some nice-looking ass.”

  “There’s nothing like a good piece of ass.”

  “How’d you like to bite my . . .” Okay, okay, enough of that.

  We added the lemon and some salt while we summoned up our courage. I cut the steak, rather tentatively, and gave it the sniff test. Smelled good, looked okay.

  “Here we go. The fork is up and . . . it’s good!”

  No, really, it was good. Fully expecting to only try a bite or two, we ate every bit. It was genuinely tasty, and best of all, at dinner that night we could truthfully say to Gianluca, “No grazie, we had ass for lunch.”

  After a few days and a couple of shows in Sardinia, we made our way back to the mainland for dates in Torino, Ovada, Genoa, Alba, and Casale Monferrato, with some time off in between for sightseeing. Even though none of these towns is at the top of the tourist’s must-visit list, they all have fascinating stories and architectural treasures.

  Genoa is a whole lot more than the home of delicious dry salami. It is the Unofficial Capital of the Italian Riviera, the stretch along the Ligurian Sea between Pisa and the French border, and easily one of Italy’s most enchanting cities. It is also the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, as well as the only slightly less world-renowned guitar picker and collaborator on the tour, Paolo Bonfanti.

  Upon learning of our arrival, Paolo’s mother, Mama Bonfa, insisted that we make a pilgrimage to the homestead. She prepared a feast fit for royalty and welcomed us like family.

  This was not to be a typical Italian meal, but more of a traditional Ligurian repast. Genoa is known as the home of pesto, which was invented here, so guess what we were having? Mama Bonfa was not about to let us leave Genoa without having her handmade gnocchi with the classic basil and garlic pesto.

  While that was the centerpiece of the meal, Mama Bonfa circulated in and out of the kitchen with focaccia, cheeses, vegetable pastry, salad, and various vinos to round out the sumptuous spread. Every dish was fantastic, and none were a mystery, until late in the meal when Mama emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of odd-looking white stuff.

  Veronica quietly asked me what it was. I had no idea. Paolo, musician and translator extraordinaire, must have overheard because he answered, “Gianchetti.”

  “What?” I had never heard of it.

  “Baby anchovies. It is a specialty of the region,” he explained.

  One of the many advantages of dining in an Italian home, above and beyond the sheer volume of food and never-ending courses, was the opportunity to try dishes not available, or that we would never order, in a restaurant. Gianchetti is certainly one of those. I can’t recall ever thinking I wish we could find some tiny blanched baby anchovies.

  But itty-bitty whole parboiled freshly foaled fishes in a big bowl was exactly what we were having. They looked like oversized grains of rice, or dare I say, maggots, with little black dots that on closer inspection turned out to be . . . eyes! There were thousands of little poached eyes staring up at us! Maybe this was a joke. Paolo must be playing let’s see what we can get the Americani to eat.

  But as Mama Bonfa spooned the hatchlings out for all of the Italians present, they seemed thrilled to see the special dish and were digging right in. It must be okay. We were also certain that Mama Bonfa was much too gracious to go along with such a ruse, so we banished that thought.

  Common courtesy dictated that we happily accept nice big portions. A little lemon, salt, and olive oil and it was not bad actually, just odd, and a little squishy. Of course when soaked in extra virgin, pretty much anything tastes good.

  I leaned into Veronica and whispered, “Not quite as good as ass, is it?”

  She was too busy to answer, moving them around her plate, pushing several of the infant fish under some lettuce, accidentally dropping a few into her napkin, and sneakily slipping some onto my plate. She must have done a good job because Mama Bonfa saw her plate and with a broad smile asked, “You like?”

  Trapped! What could Veronica possibly say? She managed only unintelligible garble and nodding motions as a gleeful Mama Bonfa piled on a second round, twice as big this time. I might have burst out laughing if not for knowing full well that the vast majority of those little fry were going to end up in front of me. Pass the olive oil, please.

  Afterward, I couldn’t help wondering why they didn’t just wait to let the poor little critters grow up, because a full-grown anchovy can rock a pizza pie.

  There’s no telling what might be encountered in an Italian hotel. In my travels, I’ve found that sometimes the accommodations themselves can become an adventure. Through the years, I’ve seen wild v
ariations in light switches, beds, phones, doors, locks on said doors, and especially bathroom layouts. Much more than just a bidet or no bidet situation, I’m talking complete bathroom philosophies. Like the toilet actually being in the shower, or no definition of a shower whatsoever. It’s not uncommon for there to simply be a showerhead sticking out of the wall in the middle of the bathroom and a drain on the floor. The entire room is the shower stall, making it imperative to protect vital tissues accordingly.

  I’ve seen bathrooms with a shower curtain down the middle, triangular shower stalls in the corner, groovy circular enclosures (with doors that rarely work without major stickage), and even a shower in the middle of the room. I don’t mean the bathroom. A big square glass shower, right in the middle of the main room. The hotel was so proud of it, they had even placed it up on a pedestal and added a light show. It must have been chic because it was at a four-star hotel, but it was not my idea of ideal when rooming with one of the boys in the band.

  So as Veronica and I ventured across Italy, I wasn’t surprised by any hotel eccentricities we encountered. The same may not be said for Veronica.

  I, unlike David, had never spent time all alone in a foreign country, so I was excited at the prospect of roaming the streets of Casale Monferrato solo. This charming little town in northern Italy had me ready to rock. Romantically picturing myself strolling the streets among the afternoon shoppers, I asked David to put together a list of items for a late-night hotel picnic after his rehearsal. He suggested salami, cheese, olives, bread, and wine. I was so excited I practically chased him out of the room so I could get on my way. I gave him a kiss and a shove as I kicked the door shut behind him.

  Alone in the hotel room, I hastily changed into what I deemed proper shopping attire, making sure I had my euros, the hotel room key, and David’s list. I jotted down the words I needed to know from our handy dictionary—salume, formaggio, pane, vino—and turned to the door. Feeling all Audrey-Hepburn-in-Roman-Holiday, I tossed my hair over my shoulder and grabbed the knob. It didn’t turn. It was locked.