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  • Written by Sally Gable and Carl I. Gable
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Finding a New Life in a Venetian Country House

Written by Sally GableAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Sally Gable and Carl I. GableAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Carl I. Gable



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On Sale: January 21, 2009
Pages: 288 | ISBN: 978-0-307-48934-0
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Read by Sally Gable
On Sale: July 05, 2005
ISBN: 978-0-7393-2064-8
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On Sale: July 05, 2005
ISBN: 978-1-4159-2634-5
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Palladian Days is nothing short of wonderful–part adventure, mystery, history, diary, and even cookbook. The Gables’ lively account captures the excitement of their acquisition and restoration of one of the greatest houses in Italy. Beguiled by Palladio and the town of Piombino Dese, they trace the history of the Villa Cornaro and their absorption of Italian life. Bravo!” –Susan R. Stein, Gilder Curator and Vice President of Museum Programs, Monticello

In 1552, in the countryside outside Venice, the great Renaissance architect Andrea Palladio built Villa Cornaro. In 1989, Sally and Carl Gable became its bemused new owners. Called by Town & Country one of the ten most influential buildings in the world, the villa is the centerpiece of the Gables’ enchanting journey into the life of a place that transformed their own. From the villa’s history and its architectural pleasures, to the lives of its former inhabitants, to the charms of the little town that surrounds it, this loving account brings generosity, humor, and a sense of discovery to the story of small-town Italy and its larger national history.

Excerpt

Chapter 1
Pizza with Palladio

“Signora Sally, tonight we’re going to a celebration of pizza!”

Silvana Miolo’s lilting Italian greets me as I sip my morning espresso on the south portico of Villa Cornaro. The low morning sun splashes shadows of Lombardy poplars across the lawn of the park. Swallows circle and swoop bare inches above the closely mown lawn, scooping insects from the warming air, then spiraling upward to reclaim their nests somewhere above my head. Note to diary: Birds nesting in attic? Investigate.

“Una celebrazione di pizza”? Is that what she said?

Silvana senses my puzzlement and quickly finds an alternative way to frame her news. The event, I learn upon retelling, will be a pizza party.

Silvana is a dervish of energy. Dark eyes, dramatized by thick lashes and wavy black hair, animate her face. She has been friend, Italian teacher, and villa savant since I cautiously drove the twenty miles from the Venice airport two weeks ago for my first spring

at the villa. (“Remember, the lady of a villa is called a villainess,” my husband, Carl, advised me soberly as we kissed good-bye in Atlanta.)

Carl will join me in a few weeks. I am alone for now in the

sixteenth-century villa designed by the architect Andrea Palladio that we have audaciously acquired in the village of Piombino Dese, halfway to the foothills northwest of Venice. Silvana is determined that I not feel lonely; when I arrived from the airport she sent her ten-year-old son Riccardo to keep me company while I unpacked.

Silvana’s improbable plans for the evening have me uneasy because of my own recent introduction to Italian, but I’m heartened to find that I needed only one repetition before understanding what is in store.

Silvana and the other Piombinesi I’ve met speak no English. In fact, they don’t ordinarily speak Italian. Their first language is Venetan (pronounced VEHN-eh-tun), a dialect substantially different in its vocabulary and pronunciation from standard Italian and not readily intelligible to strangers. (Whenever Carl has trouble understanding something said in Italian, he tries to claim that the speaker is actually using Venetan.) Once Carl remarked to local friends over dinner that the occasion was a good opportunity for the two of us to practice our Italian for a whole evening. “Yes,” Ilario agreed, surveying his family around the table, “and it’s a good chance for us to practice our Italian, too!”

In succeeding years English will be taught more widely in the schools of Piombino Dese, and the young people of the town will gain confidence in using it with us, but in our early years no local people of our acquaintance speak it. No one, that is, except Ilario. Ilario Mariotto and I are the same age, but when I was leaving for college, he was boarding a ship for Australia, where he would spend four hot, exhausting years chopping sugarcane in the fields. Ilario can still speak halting English despite twenty-five years of disuse. Note to diary: Where has my college French gone?

Each morning I climb out of bed and assemble my limited Italian verbs and nouns into imaginary dialogues with Silvana, trying to prepare myself for her arrival. At eight o’clock she walks over from Caffè Palladio, the bar and sandwich shop that she and her husband, Giacomo, own and operate across the street from the villa. Her purpose is to open our balcone. Balcone is the Venetan—not Italian—word for shutters. The villa has forty-four immense pairs of them, most of them more than ten feet tall. In accordance with local custom, and for security as well, all of them must be closed and latched each night and opened each morning. Those on the ground floor are secured with a heavy steel bar lifted and fitted into slots on each side of the window opening. For Carl or me, it would be a thirty-minute task every morning and night. Silvana or Giacomo can do it in twenty. (Their older son Leonardo can do it in fifteen minutes, but the process is a cacophony of shutters banging, windows slamming, glass rattling, and steel clanging to wake the dead from their rest in the cemetery of the parish church a block away.) Carl and I refer to it all as the “balcone ceremony”; we quickly come to accept it as part of the rhythm of villa life. Even quicker, however, is Carl’s decision—taken the previous October when we first arrived together as the new owners of Villa Cornaro—that the whole process should be delegated to Giacomo and Silvana in their moonlighting role as custodians of the property.

On my own now in my first spring at the villa, I soon discover the true benefit of the arrangement: Silvana’s morning visits are my gateway to the world of Piombino Dese. She brings me news of the village, listens attentively to my carefully prepared yet nonetheless stumbling forays into Italian conversation, and generally presents mea role model for a donna in Venetan life.

Silvana never loses patience or laughs at my malapropisms. She speaks with slow precision, repeating phrases as often as necessary, rearranging them as bits of a puzzle until the meaning is apparent even to an American novice. My six months of lessons back in Atlanta with Lola Butler, an effervescent military bride from Padua, have drilled me in the basics of Italian grammar. But my brain is not prepared to process a nonstop stream of animated Italian, especially when the conversation turns to septic tanks, sewers, spigots, drains, and other topics that never arose in my dialogues with Lola but grow to fill my life in Piombino Dese.

A pizza party will be a baptism of fire.

Eight cars have arrived ahead of us when we pull into the parking lot at Pizzeria Sombrero that evening, and several others follow. I’m in the dark about the guest list for this outing, but I notice that all those climbing out of the automobiles are women. Each is immaculately dressed in tall heels and a smart suit. Many have bright scarves tossed elegantly across their shoulders with that infuriating insouciance I envy so. We enter a brightly lighted room and take seats at a single long table stretching from one end to the other. About forty women are present—at least thirty-five of them complete strangers to me—and all are in high spirits and chattering rapidly. Silvana lifts her voice to tell me, above the din, that the women in town want to welcome me to Piombino Dese with a pizza party. They are afraid I may be lonely at the villa by myself.

I am afloat in a sea of introductions and mellifluous Italian names: Lucia, Chiara, Emanuela, Pierina, Fiorella, Flora, Elena, Nadia, Enza, Maria Rosa, Luigina, Francesca. Beer is flowing. Pizzas with micro-thin crusts follow in infinite variety. Seafood pizzas arrive topped with mussels and gamberetti—the whole mussels, shells and all! Pizza Maria with creamy white bufala mozzarella and a light sweet tomato sauce. Pizza with pungent arugula. Pizza striped with melanzane(eggplant) and zucchini. Pizza decked with peperoni (not the little salami slices; these are green and red and yellow peppers from the garden). I lose count of the pizzas just as I have already lost track of the names. Perhaps I lose track of the beer as well. But most improbably, I lose my self-consciousness about speaking Italian. My grammar is no better, my vocabulary is no larger, but among friends, what do such things matter? As I wake the next morning, alone in the huge villa, in pitch-black because of the tightly closed balcone, my head slightly disoriented from too much beer, I smile with the realization that I have a new home among the women of Piombino Dese.

Chapter 2
A Home in New Hampshire


As I settle into the pace of Piombino Dese I sometimes wonder—sitting on the south portico in the evening with a glass of prosecco—how Iever managed with the simplicity of only one life, one circle of friends, one language. And I ponder how easily and quickly chance can divert the whole stream of one’s life.

Whatever brought you to buy a Palladian villa in Italy?

It is a question Carl and I never escape. Our Atlanta friends ask, tourists and tour guides ask, occasional magazine writers and television interviewers ask, and from time to time in these quiet moments we ask ourselves. Carl has developed a simple response: “It was a full moon.” I always answer with a longer version, but sometimes I think that I am only telling how it happened, and that I am still searching for the why myself.

In the spring of 1987 I decided that a well-ordered Atlanta family such as ours should have a second home in upstate New Hampshire or possibly Vermont. Although my mother was from Oklahoma and my father from Edinburgh, Scotland, I grew up in Littleton, in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, where my father was a doctor. Since Carl seemed to be weaning himself from working all seven days of the week, I felt the time was ripe for a country retreat, a place where we might, in Thoreau’s phrase, “live deliberately.” Two of our children were in college and the youngest was in high school. I was cheerfully making full-time work of my part-time post as music director of a small church near our home in Atlanta, the result of returning to school for a master’s degree in sacred music. Ashley, Carl, and Jim applauded their mother’s return to academia and found her exam-time anxiety to be a special treat. Still, my plate was not filled; I determined that a vacation house would be a lodestone to draw the family together regularly and to retain familial—or at least friendly—ties through coming decades. Like our black labrador Cleowith a new rawhide bone, I seized the idea and began gnawing away at it.

Visions sprouted in my head: a two-story clapboard cottage on Sugar Hill, or a stone house along the banks of Gale River, its entranceway a spider web of climbing yellow roses. The dreams were vivid in color, scent, and sound, and particular to my native White Mountains.

A ream of National Geodetic Survey maps of northern New Hampshire, each tightly rolled and secured with a rubber band, stood like a bouquet in a corner of our Atlanta bedroom. I’d accumulated the maps through the past ten years and, on visits to my parents, had driven over most of the roads depicted with little squiggly lines. I was often accompanied by my aging garrulous Scottish father, whose legendary love of the mountains and streams of the region translated into exhilarating storytelling with all who chose to listen and some who didn’t. Perhaps we’d find just the home I’d pictured along Skookumchuck Brook running down the north slope of Cannon Mountain, or maybe a perfect bungalow on the narrow ribbon of back road twisting from Littleton to Franconia, where the Presidential Range rests like a purple velvet blanket tossed across the horizon. Or we might spot a cottage on Skinny Ridge Road west of Littleton, where high silver pastures fall away to the midnight blue mirror of Littleton Lake placidly reflecting Mount Misery.

I convinced myself that New Hampshire is easily accessible from Atlanta. A two-and-a-half-hour flight to Boston, a quick stop at the car rental counter, and then—with me driving instead of pokey Carl—just two more hours to our country retreat. Carl was noncommittal when I floated the idea—I took to mean yes. All that remained was forme to find at a bargain price the spot that I had conjured in my mind.

That is my reason one Sunday afternoon in late April 1987, as I sit in our Atlanta living room surrounded by a sea of Brobdingnagian newspapers, for pulling out the Sunday magazine of the New York Times. Rather than launch immediately into the crossword puzzle, I begin to thumb the pages where ads appear for grand houses on Long Island and penthouses in Manhattan, and occasionally for summer houses in New England. I have chosen a bad week for New England summer homes, however; not a single one is listed. In the midst of my disappointment, my eye stops at an unusually unattractive ad from a Greenwich, Connecticut, realtor for a villa in the Veneto region of Italy, a villa allegedly designed by Andrea Palladio, the most influential figure in the history of western architecture.

Frankly, the whole thing seems implausible, but an interesting coincidence nonetheless. The coincidence lies in the fact that Carl and I had made plans several months earlier for a July visit to the Palladian villas in the Veneto. Our friends from London, Judith and Harold, are to meet us there.

With a “Ha!” I show the ad to Carl and tell him that if I don’t find the right spot in New England, we can always settle for our own Palladian villa.

Carl reacts with a disturbing amount of interest. He pulls from our bookshelves the copy of Michelangelo Muraro’s Venetian Villas that we purchased several years earlier, following a three-week family vacation in Florence with a quick side trip to Venice. There is VillaCornaro staring back at us in full color. Villa Cornaro, we discover, is not just a Palladian villa; of the eighteen surviving villas designed by Palladio, it is one of the five largest, best preserved, and most influential in later architecture.

“But, Sally, it’s enormous!” Judith complains two months later after the four of us have climbed from our small, un-air-conditioned rental car parked in Piazzetta Squizzato to stare, dumbstruck at first, across the street at Villa Cornaro. The villa looms above the ancient wall that surrounds it and above Via Roma as well, placid and mysterious as the Sphinx, completely detached from the petty bustle of Piombino Dese on a scorching July day.

“Enormous,” Judith repeats, to emphasize her point. “Beautiful, yes, but very, very big.” Her Israeli accent flavors her words and adds to their authority.

“Mammoth, Carl! You’d need roller skates to get from one end to the other!” Harold’s grin suggests that he would be happy to don the skates.

It’s a palace, I think to myself. Carl keeps his thoughts to himself also.

The gate to the villa is ajar, so we enter to see an elderly couple awaiting us on the north portico. Epifanio Marulli, a gray-haired gentleman with surprisingly bright blue eyes, was custodian of the villa long before Dick Rush, the current owner, arrived on the scene eighteen years earlier, and he has remained as Dick’s custodian as well. Epifanio’s wife, Elena, is with him. From a distance they are dwarfed by the thick, twenty-one-foot-tall Ionic columns rising to support the thinner Corinthian columns of the floor above. They smile shyly, no doubt wondering, as I am, how they will communicate with these strangers who speak no Italian. Harold confided earlier in the morning that he has a little “tourist Italian,” as he calls it, left from vacations his family took when he was a teenager, but Carl and I have taken little comfort in it. “That should be very helpful,” Carl kidded him, “as long as you don’t get confused and ask the custodian for a gondola ride or an antipasto by mistake.”


From the Hardcover edition.
Sally Gable|Carl I. Gable|Author Q&A

About Sally Gable

Sally Gable - Palladian Days

Photo © Jean-François Jaussaud

Sally Gable, a church music director by training, has served on the boards of Radcliffe College, the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, and other educational and musical organizations. She divides her time between Atlanta and Villa Cornaro in Italy.

About Carl I. Gable

Carl I. Gable - Palladian Days

Photo © Jean-François Jaussaud

Carl I. Gable, a lawyer and businessman and the author of a book on Venetian glass, has served on the boards of the Spoleto Festival USA, the Atlanta Opera, the Michael C. Carlos Museum of Emory University, and the Center for Palladian Studies in America. He divides his time between Atlanta and Villa Cornaro in Italy.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Sally Gable



Q: You began looking for a second home in New Hampshire. How on earth did that search lead you to a Palladian villa in Italy?

A: First of all, Carl and I didn’t really have a consensus about looking for a second home. Since I was born and raised in the White Mountains, and since Carl and the children also loved that part of New England, I had decided that a cottage near Littleton, maybe in Franconia or Sugar Hill, would provide an ideal summer spot. Carl had not agreed with this idea, but he hadn’t disagreed either. That was all the commitment I needed.

One Sunday afternoon in April 1987, as I curled up on our living room sofa to begin the New York Times crossword puzzle, I decided to flip through the real estate ads at the back of the magazine to see if any homes in upstate New Hampshire were offered. No luck on that, but another ad caught my eye: An alleged “Palladian villa” not far from Venice, Italy. The attraction was two-fold. First, Carl and I had already made reservations to meet friends from London in the Veneto in June for the precise purpose of visiting some of the Palladian villas. Second, since our trip there two years earlier, Venice was Carl's favorite city. When I showed him the ad, Carl reacted with a disturbing amount of interest and phoned the real estate agent the next morning. Two years of on-and-off negotiations lay ahead.

Q: Why did you buy the villa?


A: This is the question I am asked most often. The answer is necessarily complicated, because I've realized over time that my reasons were several.  Yes, I fell in love with the villa immediately, and wholly–emotionally, sensually, intellectually.  To contemplate buying it and living there was like being asked to become a princess and live in a fairy tale. 

But I was ready to fall in love with an adventurous undertaking.  Our youngest child was preparing for college and the older two were off and launched in their lives.  My husband had always been totally engrossed in his career and he still traveled a lot.

This villa would– at least initially– be MY adventure:  I would be the first to learn Italian, I would be the first to make our home in this new country and become friends with our new neighbors, I would be the first to study this architectural treasure and learn its myriad of secrets. I could escape the totally familiar landscape of Atlanta, where I was
often known as Carl’s wife or our children's mother, and create my own world in Piombino Dese. It was the opportunity for a new, fascinating life on my own.

But as I spent more and more time in Piombino Dese– indeed, living in my own world abroad– I realized that one reason I fell in love with the villa is because I felt from the beginning and still believe that the villa needs me, me specifically, to take care of it.  To tend to its physical needs, such as a new roof or new electrical switches; but more important, to bring life into it, with visits from family and friends, with concerts for the townspeople, with croquet games in the backyard, with luscious smells emanating from the kitchen.  The villa needs me as much as I need the villa.

Q: Was there ever a time (like when you had scorpions as roommates!) that you thought: Oh my goodness, what have we done??? Tell us about some of the more harrowing homeowner experiences.

A: Have you ever seen a scorpion up close? They're really sinister-looking beasts. But they never bothered me that much, because I knew they were basically no more dangerous than a yellow jacket–which we get plenty of in Atlanta. Pigeons are another story: they look nice but are really flying guano machines.

Only twice have I shuddered and asked myself, “Have we acquired a white elephant pastured 5,000 miles from Atlanta? The first was in our early years when I suddenly realized why Giacomo, our part-time custodian, came running over from his cafè every time it rained. Yes, he came to close the shutters on the north windows in order to protect the old panes. But he was also gathering large containers from the basement to place in the upstairs grand salon to catch rainwater streaming down from leaks in the roof. Replacing the roof was a big, immediate, monetary challenge.

Our second major problem was worse. Investigating a mysterious sag in the original terrazzo of the south upstairs porch, Carl and our contractor Angelo discovered that the wooden beams supporting it had mostly turned to dust! We were lucky the whole porch hadn’t collapsed on us while we were having an evening prosecco on the porch below. Angelo immediately erected support scaffolding all across the south face of the villa, while we applied to the Soprintendente di Belli Arte's office for a permit to make the repairs. Permission arrived almost one year later. In the meanwhile, we were left to agonize each day over the wound to our beloved villa.

Q: How did the people of Piombino Dese greet the arrival of their newest residents?


A: My introduction to the Piombinese was really quite remarkable, particularly since they have an initial tendency to be cautious with strangers.

Maybe it's because in our first spring there I arrived at the villa entirely alone. A certain circle of women– Silvana Miolo, Bianca Battiston and a few other ringleaders–decided that I must be lonely at the villa by myself, so one evening they planned a welcome-to-town pizza party. There must have been 30 or 40 women there! Some of them are still among my best friends, more than 15 years later. That seemed to break the ice, partly because it put me more at ease. After a while, strangers waiting in line at the butcher shop would offer me recipes. Others would stop me on the street to say that as children they attended the parochial kindergarten that was operated in the villa in the 1950s; they were eager to tell me of their mischievous exploits as students. One day the pilot of an ultralite airplane, someone we had never met, waved at us as he flew by.

Simple curiosity, of course, was a factor in the community’s early interest in us. But I think they sensed right away that we wanted to be Piombinese ourselves. We wanted to be neighbors, not just visitors. And, for the most part, that's the way we've been accepted. Don Aldo, the head priest, even publishes our Christmas letter-card in the parish newsletter. The Piombinese seem glad that the villa is in the care of a family. They respect the fact that thousands of people each year visit the Palladian villa in their town. They appreciate the opportunity to visit the villa themselves for concerts and plays. And when, like other local grandmothers, I parade my visiting grandchildren all over town, the Piombinese make the same fuss over them that they do for their own!

Q: It’s hard enough maintaining a small apartment, how does one begin to care for a home that includes 104 frescos and 44 pairs of shutters?

A: Wonderful friends help us care for the villa. First come Silvana and Giacomo Miolo, who own Caffè Palladio across the street. In our book we describe Giacomo as our own Figaro because he answers our every need, either himself or by finding the right person to assist us. With their sons Riccardo and Leonardo, Silvana and Giacomo schedule and supervise the visiting tour groups, open and close the villa (and all its shutters), and introduce us to other people we need to know to take care of Villa Cornaro. Riccardo, who was ten when we first arrived in Piombino Dese, is now a graduate student in archeology. He and I correspond via email about the needs of the villa during the winter months. The whole family loves Villa Cornaro as fiercely as Carl and I do, and they are as protective of it as we are.

The contractor who re-roofed the villa and reconstructed the south portico, Angelo Marconato, has become a dear friend. He works with his three sons and is a major builder in our region. We occasionally join him and his wife on Sunday evenings for their weekly family dinner, which with their children and grandchildren brings twenty-two Marconatos and spouses to the table.

Another local friend and his son are our supervising engineers for projects at the villa, and they recommend specialists such as a person to re-create the terrazzo on the south portico exactly like Palladio's original. We also trade war stories with other villa owners, who are very helpful with their suggestions.

Q: You set out to learn much about the history of your home and of the famous architect who built it. Tell us some of the more interesting things you discovered about the villa and about Palladio and the Cornaro family.

A: One of the great satisfactions of our lives in Italy is that we are constantly discovering new things about the villa, about Palladio, and about the Cornaros– I mean, every week, every day.

For instance, this past fall I worked at removing recent whitewash on the walls of two small rooms in the attic. Underneath the paint I discovered fantastic drawings of dragons, duck-like creatures, men in period costumes. One of the dragons was clearly dated 1722! Plus there are many later signatures and dates all the way up to early twentieth century messages by Italian soldiers billeted in the attic during the First World War.

Carl, who has been studying the villa’s one hundred and four frescos for years, has just made a breakthrough discovery of the book from which all the Biblical images were taken. And we learn so much from informed tourists who visit the villa. One day a visitor looked at a now-headless statue on the south portico and casually informed us that the subject was a pilgrim to Santiago de Compostela. As proof, she pointed to the shell-like emblem on the figure's lapel. Another visitor has suggested that one of the frescos seems to be painted by a different hand; we're looking into it!

As for Palladio, the depth of his genius greets me each morning at the villa, when I descend the west wooden stairs from our bedroom to the kitchen. Like one of Bach's great fugues, the villa’s perfection is realized best by familiarity, by daily study and constant reflection.

The Cornaro family was one of the founding families of Venice and involved in every event in its history. We’ve just recently made contact with some Cornaros in Croatia who are direct descendants of Giorgio Cornaro, who built our villa. Giorgio’s grandson was commander of Venetian forces fighting in present-day Croatia in the 1600s, and we’ve learned that one of his sons married and remained there. Imagine a family that can trace its own history more than one thousand years.

Of course, Venice itself lies at our doorstep, just 40 minutes away by train. A thousand years is not enough to study all this.

Q: How has owning this villa changed your lives?

A: It seems just yesterday that I drove from Marco Polo Airport, cautiously approaching my new summer house alone for the first time. I did not realize then how profoundly the villa would transform my life, and me. I barely understand it now.

There has been language to learn, of course. It was clear right away that I must speak Italian or I would not be speaking at all. I must learn great chunks of architecture and history, or I would be no more than a camper in my own villa. I must learn more about art, or the train ride into Venice would be pointless. I must plumb new depths of human understanding and candor, or I will never really communicate with my new neighbors. I must find new courage to deal with the unknown and unfamiliar. (But politics? I'm not sure even the Italians understand Italian politics!)

Now I've grown confident in my second world. Villa Cornaro attracts princesses, future first ladies, cabinet members, museum directors, scholars, magazine writers and TV interviewers, and I've found a strength for dealing with it. Venetans have the remarkable ability for celebrating the artistry of every person, for building their confidence to sculpt or paint or learn to play the cello. Or perhaps write a book. This spirit has infected me.

An engaged life in Italy, especially in a Palladian villa, is a life filled with art and history as everyday companions. So today I see the physical world differently from my first arrival at Villa Cornaro. I observe spatial relationships differently; I study the myriad colors in ordinary objects around me; I feel in storms and sunny days the drama of the Italian countryside.

How has owning this villa not changed our lives?

Q: What advice would you give to couples looking to buy a second home, either here or abroad?

A: Do it! Especially if it places you in a different culture, not just a different setting. Especially if you want to expand your life, to challenge yourself. For me, a second home should be a second life, more than just a place to see your same old friends and think your same old thoughts with a different backdrop.

Our time in the Veneto makes me feel 100% alive. It fills me with a need to learn Italian, understand a new culture, study new art, hear new music, watch new birds, see new countryside, learn new recipes. A second home should be relaxing, but I relax best when I’m busy without deadlines, not when I’m idle.


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

“If a vacation in Italy this summer just isn’t going to make the cut, this book might be the next best thing.” –Chicago Tribune“Timeless and completely modern. . . . Should be enjoyed while dreaming of the Venetian countryside, a tall glass of Prosecco in hand.” –Forbes FYIPalladian Days lifts the notion of buying a summer house to dizzying and delightful new heights. Sally and Carl Gable’s fascinating account reads like a fast-paced, marvelously satisfying adventure story.” –John Berendt, author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and The City of Falling Angels

  • Palladian Days by Sally Gable and Carl I. Gable
  • June 06, 2006
  • Travel - Europe - Italy
  • Anchor
  • $17.00
  • 9781400078738

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