2 Baci in a Pinon Tree

A Small Place in Italy

2009-07-17T09:00:00.004-04:00

Eric Newby was a wonderful travel writer who chronicled his experiences as an escaped prisoner of war being protected and housed by Italians in his famous book, Love and War in the Apennines. His sequel of sorts was A Small Place in Italy, where Newby tells of returning to Italy with his wife to buy a casa. With characteristic dry wit and descriptive character sketches, he recounts the restoration of the ruined farmhouse and the bureaucracy and friends they meet with along the way.

I pulled it out of a box in the attic because it's been several years since I first read his narrative. I enjoyed it a lot back then, more so than other (uh...shall we say more self-possessed? Pompous?) memoirs about buying and restoring property in Italy. I'm also paying more much more attention to the details than I did on my initial reading.

Remember in this post when I told you we made an impulse buy of a special keepsake? Well, we bought a house! Okay, actually it is a very small apartment, but it is a habitable piece of property nonetheless. We looked at it during our sojourn in Basilicata and debated over it for a few weeks. We made the decision to buy just 16 hours before we left the country. It may seem crazy to you, but it made perfect sense to us, and it definitely made it easier to board that plane, let me tell you.

Oh yeah, did I mention that we made the purchase agreement over the phone? We had already met with the owner, who resides in Rome, and she took a liking to us. We stayed and chatted with her for a few hours, talking about all manner of things, and by the time we departed she had invited us to her vacation home in northern Le Marche.

For some reason - now we are not sure why - we debated over it for another solid week (after meeting the owner) while we packed and stored our stuff. Finally, the day before we were due to leave we looked at each other and said, "Good grief, what is there to debate about? It's cheap, it's actually habitable, and it is in a location we love." And so that decided it.

That, along with the fantastic view from the windows. And, the key selling point for Bryan, it comes with two cantine, hewn right into the rock hillside, where generations upon generations have stored their vino and prosciutto and other goods. It is also in easy reach of my ancestral villages.

We are waiting on the paperwork, but we will soon have our own small place in Italy and we couldn't be happier about it. While our lives are currently in flux, the one place on earth we know we will return to for the rest of our lives is Basilicata, (the motherland) and we have a home to go back to.

Reunion Week Continues

2009-07-10T17:10:00.013-04:00

We are still on the road; I guess we figured that since we’ve been living the life of vagabondi anyway, we may as well make it mobile for a while. There are lots of people we haven’t seen in a long time. Besides, since summer had not yet arrived in Cleveland when we left twelve days ago, we’ve had to go looking for sun and warmth. Strange how I don’t remember those weather quirks from my childhood there.

As I mentioned, our first stop was to hang out with cousin Celia. She lives in the woods along the South Carolina-North Carolina border, just outside two cute towns with a casual artsy feel to them. We spent time perusing cookbooks (well…Celia and I did, while Bryan and Rhonda perused financial websites and the latest issue of Garden and Gun magazine…don’t ask!) We cooked and ate and talked food and watch Big Night.

Then we all packed it up and took the culinary show on the road to Celia’s dad’s in Atlanta. George is my father’s first cousin. While the family certainly talked fondly about the southern Italian relations who lived in the South, I don’t remember meeting them, though I am sure I did at some point in my childhood. They were like the New York branch of the family that I grew up hearing about but didn’t really know, yet my grandfather would say, “You know Angela…she’s your cousin in New York,” and such-like things that indicated that familial connections, however tenuous, were still strands in the tapestry.

That makes George my second cousin, and he had some great stories about my grandparents that I had never heard before. I am pleased that I will have something to razz my grandpa about when I get back to Ohio, as he is a curmudgeonly kind of guy who loves nothing more than barking harmlessly and poking at people to get a rise out of them. Shoe’s on the other foot finally!

I met Celia’s brother for the first time, along with Leandra, another cousin a couple times removed, who I loved immediately. Her mother Rose came to visit us in Italy and we had a wonderful time. I heard Rose in Leandra’s voice. There we were, a group of cousins, who crowded the kitchen, cranked out cavatelli, simmered up sauce, and ate and interacted boisterously. You know, like any other Italian family.

We headed back to northern South Carolina to spend a few days with Bryan’s parents. It’s nice having family in southern climes! They live at the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains near a couple of pretty lakes, so we enjoyed a relaxed time picnicking on a shoreline, driving to a rustic mountain town, and sitting on their blessedly screened-in porch. I could see the mosquitoes lining up outside the finely-woven barrier, trying desperately to get to me while I remained uneaten, saying ‘ha-ha suckers!’ Mosquitoes love me and will travel great distances to swarm me.

Bryan’s mom, mindful that we didn’t have a true Thanksgiving in three years, cooked up a turkey dinner with all the fixings. (Yes, it tasted unbelievably good!) His parents were also very concerned for Bryan’s well-known caffe cravings, and purchased espresso for the moka pot he brought along, and had pre-screened the local coffee joints for him, too.

And that brings us to Washington for a couple days where we are reconnecting with some friends and – you knew this was coming – more family. We are meeting my aunt and cousins for dinner tonight. As I type this I am realizing that all our family activities always seem to revolve around food. (Is your family like that, too?)

We’ll be heading back to Ohio tomorrow. We need to be there for…ta dum…a family reunion! I know, it seems like there can’t be anyone else to reunite with, but there you have it. Two minutes after we arrived in America my grandfather informed us of the date of this reunion, stating how just once before he dies he would like someone, any one of his grandchildren, to go with him to the annual gathering of his branch of the family, and seeing as he is 96 he really thought it should be this year. Well, can’t very well ignore that kind of guilt, can we? Besides, I’m sure there will be good food involved.

Happy Independence Day

2009-07-04T12:39:00.002-04:00

For the first time in three years we will get to celebrate the 'giorno della indipendenza' in the company of our fellow countrymen. In our case, we are among la famiglia having a little family reunion of sorts. Not technically a reunion, I guess, since I met one cousin for the first time this weekend, and have not seen the other, my cousin Celia's dad, since I was about five years old. What fun! I have been hearing stories of my grandparents from way-back-when, and eating la cucina from the motherland, since George has been the keeper of the cavatelli maker for years.

Today we sweltered in the Atlanta sun to watch Celia complete the Peach Tree Road Race, and will be joining the ranks of millions of Americans in partaking in a barbecue this afternoon, albeit with an Italian flair (porchetta is on the menu!)

Happy 4th to you!

Need help celebrating? Here are a few ideas to put you in the spirit:

Read the Charters of Freedom which are held in our National Archives

Learn how many Americans will be having cookouts, and other fun facts from the Census Bureau.

How are you celebrating?

The Eternal Gratitude of Aliano

2009-06-29T09:00:00.002-04:00

Our tour of Basilicata continues...

Aliano seems to bask in its infamy. Seventy years ago it had been a typical peasant village in remote southern Basilicata, scraping to survive, and ignored and derided by the central government. It would have remained hidden and forgotten in its lunar-like hills had it not been paid a visit by destiny.

When the Mussolini government wanted to silence the political writings and rabble-rousings of a Jewish doctor and anti-fascist named Carlo Levi, it could think of no punishment more severe than banishment from his northern city of Torino to the hinterlands of Basilicata. Modern communications and northern news filtered very slowly- if at all- from there, so Levi and his inflammatory activism would be safely out of their dictatorial hair.

Levi arrived in Aliano to find an abject poverty in stark contrast of his prosperous north, which seemed a world away. The remote locale was neglected and remained outside of time while resources were focused on northern industrial technologies and interests. Levi spent his two years of political exile acting as town physician while painting local scenes and characters and taking detailed journalistic notes which he would use to write his well-known book, Christ Stopped at Eboli. From his house on the edge of the village, Levi observed, interacted with, tended to, painted, and chronicled the life, hardships, and contrasts of a place within his own country that was foreign to him.

When he was released from his house arrest, Levi penned his most famous work, which shed light on the political, economic and social problems of the south, and would eventually bring attention and change to the region. And the town of Aliano could not have been more grateful.

Today, Aliano is still small and still remote, but the appearance, well-being, and status of the town is very different thanks to Levi, whose writings and presence continue to live on there. Many of the buildings have been spruced up and restructured, with more work obviously underway. The place looks tended to and cared for, unlike the descriptions of squalor that Levi chronicled upon his arrival. Inhabitants stroll the streets, gather in the piazza and coffee bars, smiling their friendly greetings at visitors. Tourists from across Italy come to see it, and cars bearing license plates from other European countries are parked in the municipal lot. The paese pays homage to their famous guest, who championed their cause, with numerous namings in his honor - a street, piazza, coffee bar, restaurant all bear his name. A statue of him stands at the entrance to town. Aliano is considered a "literary park," with placques affixed to buildings with quotes in Levi's words as he had described each landmark in his book, so visitors can tour the town and see it through his eyes and words.

The house of his interment has been turned into a museum. Many of his paintings are on display in the Museo della Civilta` Contadina (Museum of Peasant Culture).

It was Carlo Levi's request to be buried in Aliano and his grave lies in a panoramic spot in the cemetary, up above the village. It is sprinkled with pebbles left by visitors to show how beloved he was. Aliano is isolated on top of a hill with commanding views of the weirdly-eroded countryside and surrounding mountains. The town has come a long way since their illustrious guest came to stay, but the timelessness of their traditions and the splendor of their natural surroundings are unchanged. Nor is their affection for the man who served them so well and continues to impact their well-being.

All rights reserved. Valerie Schneider 2009

The Lost Leonardo

2009-06-24T08:56:00.009-04:00

Acerenza is a pretty place. Set up on a massif high at the end of a squiggly road, its position above the Bradano River has been enviable and strategic since before the Roman age. It has seen -and survived- many invaders through the millennia, but like many towns in this area it was the Middle Ages that left the most lasting features on Acerenza, endowing it with narrow pedestrian lanes and petite but appealing palazzi. Parts of the protective walls, punctuated with guardly gates, still cradle the compact centro storico. Captivating vistas are revealed from every overlook.

During the Renaissance period Acerenza was passed around as a baron's trophy, handed off from one noble family to another. Naturally, aristocrats ran in the same circles and entertained dignitaries and luminaries from other regions.

So what, you say? Well, a particular noble family who transferred to Acerenza from Florence had a famous friend, Leonardo da Vinci.

It was already known that the Segni family had been in possession of a Leonardo drawing of Neptune, a token from their artist-friend to Antonio Segni as a parting gift. When a historian named Barbitelli was conducting research in Acerenza and came across a painting that the current owners had always believed was a portrait of Galileo, he saw a striking similarity to a portrait of Leonardo in the Uffizi as well as what is believed to be a self-portrait in Torino, and remembered the family's friendship with the artist. When he saw an inscription on the back written backwards as Leonardo preferred to sign his works, he was convinced this was a lost Leonardo - not a mere portrait of the legendary man, but one created by his own hand.

So went the captivating narrative proudly proclaimed to us by a barista in Acerenza during our visit. He told us that experts from the art world as well as the authorities at the Leonardo museum in Vinci had authenticated the painting. All of Acerenza was buzzing about it, not just because it had been discovered in their town, but because somehow it had been swiped out from under them and put on display in a museum in nearby Vaglio instead of in Acerenza itself. The injustice! railed our barista (along with a few choice words about the politicians and fools who allowed it to happen).

Seeing as we were in the area and Vaglio was located only about thirty kilometers from our lodgings, we decided to head over and see the exhibit. Finding information on the museum and opening hours proved a little more difficult than you would think, considering they were currently caching a treasure that rocked the art world. We finally located a brochure on the Museo delle Antiche Genti Lucane, which they had translated into English as "The Museum of the Old People," which conjured up a vision of a room of old folks in rocking chairs, instead of a display of ancient artifacts.

Vaglio, in contrast to attractive Acerenza, was a fairly depressing paese that retained little of its historic charm and looked mostly rebuilt in concrete. The museum was likewise fashioned from cement, gated and fenced in such a way that it resembled a penitentiary. What was purported to be "the" museum on the ancient Lucani housed a rather meager medley of artifacts and somewhat cheesey reconstructions. We forked over fourteen euros (each) to peer at the painting (twice what we would have paid to enter the famed Uffizi!)

The discovery was recent and the exhibit was hastily assembled. Other portraits, prints, and documents from various sources, including the Leonardo museum, built a strong case to convince the viewer that this painting was the real deal. We jockeyed for position, being jabbed by elbows of cell phone photographers and inattentive patrons. A blustery academic pushed us over so he could stand front and center while lecturing monotonously to a handful of students who took no interest in his lengthy and obviously boring discourse.

Finally we were able to stand before the poorly displayed portrait. Lighting was misplaced and glared off the protective glass. We had to move around, backwards and forwards to get a good angle to compensate for the blur. The image of a middle-aged man with flowing auburn hair and a billowy beard was painted on wood, and was scratched and pocked. Blueberry eyes peered out and followed our movements.

Overall we felt a little cheated. The poor quality of the exhibit and second-rate lighting and display of this precious piece certainly dulled our experience. But we were impressed with the evidence that it is, in fact, of Leonardo, and based on the other sketches, are inclined to believe that it was a self-portrait. And it was pretty exciting to see it, since few people had even heard of its discovery - yet here it was tucked away in a forgotten town in Basilicata. I just hope it can ultimately return to Acerenza. It would definitely be more cherished and charmingly-displayed in that lovely village.

This portrait from the Biblioteca Reale di Torino is widely thought to be a self-portrait of Leonardo, too. There are certainly some interesting similarities.

Raphael's famous fresco in the Vatican, The School of Athens, is also said to contain a depiction of Leonardo, standing in as Plato.

For fun, watch this video of Leonardo da Vinci's Paintings of Women.

Back to Basilicata

2009-06-19T11:19:00.009-04:00

I’m returning to Italy today, at least in thought and blog, because let’s face it, there isn’t a lot to say about Cleveland these days unless I want to expound on the public corruption scandals and depressing job market (I don’t).

Besides, after our Motherland sojourn I promised to fill you in on some of the great places we visited, so no time like the rainy-day present to get started!

PISTICCI

Don’t you love it when you “discover” a place that feels vibrant, maintains its traditions, and boasts beautiful scenery and distinctive architecture? That’s what we found and adored about Ascoli Piceno and Matera. Both have a sense of uniqueness and civic pride for their towns and traditions that captivated us immediately.

We had the same feeling when we visited Pisticci, in southern Basilicata. What is often described as a “tiny town” is actually a pretty hopping place of about 19,000 proud Pisticcesi. Stretching along a ridge, it takes in some pretty impressive views of blunt-topped mesas, cultivated valleys, eroded ravines, and distant mountains. The eastern side slopes down to the plains at the Ionian coast.

Pisticci extends a lengthy distance, unfolding across three hills and so it feels larger than perhaps it would if it were all clumped up together.

But apart from the beautiful natural setting, we immediately took a liking to the town itself. The white-washed buildings practically sparkled in the sunlight. We strolled the bustling Corso Regina Margherita along with a crowd of locals, peering into the windows of elegant-looking shops and stopping for an espresso in one of the classy cafes. The pedestrian street was worn so smooth it gleamed as if it was wet, and it was clearly the popular passeggiata point. We passed several restaurants we would like to return to try. (Unfortunately none of our photos of the Corso came out well.)

The town suffered a landslide in 1688 that carried away nearly half of the settlement. Not to be deterred, an arched retaining wall was built to shore it up, and a new neighborhood was constructed below the partially-ruined castle.

We climbed the narrow streets that led up to the cathedral, fashioned from stolid stone which contrasted with the whiteness that makes up most of Pisticci. From the panoramic piazza in front of the Romanesque church we spied the remains of the Norman castello, and looked down upon that new rione, dubbed the Dirupa district (meaning “precipice”). The ordered rows of sugar-cube houses all lined up like they where embracing, with their low-peaked rooflines distinguishing one house from the next. Laundry flitted in the breeze and housewives chatted in their doorways.

Meandering our way back to the business district of the centro we found the café tables packed with aperitivo-sipping and fashionably-attired groupings of business people while shopkeepers started shuttering their doors for pranzo. An older woman pushed a baby carriage while chatting amiably with her granddaughter swaddled within. A stream of ragazzi flooded the street, having just been freed from school.

During our brief visit three people greeted me familiarly, as if they knew me. One, embarrassed at realizing I wasn’t who she thought I was, said “Mah! You’re accent is American but your face is Lucana!”

We returned to our car smiling. Pisticci struck us as a pleasant, pretty place - livable, lived-in and alive.

Visit this lovely photo gallery for more scenes of Pisticci.
Pisticci is home to Amaro Lucano, Bryan's preferred digestivo.

Homesick

2009-06-17T04:00:00.000-04:00

The one question we used to receive constantly while living in Ascoli Piceno was, "come mai Ascoli?" (why are you living in Ascoli?) Now that we're in Cleveland, everyone is asking, "Why Cleveland?" where the current city motto seems to be, "at least we're not Detroit!"

The second question everyone asks is, "don't you miss Italy?" Answer: Yes. Every minute. With every fiber of my being. I miss the piazzas, I miss my routine, and my morning cappuccino (and my sweet, smiling barista) with my perfect cornetto. I miss...well, I miss so many things that if I continue to dwell on them and list them I will only sink deeper into the blues. But I really miss speaking Italian, and my friends.

I am in the place where I grew up, yet I feel displaced. I am surrounded by people who speak my native tongue, but often feel misunderstood. And I feel rather isolated, even though I am lucky to be in a neighborhood where I can walk to shops, restaurants and a locally-owned grocery store.

Yes, homesickness has set in. Several people have welcomed us "home," but if the old cliche is true that home is where the heart is, then home for us is definitely Italia.

So this week, just as I was starting to feel good and really melancholy, I received two emails from friends in Italy that confirmed my heart.

One wrote that "even though we haven't been friends very long you (voi, plural form) remain in my heart and I am sending you hugs and kisses". The other said "we miss you terribly, and I even miss calling you for no reason." Awww. Just when I was lamenting that some of my long-time friends had blown me off, these two have blown me away with their sweet sentiments.

Now excuse me while I go cry in my (watery and overpriced) caffe`.

Read About Places I Love in Italy:

-Matera - the City of Stone and a musical place
-Ascoli Piceno - The background and why we chose to live there
-Basilicata - The Land of Brigands and Land of Southern Hospitality

Is This Some Kind of Joke?

2009-06-12T20:23:00.006-04:00

I have never talked so much about my car in the thirteen years I've owned it than I have the past two weeks, but here I am again blogging about Arnold.

The good news is, Bryan took it to a mechanic, reputable and recommended by the next door neighbor, who looked it over and said that the dreaded fuel injector problem was, in fact, just a cracked spark plug, which cost waaay less than we anticipated. Phew. He pumped up the air conditioner with juice and sent Arnold home with a clean bill of health.

Then. {sigh} Then we went out innocently today to run some errands, take care of some banking, maybe get an espresso (dare we hope that it be drinkable?). Bryan decided to make an unscheduled stop at a battery store, as the remote entry thingamajig had run dry from three years of disuse. Or something. Anyway, non funziona. I opted to wait in the car, while the store clerk took an insanely long time to replace one little battery. I watched several cars come and go, maneuvering in the weird, angled spaces of the parking lot.

Then. {sigh} Then I saw a car backing up in my direction. And not stopping. I hit the horn...just as she hit my car. Yes. Again. Just days after we got it back from the last go-round, poor Arnold was once again hit in a parking lot. Un-freaking-believable!

The young girl was very upset, and fortunately it was very minor - a few scratches and a little creasing of the bumper. But mamma mia! Are you kidding me?

If it hadn't just been fixed and painted we probably wouldn't have been too upset. If it had been our car in Italy, I probably wouldn't have even taken a second glance, since we had scrapes and scratches all over that little Fiesta (dubbed Guido, by the way, in case you were wondering). The other driver hopes to pay for the repair and be done with it, so we'll be off for estimates and such on Monday.

But I couldn't help thinking , is this some kind of joke? Is Candid Camera filming in Cleveland?

*This just in: this MSNBC article claims that Cleveland has some of "the most courteous, considerate drivers" in the country. Really? They're certainly not the most attentive!

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Mustang Sally No More

Bumpy Beginnings

Real Hospitality

2009-06-08T18:10:00.007-04:00

The cobwebs that have gathered on the Pinon Tree are because I was traveling last week. I returned to Cleveland and the good news that Arnold's surgical procedures were completed. His muscular body is back to its original fine form. Unfortunately, the blood pressure problems that began just before we left for Italy weren't improved by lack of use, so we'll have to take him in for fuel injector work soon. How I miss our wonderful (and insanely inexpensive) mechanic in Ascoli Piceno right about now!

So where was I, you ask? I went to Washington, DC to attend a graduation. When my uncle died last year, his company established a scholarship in his name and my mother was asked to present the award to its first recipient. I envisioned a terribly emotional day; while I was in tears, it wasn't from grief, but instead was inspired by the graduates.

Hospitality High is a Washington, DC charter school, bringing in students from across the District to complete a full load of "normal" academic course requirements, plus training to enter the hospitality industry. My uncle was a great advocate in the school's formation and he mentored and provided jobs for several students in the past.

I gotta tell you, these kids are amazing. Their perseverance and desire to learn is phenomenal. Some must take the metro plus two buses just to reach the school. Many risk physical dangers, face incredible obstacles, and deal with tragic family circumstances, yet they come to school, push themselves and each other to keep going, and manage a 90% attendance rate.

In a city that is marked by a dismal 52% graduation rate, Hospitality High boasts an 80% college acceptance average. The Class of 2009, however, raised the bar...they proudly proclaim a 100% college acceptance rate! And we're not talking about second-rate schools here, but the likes of Michigan State, Delaware State, Johnson and Wales University (recognized by many in the industry as the top culinary and hospitality school), and the historic Tuskegee University (whose first president was Booker T. Washington).

No wonder the families of these students were tooting party horns, cheering loudly and dancing in the aisles! Their excitement was infectious; their stories and commitment were inspiring. One student entered the school with an abysmal grade point average of .59; when he graduated it had soared, along with his confidence, to a fantastic 3.0 GPA. Others saw family members killed or jailed, were themselves mugged or harassed, or faced homelessness, yet they went to school...and excelled. Some of the students were the first in their families to complete high school.

They welcomed us in, and I was clapping wildly, smiling broadly, and beaming proudly just for being in their company. We went to give away a scholarship, but we are the ones who came away richer.

Bumpy Beginnings

2009-05-28T14:09:00.003-04:00

Well, here we are back in the good ol' US of A, feeling fuzzy with jetlag and waking at ridiculously early hours. Is it just me, or does jetlag always seem to hit worse when traveling westward?

We had a fabulously easy check-in at Fiumicino, thanks to a guardian angel, who we met while purchasing mozzarella di bufala some months back. He works at the airport and, when we told him our departure date, he pre-arranged for a streamlined check-in so that we would not have the headache (or backache!) of juggling our seven large luggage pieces (plus carry on bags) through the snaking line. Wonderful! Afterwards, he wanted to buy us coffee; after much insistence we got him to relent and allow *us* to buy *him* a caffe. He also gave us a piccolo pensiero (little gift) in the form of chocolate. How I'm going to miss these Italiani! Their amazing hospitality and thoughtfulness are what have made these past three years so incredible for us.

So, here we are in Cleveland, Ohio at my sister's where we feel pretty comfortable...due in large part because half of the furniture scattered about her house is ours! We are sleeping in our own bed, relaxing on my Ekornes chair, and dining at our Mission-style table. We've explored the boxes in the attic, having forgotten what half of our stored possessions were. It seems so long ago we stashed them away. They'll remain up there a while longer, since we still don't know where we'll eventually end up.

Meanwhile, Bryan threw wide the door to the garage to reawaken Arnold, my sleeping Mustang, from his three-year slumber. He reconnected the battery, tinkered around, and pretty soon the motor was purring. Bryan called the Ohio DMV to ascertain the steps needed to get the car licensed, as the plates expired shortly after our departure for Italia. Turns out, Ohio has a bureaucratic system reminiscent of Italy. Go to Point A for an inspection; take inspection slip to Point B for an Ohio title; proceed to Point C for registration and license plate.

Off he went to Point A, or more accurately, a nearby car dealership where the vehicle inspection could be completed. No problem, car passed the test, and Bryan was ready to ride off to Point B. That's when the bump occurred, in the form of a very stupid woman driving a very large truck and towing a very large trailer behind it. Woman turned wide, trailer swung out, Arnold suffered the blow. Seriously...the first minute he emerged from the garage in three years and gets creamed in a parking lot?! Unbelievable.

Fortunately (blessedly!) the newly-purchased insurance kicked in at midnight, so it was active a whole 9.5 hours before the assault took place. The adjustor has already been here and he took quick action, so Arnold is now on his way to the metal hospital to be repaired. But, I have to say, it doesn't seem a very auspicious beginning.

The next two weeks will be busy, but as jetlag wears off and culture shock sets in, I'll be posting along the way.

D-Day

2009-05-23T11:39:00.001-04:00

Departure Day arrived all too quickly. We are almost on our way back to the United States after a crazy week of sorting, piling, weeding and packing our belongings. Actually, by the time you read this we will probably be somewhere over the Atlantic, misty-eyed and exhausted.

We took over our friends’ taverna, which we divided into sections of “to take” and “to store”. We mounded up clothes, started stuffing them into duffel bags, then retreated for a little perspective before returning to the piles and yanking out other non-necessity items so as to lighten our very heavy cargo that will accompany us. I hate packing for even a two-week trip; trying to decide what to pack after three years’ residence has been a miseria. Not knowing exactly when we’ll return has made it more difficult, since we know we’ll be back il piu presto possibile and will need certain items. {Sigh.}

Thursday we took a sanity break and spent the entire day in the centro storico of bella Roma. We love our friends but they live so far from the centro that I wouldn’t call this area Rome. In fact, their house is just a smidgen from the GRA, the ring road that encircles the city. It is nearly as opposite the charming centro as you can get.

We visited some churches and museums that we had never seen, despite our many visits to the Eternal City. We learned long ago that it would take an eternity to see the treasures there. As anyone who knows me knows, I am a Caravaggio fan, so we were able to take in some other paintings I had previously missed. We were most impressed with the astounding art collection, opulence, and narrative at the Palazzo Doria Pamphili. Exhibition lighting and arrangement could be better, but…wow! I had no idea. The place is packed with paintings. We enjoyed a caffe at their pretty coffee bar and tea room, wondering how we had missed this place through all our trips.

The Corsini Gallery was much smaller with some less impressive displays, but in what has become typical of our experience in Italy, we had a spontaneous surprise opportunity open up for us. One of the exhibit rooms was occupied by the academia for a lecture. I asked one of the security guards when it might wrap up so we could plan whether we had time to wait to enter or should just shove off for lunch. He shrugged broadly, voiced his displeasure that they were overstaying their allotted time, mumbled something I couldn’t make out, then hurried along a corridor.

I spotted a restroom and popped inside. When I exited, Bryan and the guard were motioning me to hurry my way down that hallway. He opened a broad wooden door and hustled us through, pulling it quickly shut behind us. Then he flipped a few switches which illuminated the sala, and we were flung into beautiful heavenly scenes as we gazed at lovely paintings (unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to really read and internalize the names of the artists). I don’t know why the room was not open to the public, nor why he singled us out from the handful of others waiting to see the occupied hall. He gave us a few minutes to take it in, then peeped out the door, gave us an all-clear signal, and we scampered away whispering tante grazie to our benefactor for the sweet serendipity.

We huffed and walked and sweated our way all over historic Rome, capping the day with an aperitivo at a lovely, quiet, panoramic roof-top terrace before finishing up at the Fontana di Trevi where we plunked in our coins for good luck and a speedy return.

We bought a few little souvenirs, as well as a larger keepsake, but I'm going to keep you in suspense before revealing more about our impulse purchase.

I can’t really believe we will be leaving, and yet the accumulated luggage tells me it’s true. And while I was weepy and melancholy all week in Ascoli Piceno, today I feel lighter and more positive then ever that we will be returning to Italy before too very long. The Trevi won’t let me down!

Wanna read more? This month's column The End is Nigh details our Farewell Tour.

Time Marches On

2009-05-15T15:31:00.000-04:00

Time really does keep on ticking, ticking, ticking into the future! I can’t believe how quickly this month has passed. Where does the time go? Seriously. When we left the comfy agriturismo after two weeks of residence, we felt like we had barely just arrived. How is it that when we were kids the two weeks until summer break ticked off like an eternity, but as adults the same 14-day period soars past us like nobody’s business?

The only drawback to our beautiful mountaintop hideaway was the lack of reliable internet connection. I’ve saved up notes about all the wonderful places we visited and kind people we encountered, but haven’t been able to post them yet. Ah well; as they say in Italy, “piano piano…con calma”. I’ll get them posted someday in the near future.

Meanwhile, we arrived back in Ascoli Piceno with a week-long calendar chalked up with appointments to meet friends, have rounds of dinners and drinks and coffees. We have been walking around marveling yet again at the wonderfulness of this place we have called home, wondering why its still so undiscovered, but yet a little glad it is still all “ours”.

We have been taking photos of people and places that, somehow in more than 2 ½ years, we managed to not capture on film (or digital, as the case may be), and eating our fill of the local specialties.

The place is the same, yet it has changed. Sadly, we have noticed that several shops have closed in just the few months we’ve been away, and we’ve been told that several factories and small business operators have shuttered as well. Several of our friends are reporting difficulties with their businesses. La crisi economica is on everyone’s lips and worried minds.

And yet the spirit remains the same. The passeggiata is still paraded, the piazza is still packed every evening, and the caffes have their usual flow and rhythm. The bands and flag-throwers are practicing, readying themselves for La Quintana, which starts in July. The girl who hits up everyone for cigarettes is still on the prowl; Rita is still circling town on her bicycle yelling who-knows-what at the passersby; the Don King look-alike is still hanging around. All the personaggi (town characters) are in their predictable places, as much a part of the landscape as ever. And so are we. We are back in our usual haunts, feeling right back at home.

Which may not such a good idea. It may make it harder to leave, not knowing exactly when we will return. Everyone is asking us for a date, a time frame they can count on when they’ll see us again, and we are unable to say for certain. We are only able to say definitively that we’ll be back again. Hopefully the months of our absence will march on and pass as quickly as these past few months have. Time’s a tickin’.

La Citta Morta

2009-05-11T09:25:00.000-04:00

Craco, Basilicata.

The first sight of Craco is dramatic. The dead city rises from a jagged rock pinnacle like an ominous vision. Twisted eroded spires jut up in front of the ancient stone edifices, whose windows and doors have been replaced with gaping openings. It is like looking at something from a ghostly Gothic novel or a carefully constructed movie set.

The old town is encircled by weeds and wheat heads that sway in the breeze. Entering the former centro storico, we found abundant physical and olfactory evidence that a flock of sheep have been the town’s only living residents for quite some time, penned up at night in long-abandoned rooms.

The medieval street pattern remains, winding and climbing up to what had been the main piazza. Palazzi, homes, and shops once lined the ancient lanes but are now empty and eerie. Roofs are caved in, paint-bare shutters smack in the wind. Time, neglect and the elements have wrought more destruction than the tremor that emptied the town. A thousand lizards scampered around, a dozen falcons glided up above. We saw a few other curiosity seekers like ourselves wandering about, their voices and presence made it less creepy.

The well-worn stone walkways and rock walls have not deterred the weeds and trees that have taken root and prospered, while the city has slowly been crumbling and returning to the earth. The nearby cemetery is neatly tended, a stark contrast and irony of the dead, decaying town it serves.

Craco died in 1963 when an earthquake rocked the residents’ peace of mind and drove them to the safer plain below. The new Craco they constructed is a depressing square of concrete apartment blocks, as devoid of spirit as the old town is devoid of life.

Ironically, we saw as many people wandering the abandoned city as we saw in the new town. The old centro storico has become somewhat of a small tourist destination while the new town, lacking a definitive centro or anything at all of interest, is passed by without much more than a glance. Craco is lifeless – above and below – but the ghost town is a fascinating, peculiar, place to visit.

All's Well That Ends Well

2009-05-03T13:36:00.004-04:00

We peeled ourselves away from Matera to perch ourselves on a mountaintop in the Motherland, where we are back to using a dial-up cell phone connection for internet access. We have been near my ancestral village for a week and will remain here through this week. It was a bittersweet farewell; we really do adore Matera, but also wanted to spend more time in “my” area of Basilicata, too.

Our time in the City of Stone got off to a rocky start. We had booked two weeks in a rental apartment. The residenza where we normally stay when we travel to Matera didn’t have a suite available for a two week sojourn. Neither did my second choice, but then I found a cute little apartment and corresponded with the owner, who gave me a little discount for a long stay and booked it immediately. The owner assured all was reserved, no deposit or prepayment needed, tutto bene.

I arrived with dizzying headache and hacking cough from the cold that besieged me. I was tired from the six-hour drive. I wanted nothing more than to make a cup of tea and go to bed. The signora cheerfully greeted us in the Piazza del Duomo and directed us to the place, pointing out where to park our car nearby.

It wasn’t until we passed through the gate into her courtyard that she revealed the news that she had taken a booking for the weekend and we would be sleeping in her comodissima taverna for a night. Tomorrow, she chirped, the apartment would be all ours.

The taverna was located below their home, but was spotlessly clean, was equipped with a kitchen, a bathroom, a table, and a bed. La Signora was then plying us with plates of home-baked goodies and I was thinking how I just wanted to hit the loo and then lay down. I really should have paid more attention during the whirlwind tour instead of being diverted by the sweets, because then I would have noted that the “bathroom” didn’t have a bath. Or a shower. Just a half-bath. Fine. Whatever. One night.

Tomorrow dawned clear and warm. We would soon be able to move to the apartment for our two-week tenure. We rambled around in the Sassi and went to enjoy a cappuccino and cornetto while we waited for the cleaning to be completed. The place was cute, it would do fine. We unpacked and started to settle in.

That’s when La Signora decided to tell us that, oh by the way, she had also taken a reservation for the last four days of our stay and we wouldn’t mind returning to the taverna, right? Huh? What happened to two weeks? No problems? Less than happy about the prospect of spending four nights in the Italian equivalent of a basement (without shower), and upset that she took another booking while assuring us a two-week stay was no problem, we debated what to do.

The first morning we both awoke stiff. The second and third mornings we were moaning and creaking like geezers. The bed was absolutely the most back-wrenchingly uncomfortable we have ever encountered. Which may have been just an annoyance had it not been for the six o’clock awakenings we were enduring from above. Scraping chairs, clunking heels, banging around in the owner’s house above us. Every morning.

We had roamed town looked for other accommodations, but on last-minute notice for a long-ish stay it was difficult. We had already cut our stay shorter than anticipated to avoid the taverna nightmare and adjusted our booking in the mountains (no problem, the agriturismo owner told me, which gave me grave cause to worry!).

We toughed it out a week in the apartment before saying ‘basta!’ We ran to the residenza and begged for a room, any room. Mercifully, they had a suite available for the last few nights of our stay and we snapped up the cave dwelling with glee. We packed and fled as fast as the swallows that dart above the Sassi. Ahhh…utterly quiet. Comfortable bed. It felt very homey.

Our last few days in Matera were perfect; even the weather mostly cooperated. We continued shopping in the daily vegetable market, enjoying the barista in “our” coffee bar, and tramping all over the various sections of the Sassi, which just continue to unfurl in different directions. Whenever we think we’ve seen it all, we discover another fold in the terrain that reveals more walkways and ancient churches or cantinas hewn into the stone.

We arrived in high, rural, central Basilicata, an area known as the communita` montagna, to find that the owners here really did mean it when they said ‘no problem’. Our apartment really was ready and waiting (just for us!), and we’ve been plied with homemade ravioli, sweets, and freshly-made ricotta cheese from their farm. They are so very sweet, and we have come to adore them and their beautiful farm with stunning views. We met the mayor of their village who gifted us with two lovely books about the town, and we have been breaking up our time in my ancestral village by exploring other hamlets in the area. There are some real gems around here, and I’ll be sharing them with you in the future…when I can find a normal internet connection again.

The Cats of Matera

2009-04-27T11:31:00.003-04:00

We are cat people. I like dogs well enough, too, but I really love kitties. Even four years after our two faithful felines died, it still feels strange to have a cat-less household. Woody and Winston had been our four-legged kids for 17 years before going to Kitty Heaven, where they are surely snuggling on my grandfather’s lap.

So, apart from our fascination with Matera’s unique history and architecture, and the fact that lots of people there resemble some of my own family, we also love it because it is a cat town. We have seen more of them lolling around the Sassi than we have encountered anywhere else in Italy. They also are pretty mellow and friendly; they don’t scamper away immediately like most of the kitties we encountered in Ascoli.

They are real cuties, too. They perch on the walls, pose on planters, and snooze on rooftops. One more reason to love Matera in our book!

Musical Matera

2009-04-19T10:35:00.002-04:00

It seems that wherever I wander in Matera, I hear music.

In some parts of town it is the songs of the birds that thrive in the ravines and church towers. Chirpy, rambunctious melodies from small flocks conversing among themselves, which faintly mimics the musical conversations I overhear in Italian, itself a sing-songy language.

Walking anywhere in the vicinity of Piazza del Sedile brings strains that are more practiced and perfected. One day it is from violins, another from flutes. Sometimes it is a more orchestrated arrangement of blending instruments forming a beautiful, classical refrain. Once in a while we hear a wrong note, or scales being practiced as warm-up. The Convervatory of Music has its seat in the Piazza del Sedile, and the surrounding neighborhood is pleasantly serenaded daily.

I have heard Jazz emitting from doorways and windows. I read somewhere that this classic American musical style has long been loved in Matera, and it shows. Even the flow of the passeggiata seems to be carried out to unheard yet very present strains of a soundtrack by Henry Mancini.

Then there are the churches. The bells don't toll, they chime. Now and then we hear the tinny recorded bells ringing out the Ave Maria, but usually it is the true bells sounding in a very musical fashion. Today, walking to the car, we passed the church of San Pietro Caveoso, on the astounding outcropping of rock, the church itself built up of heavy stones and blending into the natural formations. Out of the door wafted a heavenly choir of synchronated voices, raising up hymnal praises.

Matera may well be the city of stone, but it is also the city of music.

Abruzzo Update

2009-04-16T12:05:00.003-04:00

We're back from France and settling into life in Matera. Well, as settled as you can get in a vacation property for a short term stay. We love this city, and despite the nasty cold that has beset me and made itself at home, we are enjoying getting a more "insider's view" of the place.

By now you've surely seen the haunting and heartbreaking photos of the comunal funeral in L'Aquila. I could not stop the tears when I saw the small, white caskets of children perched upon their parents' caskets. Heart wrenching.

It is not too late to help. In fact, there are more ways to contribute. I have recently updated the How to Help page, so be sure to stop by and take a look. Even giving the equivalent of your morning cappuccino will be appreciated by the families living in tendopoli.

My "Italian brother" Valerio just returned from L'Aquila. He went for a couple of days to help construct temporary buildings, as part of a group from Green Peace. He said it is still getting very cold at night due to the high elevation, but reported that people seemed to be taking everything in stride and with the trademake Abruzzo resilience. There is so much to be done, he said, and much money is needed.

I asked him which organizations are best for getting the money to those most in need. He said the Croce Rossa and Caritas, as well as the Democratic Party of Italy. He also said the most bureaucracy-heavy outlet is the Protezione Civile, where little of the donated money will actually get to the victims and projects, especially in the immediate future, as is most needed.

From the volunteer's mouth.

On another note, I was just referred to this Survivor's Diary, written by a L'Aquila earthquake survivor. Do check it out.

Joyeuses Paques

2009-04-12T11:03:00.003-04:00

Or, Buona Pasqua da Francia!

So, we are in southern France, spending a few days with my cousin! After a couple of years of trying to fix dates and work out a visit, we finally made it here. Considering it really isn't *that* far from Italy, you wouldn't think it would have been so hard, would you?

Cousin Celia has a beautiful home in a lovely village and, despite the rainy weather, we are having a wonderful time. She and her partner are loads of fun and gracious hosts. We are sampling local fare and vintages, and -gotta say- those croissants are every bit as buttery and tasty as you would imagine.

When I say "southern France" I am not talking about glitzy Nice or popular Provence. You won't find miles of ordered rows of lavender around here; few towns in the area are considered real tourist destinations. This is the Minervois; an area where vines occupy almost every scrap of arable (or semi-arable) land, sliced through with limestone gorges and punctuated by rugged, scrubby-planted hills. We have seen grapes planted right into hopelessly pebbled fields, yet they seem to be thriving. In the distance, on the one clear day when we arrived, we saw the Pyrenees, their peaks still cloaked in snow.

This is the land of medieval Cathars, peasant heroines, and vengeful crusaders. Gloomy Gothic churches are embellished with grotesque gargoyles. The countryside is sprinkled with stone villages adorned with pastel shuttles, in joyful shades of lavender and cornflower blue. We have glimpsed abundant walking paths, a still-operable canal, and tree-lined avenues. Their friends and other local villagers have been eminently patient with our strange blending of Italian and English, when we have ventured out sans our French-speaking relations.

It is a lovely land, and feels very down to earth. We can see why they love it. We head home tomorrow, but are so glad to be here with famiglia. After the heart-breaking week in Italy rattled by wretched news and aftershocks, we feel a little lighter and more rested.

Buona Pasqua! Hope you have a wonderful day.

How To Help

2009-04-07T10:05:00.004-04:00

*Updated April 16 with additional avenues for assistance*

The worst part of watching the horrible news with the astounding images and staggering numbers of dead, injured, and homeless in Abruzzo is the feeling of helplessness. We are not that far away and yet we can't go there and offer solace or comfort, or pitch in to dig through the rubble.

However, several organizations have mobilized to offer assistance. A small donation of cash or blood can be an invaluable comfort to the tens of thousands who are mourning loved ones and lost homes. Here is how you can help:

The National Italian American Foundation has set up a special relief fund, and donations from the US are tax deductable.

The Croce Rosse is the Italian Red Cross; donations can be made online.

Caritas is one of Italy's primary charitable organizations, operated by the Catholic Church. Donations can be made by bank transfer.

If you are in Italy and want to donate blood, the AVIS blood bank wants you al più presto!

*Updated April 12**
If you would like to make a donation by credit card, you can call +39-023-498-0235, a hotline sponsored jointly by Corriere della Sera and Gazzetta dello Sport, two national newspapers.

From within Italy you can send an instant 1 euro donation from you cell phone credit by sending a text message to number 48580.

*Updated April 16*

Save The Children has entered the tendopoli to assess the most pressing needs of the children, to make sure they are properly clothed and housed, and to try to get them back to school as quickly as possible.

Another way for travelers in Italy to donate is through the SuperEnalotto. Sisal, the company that administers the lottery, has introduced a special ticket game with proceeds to go to the quake victims. Tickets can be purchased in increments of 1, 3, or 5 euro from any outlet that sells lotto tickets, indicated with the SISAL logo on their signs.

Despite the destruction and broken lives, there are some heartwarming stories emerging, too. Hop over to Italian Notebook for a short sampling.

Thank you all for your emails of concern...they were most touching.

Rome Trembled

2009-04-06T11:19:00.005-04:00

We have been receiving a lot of phone calls and emails from worried friends and family. Rest assured, we're fine. The earthquake that struck central Italy this morning woke us up, as the building moved and the wooden floor of our sleeping loft squeaked and swayed. In my barely-awake state I thought, gee, that feels like a tremor, but dismissed it. After all, we were in Rome where seismic activity is not very common. We had felt several tremors in Ascoli Piceno where the mountainous terrain is more conducive to shakings and rattlings. But Rome?

When we woke up again at 7:30 am we heard the horrible notizia of severe damage and tragic deaths in the region of Abruzzo. It has grown progressively worse throughout the day as more bodies are discovered, more destruction detected. Compounding the situation is the damage sustained at the L'Aquila hospital, requiring partial evacuation of current patients and leaving some victims outside to be treated in the courtyard. The images are heartbreaking, and our thoughts and prayers go out to those grieving, hurting families.

From the video and photos I have seen, the newer buildings were just as susceptible as the old stone structures. When the earth moves out from under you there is no differentiation.

Bryan talked to a friend in Ascoli who said the tremor was very strong but there were, thankfully, no problems there. Sant'Emidio is being hailed again for saving the city from destructive earthquakes.

Diane slept while Rome trembled. Too bad we all awoke to a nighmare-ish situation affecting so many. it is so strange to realize that thirty seconds can change the lives and landscape of an entire city.

Postcard From the Road

2009-04-05T04:03:00.009-04:00

Hiya! No, I haven't flown the coop and abandoned the nest, despite the lack of blogish activity around here lately. I've been on the road, for the first time without my trusty laptop in tow. I gotta say, I feel its absence. I had hoped to post as we went along, but I was thwarted in my good intentions. The computer in the apartment we used in Cupra Marittima didn't accept my memory stick, where my documents were handily stored and subsequently trapped. Then we arrived in Roma, and the enormous internet cafe that was conveniently placed near the apartment in which we are lodging has suddenly taken flight and disappeared. Strange, as the place was always packed. I decided to let my bad technology karma rest and just give up trying for a while.

Bryan's sister and her husband have been loads of fun. This trip is their first to Italy and we have enjoyed seeing the bel paese anew through their first-timers' eyes. It brings back memories of our first couple of trips, mouths agape, eyes full of wonder and awe at every turn, and tastebuds oooh-ing and mmm-ing at every bite. Oh yeah, and feet aching after long days beating the cobblestones.

We spent a week in the Piceno where we showed them many of the places we love, took them to our favorite restaurants and a small winery and even got them invited to a friend's birthday party. They liked seeing the countryside and life in a smaller city before their introduction to Roma.

Roma, the Eternal City, is crammed with crowds, but the gorgeous weather and the fabulous front-row seat we're enjoying from our piazza-side apartment makes up for it. Watching the boisterous bustling in the Piazza Barberini is better than any TV show or action flick. We've witnessed it all - amorous couples, angry mammas, tired tourists, police processions, harried commuters, and sidewalk cafe activity, along with a fender-bender right beneath the window. We tear ourselves away to visit the monuments and churches, but when we are in the apartment two or all of us are voyersistically viewing the drama.

Diane and Brian depart tomorrow, and we'll miss them. Seeing them see Italy has reminded us yet again why we love it here.

Vagabondi

2009-03-26T12:39:00.004-04:00

Read all the way through for an important announcement.

It seems so long ago that my former landlord declared us vagabonds because of our frequent travels with family and friends. Not long after we arrived in Ascoli we had a rush of visitors and found ourselves sempre in giro to show them around, a not unwelcome task, I might add. Dorina told us that we should just invest in a camper instead of paying rent to her. Now I sort of wish that we had taken her advice.

This past week we departed The Villa that we had been so hospitably offered and arrived in Rome a couple days ago. Unfortunately (for us, fortunate for our hosts) the villa had a last-minute booking for the week of Easter, and the owners needed to complete some work in a hurry to get it all prepared for the season. It will be fully occupied with weekly guests until the end of October. We had to vacate a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned, but we certainly can’t complain.

Besides, I was getting very homesick for Ascoli, and the timing works out well, with the arrival of Bryan’s sister and her husband for their first visit to Italy. We will be spending a week near Ascoli showing them our adopted hometown and are excited about introducing them to the beauties, flavors, and fun in our corner of the country.

But after that…boh! You see, we will be vagabonds for some time to come. When we lost our lease and left Ascoli for our house-sitting gig, we had fervently hoped for some change of fortune and brighter bank statements. Unfortunately, la crisi economica that has plagued our homeland has hit home here, too. While I continue to hold out hope for some sort of work opportunity (hey, I believe in miracles!), we are, in all practicality, having to plan for a return to the US, barring divine intervention.

I don’t want to go. Really. Don’t. It has been an extremely emotional decision. My heart went into denial mode for a while, until it could no longer ignore the reality of the little drips of water pinging in the nearly-empty well that is our savings account. The well needs replenishing and the current drought is filling it up none too fast. We considered becoming briganti, but sort of figured that highway robbery would void our visa.

Facing these facts also made us realize that we want to spend the next couple of months seeing a lot of the places we had been putting off, always assuming there would be time to get there, so we will truly be vagabondi as we cruise around the southern regions.

Our vagabond status will follow us “home,” if you can call it that, since we don’t *actually* have a home in the US, and don’t know where we will end up. But as Scarlet said, “Tomorrow is another day!” and we will cross that ponte when we reach it. This will be a temporary repatriation; as soon as we can kick-start the coffers, we will be high-tailing back to Italia; you can count on that!
For now, and the next couple months, we will wish for that camper Dorina recommended we buy as we roam around and explore points south.

Benvenuti Primavera

2009-03-21T14:06:00.005-04:00

Yesterday ushered in Spring but apparently the calendar forgot to inform the clouds. While it turned windy and cooler with some rain here in Cilento, our drive into Basilicata transported us back to winter. In Brienza we were welcomed with about two inches of the white stuff. Follow lunch, we exited the agriturismo to find fluffy flakes falling steadily.

What a far cry from just a few days ago when we explored Amalfi and sat outside jacketless, enjoying lemonade and conversation with Laura (who is just as smart and sweet as you'd expect from reading her blog). After the rollicking ride along the infamous, twisty road, we found bright lemons the size of melons and the air profumed with an intoxicating blend of citrus, flowers, and sea air. While wandering the stepped streets we saw dozens of people enjoying gelato, taking in the sun, and even saw one woman swimming (obviously not Italian!), and thought surely Spring had settled in.

So while the calendar says Spring, the wind and cold tell of a different season and my winter coat is not being relinquished quite yet.

Who Are The Foreigners?

2009-03-16T07:10:00.002-04:00

Bryan and I were able to sit on the other side of the table (metaphorically speaking) last week when we made a trip to the Motherland. We hadn't been to my ancestral village for a while, and my cousin was anxious for us to come for a Sunday pranzo.

We had a nice visit and a nice meal (always yummy down there). Following the feast, we sat at the restaurant urgently trying to fend off Michele's unyielding insistence of "grappa, more wine, just a little more dessert..." when a group of ten arrived. They exchanged customary buongiornos, milled about deciding which table in the nearly-empty restaurant to occupy, and started inquiring about local specialties. Obviously not locals. Even if their ignorance of the food hadn’t clued me in, the fact that they weren't acquainted with with my cousin sealed it. He is the only cop in a town of 2,000 souls and everyone knows him.

“Turisti, qui?” I asked Melina. They don’t get a lot of out-of-towners, especially in the winter. But apparently a small, nearby ski slope attracts day-trippers from surrounding regions. “Pugliese,” she said matter-of-factly. After listening to them talk a few more minutes, she stated, “Yep, from Bari.” She pegged their accents. I, sadly, still cannot distinguish regional accents. I can often make out that they *have* an accent, but don’t know one region’s speech patterns from another’s.

One of the guys approached the table to ask where, specifically, they were. The one he chose to address his question to, as apparently looking the most knowing, was Bryan. Much to the glee of everyone else, since Bryan quickly informed the guy to ask the others, as he, being American, couldn’t give him the best advice on directions and road conditions. Word quickly reached the bar area in the neighboring room, and cackles of laughter filtered our direction.

As we walked through to leave, the barista slapped Bryan on the back, still snickering, muttering something about Baresi not being able finding their way out of a paper sack and then asking the only americano within a 100-mile radius for directions. As we left we heard the barista passing the word on to a newcomer, with fragments of the "stranieri" being addressed...towards the Baresi.

I felt a little bad for them; they seemed nice enough folks. But I have to admit, it was also nice to be sitting on the other side of the table for a change, to be the ones *in* on the joke instead of the objects of the jokes and speculations for a change. For this day, at least, the foreigners weren't us.

Bella Napoli?

2009-03-12T10:30:00.004-04:00

On Tuesday we took advantage of the gorgeous day, and our locale and train connections to make a jaunt to Napoli. It is one of those cities that polarizes; you either love it or loathe it. Staunch supporters will fight to the death to sing its praises, like my friend Luciano, who hails from the fair city. He will frequently effuse about the glories of his bella citta`, but when asked why he lives in Ascoli Piceno instead of his hometown, he quickly says, "Well, it's beautiful but I couldn't live there anymore."

I confess that I had been on the other side of the fence. I spent one wretched day in Naples on one of our earliest trips to Italy. Admittedly, the heavy rain did nothing to cast a beautiful aura upon the place and made it difficult to get around to see much of anything. The fact that my stepfather drove into town, got us very lost in less than stellar neighborhoods, where we were nearly killed three times over by red-light defiant motorists didn't put the town or inhabitants into a rosy light. And, while the Archeology Museum that we'd ventured into to town to see was impressive, the addicts shooting up outside of it tarnished it all for us. After that, whenever I saw the requisite pizzeria in every town named Bella Napoli, I would question, "oh really?"

But, living a relatively easy train ride away pushed us to give Naples another chance. We arrived right in the centro and hopped a bus to the seafront castle to follow a sort of self-guided tour that Bryan had staked out for us. We didn't have a list of truly "must sees," but instead had a route that would take us past some of the more important sights and monuments. For me, wandering the streets and getting a "feel" for the town is more important than rushing through museums or churches.

We had a gloriously sunny day. It was warm enough for just a light jacket and the Mediterranean shimmered and rippled. The clear outlines of Capri and the Amalfi Coast loomed. The enormous main piazza saw teens and dogs basking in the warmth while grandmothers pushed baby carriages. I was already starting to see the "bella" part of the often quoted statement.

We visited the imposing castello and the church of San Francesco, which borrowed heavily from Roman monuments like St. Peter's and the Pantheon. We meandered in the districts known as Quartieri Spagnuoli and Spaccanapoli, both of them tight grids of insanely narrow streets brimming with life. Countless rows of laundry criss-crossed the alleyways, fluttering like a boat's regata flags. Motorini rocketed around, even in the areas marked "pedestrian zone," not bothering to slow down for said pedestrians or oncoming scooters, but instead sounding their horns to tell us to jump out of their way. The constant cacophony cascaded through the canyon-like alleys, minging with the shouts of vendors and the din of a hundred TVs and conversations that tumbled out the windows.

We visited ancient ruins, a few pretty churches, and rode one of the famed funiculars (while humming that old song Funiculi Funicula). At one corner, while thrusting ourselves against the wall to avoid being plowed down by a motorino, the vegetable vendor started chatting with us. We asked him for a good place to have lunch, and he directed us to his sister's little restaurant. She happened upon us just then, so we followed her while she told us of their specialties that day. We enjoyed a nice plate of freshly prepared spaghetti alla vongole (delizioso). Before leaving town, we managed to fit in a vera pizza Napoletana and some of the local pastries, known as baba`.

We mostly marveled at the place. Naples really is unlike any other city in Italy. It is Europe's most densely populated, and it shows. It is full, and fully occupied. There is little green space, few parks, and unlike many Italian cities, boasts few piazzas. It is dirty - though not from the much- publicized trash crisis, but from millions of people, tourists, buses, cars, dogs, motorini and businesses all converging together in daily life in a compact space.

Napoli is full of contrasts. It is a place that both charms and intimidates. It attracts and repels in the same instant. It is full of beauty and full of chaos. There is daily drama, wafting music and filth occupying the same space. A vast sea and towering mountains define its boundaries yet it is squished in with streets so narrow the sun doesn't penetrate.

So did I like it? Yes. And no. At the same time.