Tutt’Appost (Part III, A Travel Timeline)
I’ve noticed that since we arrived in Italy,
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Our Misty Calitri Morning View |
What is free, though priceless? Something you can't
own, only use. You can't keep it either, but you can certainly spend it. And one final hint … if you lose it, you can
never get it back.
With the hints I’ve provided, you likely said ‘time,’ and you’re correct. I didn’t contrive this riddle. Not at all. Mine is no more a contrivance than what others have created—those who ‘invented’
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The Sands of Time |
Early in his career, Albert
Einstein realized that time was not absolute.
To a big-thinking theoretical physicist like Einstein, a second was not
always a second everywhere in the universe.
Could time be nothing more than a method of making sense of growing up
and growing old while the world changes around us? Is this human construct, time, simply a
matter of days, hours, and seconds that determine the pattern of our
lives? As Einstein explained, time is essentially an “arbitrary construct.” As he put it:
“People like us … know that the distinction between past, present, and future
is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” In other words, time is an illusion.” 1
Neuroscientist
Abhijit
Naskar put more light on it when he wrote:
“Time is basically an illusion created
by the mind to aid in our sense of temporal presence in the vast ocean of
space. Without the neurons to create a virtual perception of the past and the
future based on all our experiences, there is no actual existence of the past
and the future. All that there is, is the present.” 1
No
past, no future? It was my High School English teacher, Miss Teevan, bless her soul, not
Einstein, who taught me to write with time in mind, calling them ‘tenses’ where
with just the change of a letter, words move from past all the way to
future. These spheres separate into
familiar domains: the present, that fleeting transient waystation where we live and breathe that separates a finite past from an infinite span termed the future. Beyond tenses, the present is transient, a
page just read joins the past where with the turn of a page, the future
presents itself. Time
stretches and bends, yet we remain, like the ink on a page, marked by the
passage of every second, yet forever a part of it.
Evidently, thinking about time can get deep and trigger a headache or two. Relativity, black holes, event horizons, and spaghettification, a term surprisingly unrelated to pasta or Italy, emerge to fog our comprehension. Although I can’t quote who first said it, all I know is if past, present, and future can fold into each other and are one and the same, I understand why time, that benefactor as well as thief, who takes everything from us, flies.
As I stood on the terrace many a morning in the dawning hours
looking off into the distance at the world stretched before me—to my left, the
past, a million-year-old extinct volcano weathered and ancient, tells a story
of long-forgotten eons, of what was; to my right, a mountaintop observatory
perched like a sentinel, speaks to the present—the measured science of our
existence, representing the choices we make, the questions we ask;—while
straight ahead unchanged in its serenity, a silver-edged moon beckons us
forward, drawing us toward what lies beyond our grasp at the moment, a moon grinning
at me in the foreground of infinite space.
Each is a dance of time, part of a whole, folding and stretching,
tugging and pulling, while we stand in the middle as it flows by. In a reflective way. I understand how time and place
can come together.
Time, as morphable as it apparently can be, it seems like only yesterday (today’s memory called the past I guess) when we again departed Calitri. Knotted up in past, present, and future as I am, and this being more than simply an attempt to ‘kill time’ by replacing your precious seconds reading these words, our departure lay somewhere in the milieu of time I think called September.
Again, there were four of us,
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Naples Ferry Port Behind Castle Nuovo |
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Crossing the Bay - |
We
found the correct bus,
which proved a godsend. It took us to
the beating heart of the tourist area, busy Piazza
Tasso. It wasn’t far, but being an uphill climb, it went a long way toward averting a heart attack. Our destination, “Villa in Priora,” located outside of Sorrento, would have to
wait while we took a break for lunch at a pizzeria that bordered the bustling
piazza. Our re-introduction to the city proved
disappointing when the maître d’ proved short on hospitality and insisted we
order two pizzas when we only wanted one. He was apparently unfamiliar with the adage
that "the customer is always right," that customer satisfaction is paramount
and trumps the daily cash intake. Disappointing
as it was, as Maria Elena will often interject, it would not be our first and
certainly not our last encounter with less-than-welcome service,
nor our last meal.
Despite the awkwardness, we managed
to enjoy the pizza, if not the experience. There was a kind of quiet
defiance in the air as if we were all silently agreeing that the bad taste left
by the maître d’ would not ruin the rest of our day. The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the
air, making it easy to remember why we had come back to Sorrento in the first
place. After all, a good trip, like a
good pizza, is made up of both the savoring moments and the slightly burnt
edges.
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The Interior of "Villa in Priora" |
We kicked off our stay later that evening when Alexandro picked us up and shuttled us to Lo Stazzichino, a Michelin Guidebook-listed restaurant set in an outdoor garden situated in the center of nearby Sant'Agata. At the entry we were greeted by Mimmo (a nickname for Domenico or Domenic), the owner, and from his apparel, the chef
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Our Lo Strazzichino Reception |
In the days that followed, we were busy shopping, touring, and, of course, enjoying dinners. One tour was especially informative. It involved a product famous throughout the area, lemons, the stuff of limoncello like none other. We were picked up by Raffaele, a young man who, in addition to laboring at his family-owned farm also oversaw operations, including picking up guests. He imparted that La Masseria had a “farm to table” motto with an emphasis on quality, not quantity. First off, Raffaele, with the enthusiasm of someone truly connected to his work, shared the farm's commitment to sustainable practices. The Sorrento Peninsula is home to these coveted succulent and oil rich lemons, with the farm’s name, Masseria, a clear reference to these coveted lemons. In addition to their thick-skinned and fragrant Massa lemons, the farm's focus on quality products also includes amber, low acidity, extra virgin olive oil high in healthful polyphenols.
On our arrival, we joined other guests and together toured the farm. It was not large, though certainly large enough for the family, nephews including cousins. It involved a walk under olive tree
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Graft Visible Toward Center of Photo |
nets, to the accompaniment of an explanation of the life cycle of an olive. There was also the standard barnyard population of chickens, in this case of the ‘tenor’ variety named for famous Italian tenors like Pavarotti and Caruso, and a homey, mud-filled pigsty of enormous beasts prepping to soon become prosciutto crudo hams. As we stood there, surrounded by the groves, the sky stretching in a warm, golden haze above us, I couldn’t help but think about how these simple elements—earth, sun, water, and the timely themes of tradition—had come together to create something so essential to the region’s culture. The lemons, the olive oil, the food—it was all a reflection of the place itself, set in time. Theirs was a way of life, a legacy tied to the land.
It was fascinating
to learn that the ladders used for harvesting are custom-made for each person, with
the spacing between the rungs tailored to the length of their legs. They also used electric-operated vibrating rakes to dislodge the olives. But real enlightenment came when we moved on
to the lemon trees. While familiar with agriculture scientist George Washington Carver’s contributions to crop rotation and peanut
cultivation, I knew nothing about grafting plants, a practice that demonstrates how
technology and tradition come together to optimize the harvest. Simply astonishing, we were
shown how the twigs of Massa lemon trees are grafted to young bitter
orange tree rootstock—and only the bitter orange tree variety. With time, the bitter orange tree hosts then
grow to bear lemons instead of oranges. To illustrate this process, Raffaele pointed to a noticeable
“buckle” in the branch, called a graft union.
The union, which resembled a burl, encircled the entire branch or trunk
where the graft had taken place, clearly marking where the two plants had fused. As we continued to discuss this
fascinating technique, the conversation shifted from farming to food. The entire group was soon found exchanging thoughts on gastronomy, indulging in a classic multi-course Italian
meal, and savoring the fruits of the farm we had just learned so much about.
On another evening, after shopping along
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Inside the Mary Leather Shop |
JoAnn and Lenny had been to Ristorante Da Filippo before. Preparing for this trip, JoAnn read some less than exuberant, even negative reviews. As the one who made the reservation, she was having second thoughts on whether we should go. Earlier that day, while checking out of a CONAD market, she'd fortunately been given what she interpreted as a “sign.” It was there that she met a man, also in line, who surprisingly wore a Da Filippo T-shirt. This, along with a glowing recommendation from a real estate business owner, was the nudge she needed to reignite her hopes that their experience would
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Interior of Ristorante Da Filippo |
Enzo offered an
extensive menu.
While pizzas occupied an entire page, the emphasis was clearly on
seafood. It was difficult to decide on
what to order, so we chose to share various dishes. There were simply too many of our favorites to
pick from. We started with arancini (pronounced
“ah-ran-chee-ni”), those
golden, panko-crusted risotto rice balls, each stuffed with small cubes of
mozzarella cheese. We followed this with a refreshing octopus
salad and delicate zucchini flowers, surprisingly still in season. Maria Elena and I savored the alice fritti (fried anchovies) while our friends, who I suspect were not keen on the idea, enjoyed a whole
fish filleted tableside. We seemed to have
been the first to arrive, but as the time arrived to depart, not only were we filled,
but so was the restaurant, while others patiently waited at the entrance.
While the food was excellent, what we found intriguing was how our wine was served. Instead of arriving in the typical carafe, it was decanted into a pitcher. But there was a twist: the pitcher also
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Yummy Peach Slices in Vino |
It
was Tutt’Appost to this point, but that was about to dramatically change as quickly as
the weather can. In fact, the weather was the culprit. On the morning
of our departure, we woke up to a bleak situation. When it came time to leave keys behind and
depart the Sorrento area for our next destination, the nearby island of Ischia,
we heard from the property manager that ferry service was doubtful. Our
three days in Priora concluded with a trail of thunderstorms that left the sea in
a boil. The rough sea, the residue of the storm
that had passed in the night, halted us in our tracks. A normally easy ferry ride to Ischia refused
to cooperate. No ferries were arriving,
and those already in the bay would not depart for at least a day. While we could see Ischia, there was no immediate
way to reach it. A quick check with our manager revealed that
extending our stay at the villa wasn’t an option, and one night’s accommodation anywhere else for four seemed equally
hopeless. Meanwhile, the clock would
soon be ticking “ca-ching, ca-ching” with every passing minute on our waiting accommodations
in Ischia. We desperately needed a second
opinion and possibly a Plan B, or even a Plan C.
We were fortunate to have our driver, Vincenzo, who arrived as planned to shuttle us to the docks. He suggested we head there and assess the situation ourselves, confident that his contacts would help. However, his ride turned out to be another stressful journey—though, thankfully, not quite on par with our earlier vehicular escapades, for in stark contrast to our previous drivers, Vincenzo drove upsettingly slowly. Unlike his Jekyll and Hyde predecessors, he didn’t morph into a Formula One driver, when behind the wheel, even though the road, all downhill, was inviting. No, Vincenzo seemed to embody a philosophy of relaxation and calm and too frequently uttered "tranquillo" as we leisurely made our way. It was as if we had stumbled upon a modern-day laidback Huck Finn, unhurriedly guiding a horse-drawn buggy while philosophizing about the merits of not worrying in proper tutt’appost (all is OK) fashion. All that was missing from the scene was seeing Vincenzo chewing on a piece of straw. Personally, at that moment, I was far from swayed by his tranquil outlook. Instead, I found myself wondering where the other drivers had gone when a quick arrival might have made a difference.
When Vincenzo
finally arrived at the port, he opened the window and inquired
about our chances of getting out. His
contact replied that the port was indeed shut down, and there wasn’t a chance of
getting to Ischia directly by ferry. There
was, however, a roundabout way for us to get there. From the port, Vincenzo took us to the Sorrento
Train Station, where we could board a train and backtrack to Naples. While not all sea traffic was running, some larger ships were still operating
from Naples. At the rail station, I ran
inside to check the schedule. One train
was departing in ten minutes from binario (track) one. We made it, and many stops later, including
one at Pompeii, we arrived at the Garibaldi Rail Station in Naples. There, we fortunately hired a taxi driver who, understanding our plight, helped us get to the ferry
terminal. Our guardian angel taxi driver even brought me inside to
the correct ticket purchase window. I
quickly bought tickets, and minutes later, we were on our way to Ischia. Our AirB&B “Terrace on the Port” in the
heart of the village of Ischia Porto, a stone’s throw from the port, awaited. We’d made it, and once more, all was well (tutta’appost).
These musings capture moments in time. I like to think that by recording my thoughts
and experiences, I can freeze time, that my yesterdays are not
gone. It may just be a travel essay about
recent, now past events, but
much like how an orange tree can be transformed into a lemon tree, reading
these words allows the past to flow into your present. Much like the man on the moon,
whose smiling face remains ever visible across past, present, and future, in
the timeless sky over Calitri, time, like the face of a clock, moves in its own
way, has its way with us, forever shaping our lives.
From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo
* Atomic clocks are designed to measure the
precise length of a second. Where a second is the time it takes a Caesium-133
atom in a precisely defined state to oscillate exactly 9 billion, 192 million,
631 thousand, 770 times.
- What Did
Einstein Mean By Time is an Illusion? https://interestingengineering.com/science/what-einstein-meant-by-time-is-an-illusion
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