Fly-by-Wire
Life
is Good or so the maxim goes, and right then, as Maria Elena
and I drove off heading for Boston’s Logan Airport, it certainly was. Even the sun had made an appearance following
a series of serious downpours after sunrise.
I took its arrival as an auspicious sign of good things to come, no need
to consult an oracle or delve into the entrails of a dove, and pressed harder on
the accelerator.
This trip would be both incredible and probable. Without question it would be incredible
simply because we were off to Italia and
probable in that we’d anticipated this particular trip for many years. Now it was about to unfold. Our wait was over. For the first time, members of our immediate
family would accompany us to Italy and bask in its incomparable charm for an
entire month. The first to arrive would
be our daughter Jamie and her fourteen year old, our granddaughter, Gabriella-----Gabby
for short. Jamie’s husband, Michael, and
younger daughter, Harper, would follow in two weeks.
Because Jamie is a teacher, we’d come in
the summer, after school let out. Italy
in the summer was something we’d avoided in the past, not due to the crowds,
but to the 30˚ C+ heat that time of year. And unless you are high atop some Dolomite peak,
you can forget about August in Italy altogether. When I was in grammar school, just before
June’s summer recess, I recall the back of my white uniform shirt sticking to
my desk. Much to my mother’s dismay, I
came home with patches of golden shellac all over my back. You knew it was hot when that happened. In Calitri in July, circumstances were a
little different – my chair was not shellacked and I never wear a white shirt -
but the message was the same, it’s HOT!
When, for instance, I go to the barbecue grill on the rooftop terrazzo and
the thermometer on the cover already registers 100˚ F … that’s fair warning
that it is hot this time of year. Jumping
only slightly ahead, I was at the kitchen table eating lunch one day. When I lifted my arm, my skin stuck to the
vinyl covered tablecloth. As my arm came
up, so did the tablecloth. Again, you
know it is clammy hot when this happens.
An added downside was that as the tablecloth rose with my arm, it toppled
my wineglass. The damage wasn’t simply limited
to spilled, nourishing, robust … and any other fitting adjectives you might
propose to describe wine … but the tabletop flood only ended with the distinct
sound of breaking glass. Hot as Italy is
in summer, let me return to my story.
My expectation that this trip would be
different was confirmed only hours later in the dawning twilight before sunrise
as we drank Guinness at our Dublin layover before continuing to Naples. Gabby had to settle for juice, which seemed to
settle her nerves, this being her first ever of hopefully many more flights to
come … and not just a flight anywhere, but to the romantic heart of
Europe. By the time we arrived at our
home in Calitri, our tenderfoot travelers were well into cultural shock, what
with the differences in language, sights and sounds following a mesmerizing, seemingly
never-ending day of cars, buses and planes. They slept until 11am the next morning!
They recovered rather quickly with sleep
and time. Each passing day saw them become
more adventurous. It wasn’t long before
they felt confident enough to walk downtown on errands by themselves. Together they had mastered a growing list of
words like pane, grazie, una pizza – mezzo
salsiccia e mezzo margheretta, buon giorno and of course gelato - due gusti.
To continue their immersion in the culture, we took a few
side trips right off to places like coastal Agripoli to visit its castle and
sample real buffalo mozzerella; the lost city of Paestum; and to nearby Venosa
for vino at the coop, to wonder its Norman cathedral, Roman ruins and a
wonderful lunch at hidden Ristorante D’Avalos.
Coincidentially, it just so happened that we had arrived during the
celebration of nearby Pescopagano’s patron saint and were able to witness the Volo dell’Angelo (Flight of the Angel).
The neighboring
community of Pescopagano, which many refer to as Pesco for short, is located
just over the boundary between Campania, where Calitri resides, and the region
of Basilicata. My
pastry-making friend, Francesco, says the reason Pesco is such a beautiful town
is because Calitri lies before it!
Indeed, from lofty Pesco, riven with peaks and precipices, Calitri can
be seen stretching across the foothills in the undulating valley far below. We
can easily see it up on its lofty mountain perch from our terrazza. The origins of this proud mountaintop town go way back
and are as old as Calitri’s, sharing many similarities in traditions and
dialect.
The
history of the area began with the settlement of Neolithic farmers along the then
navigable Ofanto River. Archaeological
evidence indicates that Pesco was already inhabited centuries before
Christ. These early inhabitants
settled in scattered hamlets. Historically,
Pescopagano was initially called Petra
Pagana (or Pescus Paganus). Petra
for boulder or rock and Pagana, interestingly,
for a popular Mediterranean pagan cult dedicated to the god Silvano, the diviner of human
fates. The Sibyl
was
a Greek oracle-like prophetess, who hearing
her words, gave insight into the future.
In
a world that believed in the predestined nature of man, she was often consulted
when major decisions had to be made. To put her in present day perspective, we might think of
her as a combination of columnist Dear Abby and the American
psychic, Edgar Cayce, who answered questions while in a trance-like state. Reportedly, during the fourth and fifth centuries BC, at the ancient
entrance to the village, the Porta Sibilla
(Sybil's Gate), there once stood a statue of the Sibyl Cumana. Later in Roman times, a statue of another
mythological divinity, this being the god Janus, was added. Their presence helps explain the occurrence
of pagano in part of the town’s name
in reference to its once pagan beliefs.
Pesco
occupied an area long tormented by war.
The Samnite wars and war between Rome and Hannibal, who’d established an
important foothold in the area, are but two.
Much later in 555 AD, the territory was occupied by the Goths who
fortified Pesco followed in turn by the Lombards. Between the ninth and tenth centuries it was
attacked several times by the seafaring Saracens. Because of them, residents of neighboring
towns, like present-day Conza in the Ofanto Valley, took refuge in this lofty
precipice stronghold. The marauding
Saracens themselves settled there in the ninth century and constructed a fort. Thus Petra
Pagana and its protective fortress clinging to the mountaintop, some of
which can still be seen, is mentioned in an early catalog of villages and their
Barons as Castellum Petrae Paganae.
A
long history of social isolation, neglect and hard times dominated the region
for centuries, which brings me to the story of its patron saint and protector, Saint Francesco di Paola. Saint Francesco (1416–1507), from distant Calabria, was an Italian friar
and the founder of the Roman Catholic Order
of Minims. The order sought to live
unknown, hidden lives away from the world as hermits, thus accounting for their
name, Minims or minimalists. Saint Francesco followed the teachings
of St Francis of Assisi after whom he’d been named. Like him, Francesco was never ordained, but ordained
or not, there was no stopping him. At a
very early age, Francis showed signs of extraordinary sanctity, profound
humility, obedience, a love of prayer and self-denial. He began his religious life living in a
cave. There he remained alone, in
solitude, for over six years, giving himself to prayer and the humility of
self-denial. In time he attracted
followers to his way of life. By 1435,
he and his followers, on the approval of the Pope, created a new order where humbleness
and meekness were to be the hallmark of their brotherhood, as it had been in Saint
Francis's personal life. Along with the
traditional vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, their lives stressed a
non-violent existence. This preference
took the added form of veganism with the added twist of doing no harm to any
creature----a dietary stance that in addition to abstinence from meat, fish and
animal products, included the self-denial from all animal-derived foods, such
as eggs, butter, cheese and milk.
In time Francis became famous for his many miracles and
though he’d sought a life we’d describe today as one ‘off-the-grid’, his fame
grew. While he cured many of illnesses
such as the plague, he was also known for his gift of prophesy. Word of his abilities spread far and wide to
the point that in the late 1400s the Pope ordered him to attend to King Louis
XI of France in the illness leading to the king’s death. He had to remain in France on order of the
king’s successor, Charles VIII, until Francis’ own death. Of the many miracles attributed to him, he is
credited for at least one that I know of that occurred in Pesco after his death. It helps to explain why Saint Francesco di Paola is to this
day their patron saint. Though I’ve gone
on a riff about the Saint for a while, there is yet one missing piece needed to
adorn this tale.
Vast
tracks of forest and the solitude afforded by its mountainous habitat made the
area around Pesco especially attractive to bandits, or as they’re known there
as briganti (brigands).
Like a plague, gangs freely
roamed the area as late as the mid-1800s.
Things hadn’t improved much since the Saracens had done much the
same. When one such gang of pillagers, led
by Carmine Crocco, was approaching Pescopagano, intent on sacking the
place, they met a monaco (no not a
relative of mine, but a monk)
who pleaded with them not to enter Pesco.
They didn’t harm him but in complete disregard continued with their plan. When they’d entered the first Pesco home,
they were greeted by a statue of Saint Francesco di Paola and in shocking
surprise realized that the old man they’d met on the road into town had been the Saint. While they had no respect for their fellow
man, the briganti apparently still feared God and His earthly
representatives. Thus, in a miraculous
turnabout, they abandoned their quest, never to return. Thereafter the story of Saint Francesco’s
intercession spread. It was through this
and other incidents that Francesco became the patron saint and protector of
Pesco with his feast day celebrated annually at the end of June.
We have good friends in Pesco, Joe and
Anna Maria. Life has a habit of speeding
past our eyes between heartbeats, so following a career in the U.S. Navy, Joe
retired to Pescopagano, his wife’s home town and well as home to his ancestors.
She’d followed him around his entire
career and now it was her turn to lead. Understandably,
he’s known there to just about everyone as ‘American Joe’. His face is as familiar to the town’s
residents as that of their patron, St. Francis.
He’s lived there long enough to be a pretty good judge of the
place. As for the weather, high up as
they are, Joe
says there are but a few summer days a year followed by the onset of cool winds
and a cold winter. Actually he says
there are only two seasons in Pesco, one being winter and the other the 17th
of July! Long tours at sea may account for some of his
polished whit, where new experiences during long days at sea pale to the many
that can be recounted, embellished, and retold again. I love his humor that for Joe has become an
art-form.
Anna Marie, had written us saying to forget about Paris, Rome or London.
Instead we needed to attend their town’s
festival that accompanied the celebration of San Francesco. And so the four of us headed off on our
ascent to lofty Pesco from Calitri.
Nearing
the town, I came close to hitting Joe in a temporary moment of distraction as
Joe waved his paddle directing traffic in the road on the outskirts of
town. Un-phased by it all, Joe came to
our window and invited us to park at his house along with advice on where to
rendezvous later. Joe has a volunteer’s
heart and is willing to help out wherever needed. Recently, he was asked to run for civic
office. He didn’t win, which may have
been a blessing since he had no idea what his job would have been. He thought possibly town idiot but I thought Director
of Cultural Affairs more appropriate. That
day, as part of the town’s volunteer security detail he was directing
traffic. Later, he performed crowd
control during the procession in celebration of Feast of San Francesco di Paolo
and again afterwards during the much anticipated Flight of the Angel. Fact is, we’d driven to Pesco to see for
ourselves what this
flying angel was all about. We had no idea. Maybe one of those newfangled remote control
drones? Considering how high up they
were, I could even imagine something like a kite or glider in the shape of an
angel that might be launched from a terrace in the evening out over the
sprawling valley far below, but I wasn’t even close.
We’d arrived just in time. A religious procession was just getting
underway to the surprising coordinated clap of thunder from the overhead
detonations of high-flying mortar rounds.
For a brief moment I wondered if Joe had anything to do with it. The town’s band from flute to tuba led the
way. Following close behind were altar
boys with long candles and a crucifix as well as a procession of children
dressed in white priestly smocks, some arm-in-arm. Then came, telling from their wings, two
female angels. They escorted a young boy,
also exhibiting wings. He may have been nine
or ten years old and obviously of some importance because of his costume and special
attendants. We learned only later that
to be selected for this role was a high honor.
He’d been chosen from among his peers following a thorough selection
process that included character and academics.
The young boy wore something that reminded
me of a first communion dress a girl might wear. His collar was frilled with smocking tied with
the bow of a blue sash trailing off down his chest. His legs were in white hose crisscrossed with
leather bands in the style of ancient-like Roman sandals. But what made him stand out most was his golden
helmet, brilliant in the sunlight. It too
was in the Roman tradition. A golden
blade, like a dorsal fin, replaced the familiar decorative brush atop a
centurion’s helmet.
Followed him was officialdom – the town’s
priest, with all the outward enthusiasm of a mortician, flanked by a pair of formally
dressed, always serious Carabinieri along with a group of men carrying, what I surmised
to be, a statue of the revered patron himself, Saint Francesco. Festooned with plums and chevrons, the regiment
in the officer’s steps wasn’t enough to prevent the intermittent glint of their
swords in the late afternoon sun. Their
passing officially ended the beginning of the procession. Behind them, with no need for invitation, the
townspeople filled in, extending its length tenfold. We joined the group and while new to all
this, Jamie and Gabby, leaving their inhibitions behind like the suitcases now under
their beds, followed suit though maybe somewhat hesitant on just what to
expect. We rounded a substantial part of
the old town as handfuls of flower petals fluttering down on us from balconies
draped with the finest of linens. Occasionally
our roaming cavalcade, with by then a long tail, would stop and pray en-masse at
prearranged altars arrayed here and there along the route, clearly an honor to
those families who had prepared them. Sometime later, like magic, we re-emerged in
the road where we’d begun.
Grouped in knots of discussion, accompanied, now that the band had
disbursed, only by the chirping sound of cicadas, everyone waited. We could detect activity atop the
building. Movement was visible behind
the panels. When they opened a few
minutes later, we could make out the helmet-topped boy we’d seen earlier, who’d
led the procession.
He was now suspended
horizontally beneath the makeshift cable clothesline and moments later, to the
applause of the crowd, began his flight across the piazza. Modern flight control technology is all about
fly-by-wire but it seems the Pescopaganesi (now there’s a mouthful) were way
ahead of their time. Records indicate
that the Flight of the Angel dates from 1898 when the first seraphim, Giovanni
Gonella, was pulled along a wire by way of a pulley fashioned by the local
Toglia brothers. The actual Volo dell’Angelo came about in gratitude
for the miraculous cure of a sick child, believed cured through prayer and the
intercession of Saint Francesco. Though
I found no record, I wondered if the first of many Pesco angels could have been
the healed Giovanni himself or one of the Toglia family children. I did discover, however, that the home the briganti had entered, only to be turned aside by what they found, was owned by one, Achille Miele, of the same last name as my friend Joe. I knew that somehow Joe had a hand in this, though admittedly somewhat removed!
With his reverse flight, back to the platform from where he’d first emerged,
but backwards in this case, the formal ceremonies concluded to a barrage of
fireworks. For yet another year the
Angel of Pesco had renewed a local bond of faith, keeping tradition alive. Now the street vendors and concession
operators took over. One vender in
particular featured something like an attention grabbing car ornament, only absent
the car. No, not a glossy jaguar or
prancing pony decoration. Instead his business
symbol was the physical, fleshy, severed head of a pig with a lemon jutting
from its open jaws. It certainly lacked
curb appeal by my standards. This was not
something easily forgotten, nor was his product line. He prepared and sold muso del maiale from the back of his mobile butcher
concession. Originating from the Amalfi
Coast/Naples area, this dish is reserved for special
occasions like this, and though hard for me to comprehend, at times it is served
as a starter at weddings. For a small fee he would first thinly filet the fatty, bacon-like jowl and snout of a pig, place the bits and pieces into a plastic take-away try (here the term is Take-away, not Take-out) and after a liberal sprinkling of salt and generous douse of freshly squeezed lemon juice, serve you your street-food treat. Apparently nothing goes to waste. Here was ample proof that all can somehow be imaginatively recycled.
Skirting the pig snouts once again, I finally did settle for some pig, but as added
To give the lad a more in-flight appearance, something like that
Superman look, one of his legs was supported at the ankle preventing him from
bending at the waist. As he slowly
closed the distance to the far end, he threw rose petals in offering that
fluttered down on us, and when these were gone he began to utter what I can
best describe as an appeal to their saintly protector, whose image lay immediately
below him, on behalf of the people of Pescopagano. Stopped and suspended in space, just short of
the priest and his entourage, he recited a
memorized speech with but a single hesitation.
He’d stopped and was quiet for what seemed an interminable length of
time. It was as though he was sorting
out competing thoughts. The halt was
rewarded with applause once he’d caught up with himself and continued. As best I could tell, his words professed the
faith of the people, who through their vigilant Saint Francis, wanted God to
continue to protect their community.
I’d seen this local specialty before and had even tried it, as hesitant as I’d been at the thought. My experience then was as it had been years earlier in Germany, only I didn’t know it would be at the time. We were out one evening looking to enjoy the experience of a small German restaurant. We’d asked our taxi driver to bring us somewhere of his choosing, somewhere we could experience the true local cuisine of the area. He did just that and deposited us at what to us appeared to be a combination Hansel and Gretel and Shirley Temple Heidi movie set. Inside we were served a basket of bread along with a ramekin filled with a buttery substance but of a white consistency. What remained was my continued displeasure.
Skirting the pig snouts once again, I
finally did settle for some pig, but as added insurance it would be from
another part of this barnyard favorite.
We had by then rendezvoused with Joe and Anna Maria and together took
our time surveying the
offerings of the various food vendors now lining the
main street. A large crowd in front of
one retailer confirmed that this had to be the place, consensus certainly said
so. Between sausage and pork panini
sandwiches, heaping full with mushrooms and fried peppers, mayonnaise optional,
and bottles of Peroni, our group filled a table long into the evening before we
reluctantly rolled down the mountain (clutch in just about all the way) back to
sleeping Calitri.
Calitri would soon enough have its own
festival, but not for a few weeks yet.
Thousands would converge on the now annual Sponz-fest music festival held during the last week of August. But this night, the valley’s attention had
been on Pescopagano. The Mezzogiorno may yet be poor in industry
and lacking in symbols of wealth, but it is rich in heritage with its treasure stored
in its people. Our soirée in Pesco had
been proof. It revealed a montage of
heritage, folklore and traditions, a combination Cirque du Soleil high wire performance in a
carnival atmosphere of children’s rides and actual cheek-by-jowl sidewalk
venders. And thus our lives trickle by,
a shared visit, the innate charm of a simple Italian meal among friends and now
family, one memory at a time.
Hopefully, Jamie and Gabriella had fallen
under Italy’s spell and were destined to return. New
anticipation had been kindled in us. I
need only consult the Sibyl for confirmation on the exact date and pray to San
Francesco di Paola to make it happen. We
now cling to that thought in expectation of the day.
Paolo
Skirting the pig snouts once again, I finally did settle for some pig, but as added
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