The
Delightful Escape of Pasquetta
The day following Easter is yet
another holiday in Italy called Pasquetta
or Little Easter. As it had on Easter,
the sun managing to once again wedge itself into an otherwise bleak stretch of
bad weather. Easter, ever the harbinger
of spring, even the weather understood enough to produce a glorious sunny day
that Pasquetta morning. Along with some
friends, we were going for a ride, a tour, maybe two, and seeing the weather
was so obliging, hopefully include a picnic.
I sat next to Antonio who was behind the wheel. Also along for the adventure were back benchers
Maria Elena and English friends Bernie and her visiting chum, Sarah. It was traditional that the day after Easter
was a time when Italians enjoyed the outdoors and celebrated with a picnic. We were "GO" for the entire four “P”
package – Pasquetta, Padula, Picnic and Petrosino! We hadn't heard of either, Padula or
Petrosino, but day's end they'd be familiar names!
We
were familiar with much of the route from lofty Calitri
for it followed the path we took on occasional visits to Sicily. I’ve said it before how much I enjoy this
toboggan ride through this mountainous chute.
On one side of the deep valley south from Lioni until Contursi Therme,
steeped in the scent of sulfur, we retraced a familiar route between Monti
Eremita to our right and Monti Picentini towering to our left. Upon reaching Highway E45 we were soon bracketed
on our left by Monti Della Maddalena and glancing right, hemmed in by the Parco
Nazionale Del Cilento where mountains join the sea, nature meets up with
history and beautiful landscapes mix with the fragrant smell of wild plants.
This
region, which hugs coastal Campagna, is well known for its
extra virgin oil renowned for its brilliant grassy green to earthy straw-yellow
color, its pale artichokes, sweet chestnuts, tear-drop shaped caciocavallo
cheese and of course the food of the gods itself, the exclusive porcelain-white
buffalo mozzarella. Ah, buffalo mozzarella,
but that was another story, wasn't it (read Where
Buffalo Roam, Jan 2014). Being I
wasn't driving this time, I took the opportunity to notice things I hadn't seen
before, which Mare was quick to inform me had always been there! As we got
closer to our objective, I could make out a town clinging to the side of a
mountain.
Padula
is a town in the Campania region of south-western Italy. Its existence reaches back to at least the
ninth century when local people used the hilltop area for defense against
Saracen marauders. It sits in what is
known as the “Cilento Region”, which stretches from the Vallo di Diano south of
Salerno on the Tyrrhenian coast to the foot of the Apennines in Campania and
Basilicata. What distinguishes Padula
from other neighboring towns is that it is the home of the Carthusian monastery,
Certosa di San Lorenzo, and if that
were not enough, its favorite son, Joe Petrosino.
Nestled at the base of the mountain near the picturesque hill town
of Padula we arrived at the Carthusian monastery, also referred to as the Certosa di Padula. The Monastery resides
within a building of baroque design extending over 50,000 square meters making
it one of the largest monasteries in Italy.
Looking at it front-on, however, all this would be hidden from you. Only a bird's eye high above could take it
all in and appreciate its dimension. The
entrance, located at the base of a long flight of stone stairs adjacent to the
road, continued the deception by making only a modest statement in comparison
to the complex of buildings and courtyards that awaited us inside.
Our first order of business was to
purchase tickets and meet the guide we had reserved. As we waited our turn in line we had ample
time to appreciate the masterful wall and ceiling paintings adorning the entire
area. Though much of the paint is
missing, their power is still unmistakable.
A little confusion at the ticket window, where we were thought to be
senior EU citizens like Sarah and Bernie, saw us also get in for free. I know I look foreign, but British? We then met our guide in the nearby gift
shop. Her name was Fosca, a good fit
since hers is a name associated with someone fond of stories and fascinated by
legends. Fosca was a young woman of thin
frame and accommodating personality that I’d guess to be in her late twenties. From the ground up, which since she was very
short wasn’t far at all, she wore knee length leather boots and a pale purple
pleated dress whose frilly sleeves extended from her black zippered jacket like
trumpet flowers looking for sunlight and ended at her neck in a rolled
turtleneck affair. Her face was framed
in long dark brown hair and the bridge of her nose supported bright orangey
glasses she must have thought in vogue or at least stylish. For me they were something on the order of a
facial piercing that for the life of me I personally can’t understand in terms
of their appeal to either wearer or observer.
But then, for at least this tour I was a foreigner, disguised as
British, intent on observing and noting everything however critical that
sometimes might be!
Exiting the biglietteria
with tickets in hand we entered the monastery proper through a cobble paved
courtyard. The
monastery's layout was divided into two major areas. One, the "lower house", was more in
touch with the outside world. The
cobblestone outer courtyard we were passing through was representative of the
lower house. Common activities took
place here in support of the Carthusian community. Quite large, the courtyard was known as
the "Domus Inferior" and served as the public area of the monastery;
a place for meetings, surrounded once by the homes of lay brothers as well as
workshops, an apothecary, stables, barns,
warehouses, a mill, an in-wall fountain, and an olive press and
granaries. Today some of these spaces
are occupied by gift shops and a cafe. Greatly
missed are the lay brothers, for the fountain is non-functional and the cobbles
uneven and in need of rescue from weeds.
Coming in from the cobbles it was time for a cappuccino and morning
spuntino (snack) anyway! Our purchase of refreshments also provided us
cover for a bathroom stop, even more of interest than the cappuccinos! There at the opposite end of the court, the
greatness of the massive 16th century main entrance facade, again of Baroque
style, still remains. This marked the entrance to the "high house"
with the spaces for the community life of the monks (church, kitchen,
refectory, the treasury and the chapter rooms) as well as the once strictly
controlled cloistered areas organized around the great monk's cells, private
gardens, the library and apartment of the Prior. In a niche high above, to this day,
the Virgin still keeps watch over the courtyard. She undoubtedly notes the changes through the
centuries unfolding below her. At her
feet, atop the portal, you can make out the words "Felix Coeli Porta"
(Heaven's Gate) for this spot served as the border between the public areas and
private areas reserved only for monks.
Uncertain of my exact status, British monk or British layman, we
entered.
The monastic building was founded by the Sanseverino family and
then donated to the Carthusian monks in 1306, who over time went on to expand
the original structure extensively. The
expansion of this incredible complex was largely funded beginning in 1342 by
the wealthy Florentine banker, Niccolò Acciaiuoli. As the story goes, it was his guilt at having
amassed so much money, considered sinful even in today’s secular "have and
have-not" world, that with the creation of such a structure to honor God,
his remorse was at least temporarily eased.
Someone should let Warren Buffett know!
A heritage preserved from the Middle Ages, this Monastery, known as the
Certosa (or Chapterhouse) di San Lorenzo served as a center of enlightenment
and influenced the cultural development of the entire area. Today, the Monastery is designated a UNESCO
World Heritage Site.
I began to wonder who
these devout men had been; these souls of a vanished time
centered on the spirit verses our present day tendency to focus on stuff. Things were used then while people and family
were loved, not the other way around.
Clearly life as a monk in a monastery had to have been preferred to the
drudgery of life as a peasant, yet even here, all was not perfect, all was not
easy. As in the society outside its walls,
there was an order to things in the form of a strict regiment. Monks were separated from lay brothers, their
assignments posted daily. Each in fact
had their own separate meeting rooms and observed the stringent rules of the
order. Their wooden seats were all
connected and lined three walls of these chambers. The last wall, which they faced in a U-shaped
fashion, held a single honorary chair, apparently that of their master or Prior. Curiously, beneath each seat was a pull-out
drawer. In answer to my inquiry they
were used to hold a spittoon! I doubted
they chewed tobacco. Apparently
consumption, better known as tuberculosis, was prevalent.
We also got to visit, but I soon realized not touch (or that other
form of touch, i.e. open), two major wooden choirs fashioned with inlaid
artwork, one reserved for monks, the other for lay brothers arranged under a
groined or double barreled vaulted ceiling itself embellished with ornate
golden paintings. In another large assembly
room, on the idea of a Joint Session of Congress, both groups occasionally
met.
One particularly interesting area was
the apartment of the Prior. He enjoyed a
very large space of many rooms including a private chapel. His rooms, like all the others we saw, were
emptied of their furnishings. One
feature which couldn't be removed, even when the Chapterhouse was emptied of
its treasures by Napoleon, was a grand veranda overlooking a walled
garden. The walls outside, to either
side of the entrance onto this terrace, were heavenly painted with accents of
cherubs in an ornate fashion. They
depicted scenes of galleons, castles and village life in a manner giving them
physical depth and dimension. Each was
presented so as to appear as additional views from the veranda seen through
arches supported by imaginary painted columns.
Even the stone railings in the scenes matched the actual veranda railings,
which overlooked the garden (see photo album).
It had to have been a beautiful space in its time, though today, the
elements and time have taken their share of its splendor. One sight from the terrace I know neither the
Prior nor Napoleon had ever seen, just over the wall in the forest to the left,
was a gigantic, red, circular "You Are Here" marker, like those you
see at rest areas on wall-maps to pinpoint your location. No need to remind the Prior anyway, he knew
was in Heaven.
The entire time we were there we never saw a religious, neither
monk nor brother. Doubtful there are any
there today, other than tourists like ourselves, since it was abandoned as a
monastery in 1866. Times have changed
vastly since the days when monks spent almost all their time inside their cells
(twenty-four of which are intact to this day), praying, studying and
meditating. Also of curious interest
were the monks' cells. Their secluded
mini apartments consisted of 3-4 rooms.
Though hard to believe with our mindset, the monks could spend most of
their lives tending their own private gardens without dealing with any other
monks. Our guide pointed out openings where
food could be delivered, others to admit light.
When food was slid into their apartment, in the truest embodiment of
cloistered religious life, only shards of candlelight from inside indicated
that the occupant was still alive! To me
this gave it all the characteristics of a prison cell, absent any bars, while
to them it gave opportunity to achieve closeness with God.
At the entrance to the library we’d
glimpsed a spiral staircase that seemed to corkscrew up to infinity without any
supports, yet to the rear of the monastery
rose a huge and spectacular octagonal tower that eclipsed even
this masterful stairway. The tower
encloses a majestic marble staircase accented by grand openings overlooking the
countryside. These long vertical
breaches in the tower wall framed scenes of the gardens and countryside that
gave the illusion they were actual paintings.
Every few steps we would hesitate as we spiraled upward to turn and look
at what new vista had been captured in
these architectural apertures. Even
Napoleon had been unsuccessful in stealing them! The day of our visit this impressive
stairwell led to a second floor museum that depicted one example of how the use
of the Chapterhouse and its grounds had changed over time. At a time during WWI, for instance, it served
as a prison for captured Czech soldiers.
This display detailed the life of these prisoners through models,
photos, and actual artifacts and memorabilia from their time there to include
uniforms. In the process of these
changes the Chapterhouse has suffered, yet even today it remains a magnificence
tribute to the vision of its builders.
One
especially interesting room was the kitchen complex,
something often overlooked in places like this.
I find them interesting.
Considering the number of mouths to feed daily, it had to have been a
large space and it was. Within its walls
the kitchen hall retained two novel features: a giant chimney and a butchering
area. The rest of the expansive kitchen
space was empty but in the day must have been filled with tables, pots and
stores with sous-chef brothers, (or possibly monks?), busily preparing for the
upcoming meal. The still sooty chimney
flared from its wide base above a mammoth fire pit. Hooks, chains and hooks within hooks hung
from the mouth of the chimney like some giant escaped fish, its mouth still
snagged by gnarly fishing tackle. Near
one corner of the room stood something on the order of a stone altar though
close inspection revealed it wasn’t.
Although flat like an altar it had depressions, like troughs, cut in the
stone and running along all its sides, apparently to gather any fluid when an
animal was being butchered or the surface was being washed. On the floor was a similar arrangement of
channels leading to a drain. On the wall
behind this sacrificial dais were a series of smaller slabs and adjacent
basins. What was especially interesting,
however, were the wall tiles. Many of
them still retained their bright yellow sheen, which Fosca explained was an
early form of bug repellent, for their color was believed to ward off flying
insects. On 10-12 August of each year,
this kitchen come alive again when a celebration is held. According to legend, the Carthusian Monks once
created a 1,000-egg omelet for King Charles V's visit to the monastery. A special giant iron pan expressly made for
the occasion fashioned the "Frittata delle mille uova"
(1,000-egg omelet) for the king who oversaw a vast empire so large it was said
“the sun never set” on it. What better
than a grand omelet would be fit for a man with such a voracious appetite for
conquest and dominion. Could the pan, gone now, have fallen victim to
Napoleon?
Outside,
a covered walkway called the "Grand Cloister",
surrounded an inner grassy area as large a soccer field. Among the most spacious in Europe, this
rectangular lawn occupies 12,000 square meters and is encircled by a covered
arcade of 84 columns. From this huge
gallery, the eastern horizon is dominated by a view of the city of Padula
rising in alternating rows of white colored homes and clay tiled
roofs flashing orange. Though
we had given it a good try, we couldn't see it all … 320 halls, 52 staircases,
100 fireplaces and 41 fountains. We’d
hardly made a dent when it was time to leave.
Our
visit to the monastery complete and it being early afternoon by then, we converged
on a nearby small restaurant adjacent to the parking area for lunch. Never having attended a Pasquette picnic, I
would still estimate that ours was exceptional.
Each of us had brought along enough food for ourselves and more, enough
to constitute a true picnic. Wine,
chips, sweets, cheeses, grapes, salami, sandwiches, you
name it, we probably had it. The owners
employed a cleaver concept. I'm sure
they hoped you'd buy something from them and I'm sure some did. No 1000 egg omelets however! For those of us who hadn't purchased
something, there was a small fee of 2 or 3 Euros for the use of their facility,
which included an open space of shaded picnic tables.
Our
lunches well consumed, we gathered our new
strength and headed for Padula itself.
Padula is like many Italian hill towns.
Streets of steep grade see the weaker fall behind, which may have been
the idea when the town was constructed on the mountainside to protect against
marauding Saracen pirates even this far inland from the sea. Beyond hoping for tired pirates, Padula has
the special distinction of having a favorite son of international renown, Giuseppe
Michale Pasquale "Joe" Petrosino, not to be confused with Peter
Petrocelli famed shortstop of our Boston Red Sox! Let me tell you his story.
Joe was
born in Padula in August of 1860 and by 1872, along with the
rest of his family, became part of the
great Italian immigration to the United States.
His life remains one
of the greatest immigrant tales New York City has ever known. As a young boy, nearly straight off the boat,
Petrosino sold newspapers and shined shoes outside the NYPD
Headquarters, then on Mulberry Street. At night he studied English and by 17 had
become an American Citizen. He
eventually was noticed by a police commander and
in 1883, at age 23, joined the force. By 1890 he'd risen
to became the first Italian American to be awarded a NYPD Detective Shield. During his service he become friends with Theodore Roosevelt, who at the time was
New York City's police commissioner. On July 20, 1895, Roosevelt promoted him to
detective sergeant in charge of the department's Homicide Division, making him
the first Italian
American to lead this division. He went on to become a fearless criminal
investigator and legendary crime fighter.
A burly man, all grit, gallantry and
guts, Joe was a pioneer in the fight against organized crime, especially
Italian and Sicilian criminal groups then emerging in the U.S. His
expertise at undercover disguise and knowledge of Italian dialects were soon recognized
by the department then waging a campaign against the "Black Hand", a
loose association of Italian mobsters and
precursor to the Mafia.
A man of
many firsts, he
pioneered various crime fighting techniques during his career, many still
practiced today by various agencies in their fight against crime. To conceal his identity, he perfected the art of undercover
disguise using hairpieces, fake mustaches, glasses, hats and clothing. He also pioneered the infiltration of
criminal organizations and the creation of files containing information and
images of criminals internationally. To
accomplish this, in 1904 he established the first Organized Crime Task Force, a
group of ten handpicked men. The
pinnacle of his career came in December 1908 when he was promoted to lieutenant
and placed in charge of the "Italian Squad", an
elite corps of Italian-American detectives assembled specifically to deal with
the criminal activities of organizations like the Black Hand, as well as founding the NYPD Bomb Squad, the first of its kind in
the U.S, to counter the use of explosives in carrying out extortion threats.
One
of his notable crime-fighting exploits during his stint with the Italian
Squad was when the Pavaratti of his day, Italian tenor Enrico Caruso, was
performing at the New York City Metropolitan Opera. The Blank Hand attempted to blackmail Caruso
by demanding money in exchange for his life.
It was Petrosino who convinced Caruso to help him catch those behind the
blackmail attempt. Another notable case
involved his penetration of an Italian-based anarchist organization involved in
the assassination of King Umberto I of Italy.
During this operation, he discovered evidence that the organization
intended to assassinate President McKinley during his upcoming trip to
Buffalo. Petrosino warned the Secret
Service but McKinley ignored the warning even when Theodore Roosevelt, then
Vice President, vouched for Joe. The
world was shocked when his warning became a reality and McKinley was
assassinated by anarchist Leon Czolgosz while meeting the public inside the
Temple of Music during his visit to Buffalo's Pan-American Exposition on
September 6, 1901.
Realizing the danger of the Mafia phenomenon, Lt.
Petrosino stubbornly sought out those who ordered the first Mafia murders in
New York history. This led him to
Sicily. In 1909, Petrosino made plans to travel to Palermo on a top secret
mission. His cover as they say "was
blown", however, when due of the incompetence of the then New York's
police commissioner, the New York Herald
learned of Petrosino's mission and published the story just days before his
departure. Even though he was aware of
the danger because of this "leak", Petrosino headed to Palermo as
planned, a decision which would prove fatal since he wrongly believed that the
Sicilian Mafia would not kill a policeman, since they had not done so in
America. So much for foolhardy wishful
thinking!
Following
his now well announced arrival in Palermo, Petrosino received a message from someone
claiming to be an informant, asking the detective to meet him in the city's
Piazza Marina to give him information about the Mafia. Foolishly, Petrosino arrived at the rendezvous
point in Piazza Marina in the Garibaldi Garden alone. He had refused the services of a police body
guard offered him by the Palermo Commissioner of Police. It was a trap and the trap was set. While waiting for the so-called informant,
Petrosino was shot to death by Mafia assassins.
His murder in Sicily on 12 March 1909 at the age of 49 give him the posthumous
distinction of being the first NYPD officer to lose his life abroad in the line
of duty. On its
return, his body was received by a police honor guard and he was given a hero's
funeral by the city. Today,
Joe is a New York City hero in the truest sense of the word. Yes, he did his job but he
went far beyond what was required, even expected.
We
learned all
this that day. All of it at the Petrosino
homestead in Padula, today a "casa-museum". It was easy to find since signs throughout the town pointed out the direction to Via Giuseppe
Pertrsino, 6. The home, built in 1768,
is representative of a typical emigrant home of the late 19th century. Its contents are original right down to a
suitcase Joe left behind when he stopped off on his way to Sicily on that
fateful mission, intent on retrieving it on his return. Everything had been preserved by Petrosino's niece,
Guilda Petrosino. Gilda's son and the
great-nephew of Joe Petrosino, Nino Melito, realized the importance of
documenting the life of this famous native son and distinguished NYC policeman. To preserve Joe's memory, Nino started the
museum we toured that day. A combination
"Believe-it-or-Not",
shrine, "Madame Tussard's" and local
preservation society, in true barker fashion Nino wove his tale in theatrical
fashion, raising and lowering his voice for dramatic effect to relate the Petrosino
story. It was in Italian but fortunately
our friends Antonio and Gerardina translated for us. Moving from tiny room to tiny room, he
described the contents and implements used in daily life back then, which
filled each room. Walls were wallpapered
but they need not have been for they were otherwise covered with every manner
of news article, photo, anything however remotely related to Joe. Nino saved most of his colorful melodramatics
for his climactic crescendo of a finale at the assassination portion of the
story. A promoter himself, he had all
the makings of a P. T. Barnum presenting his version of the "Greatest Show
on Earth", the Petrosino story.
By all
measure, our first Pasquetta outing had been a success! We had withstood a
springtime tradition now turned national Italian holiday on an especially joyous
day filled with sunshine and the fresh beckoning breezes of springtime. This day following Easter, with its diminutive
ending etta added-on to denote
little, was nothing of the sort. Our
trip deeper into the Campania countryside had uncovered four iconic Ps -
Pasquetta, Padula, picnic, and Petrosino! It led us to Padula's grandiose monastery that
is no longer, though still remarkable in its story and scale. Suitably awed, we'd then survived a marathon
of food, somewhat shy of 1000 eggs, at an outdoor picnic feast where our band
of travelers had shared their surprises from baskets, pouches, bags and bottles. Once again recharged, in an attempt to
prolong the joyful spirit of this Italian experience, we then explored the
hilly streets of Padula, throughout the day visible on the near horizon. There we'd discovered the once home, now
museum, of a New York City police hero, Joe Pertosino, whose fame and exploits continue
to be enthusiastically maintained and recounted in nick-knack detail by his
descendants. La Pasquetta and the British part of me is now entwined in my
memory, not soon to be tossed out like yesterday's paper or fade with that
day's setting sun. Any first-timer would
return to Pasquetta, after Pasquetta and we will, to bask in this early springtime
day and joys of the Italian countryside!
From
that Rogue Tourist
Paolo
For
related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy Then look for and click on a photo
album entitled “Pasquetta”.
